The Sekrit Other Blog – seeing as you all say would rather like it, and want to watch me talk drivel about writing. Just so you can see how very very rounded an individual I am. Ah ha ha ha ha.
I was thinking, vaguely, of linking the two blogs at some point. I doubt they’ll turn into one great big über-blog. I quite like having a blog which involves Thinking (time consuming, that), and one that doesn’t. And I don’t think there’s a sensibly-shaped Venn diagram of readership which would appreciate its musings on Cultcha interrupted by uteri and cervical mucous, and on the other hand would appreciate its ovarian progress reports and bouts of hysteria (used advisedly! Haha!) interrupted by vapourings on Beowulf. But we shall see. I could be Absolutely Wrong. I often am.
Meanwhile, progress on the Cute Ute or, possibly, Embryo Jungle Gym of Doom, has been violently hiccoughed by the dear old NHS in one of its ding-battier moods. I got two letters, two, in the same envelope, one to Ms May Mayperson, and one to Miss May Misspelt, one confirming an HSG at 10:40 on Friday 14th, bring a full bladder, and one confirming a trans-vaginal ultrasound at 10:30 on Friday 14th, bring an empty bladder. And I spent the tail end of the week trying to get through to radiology at Hospital Out in the Country to say, basically, WTF? and of course they never got back to me. Try again on Monday.
Note same envelope. They knew when they posted it that I was one and the same person as myself. But apparantly there are two of me, with two whole bladders between me. Gah. And I have been misspelt, I am now terrified they will try to take the HSG off me, and if they do, I will kill someone. Even if I have to book time off work (again) to do it.
Also, what TVU? Since when? Who the buggery hell booked that? I certainly didn’t.
Also also, what’s with the letter telling me my consultant has decided I should have an HSG and this is what one is etc? I had to phone them to book the bloody bastard thing with reference to my own bloody bastard cycle, so I KINDA KNEW THAT.
The other craptacular development is my increasing inability to keep a sense of humour, proportion, or propriety together long enough to get through even so much as one simple discussion about the advisability of soaking the cutlery in a very grubby pan so that the cutlery becomes harder to wash rather than easier on account of being thinly coated in grease as well as original encrustations. My poor poor husband.
This is getting to be a nuisance at work, as well. My newest line manager took me aside to emphasize the importance of looking after myself and not coming into work when I feel ill. We’d already had the ‘why I went home on Thursday last week’ discussion, and I think I rather frightened her, also, if she tells me one more time how ghastly I looked on Thursday last week I shall cry. It’s nice to know she cares and takes it seriously, but honestly, what can I say? It’s only period pain. There doesn’t seem to be any real or treatable reason for it. My insides hate me. That’s all.
And I hate work at the moment. This is dream job, we’re talking about. It’s fun, I like the people, it’s pleasantly geeky and rarified, I should be happy. The trouble is, this dream job, that I got just as I found out I was also pregnant (pregnant! Pregnant! What job?) is now the Booby Prize. Ohhh, you’re not pregnant any more, awww, here’s dream job though! You can still have that! Hurrah.
Oh, oh, and even more painfully yet, I got the results of the MA at last, and, look you, I passed. Despite everything, I passed. I get to be happy and pleased about this from time to time. Me clever! Well done me! It’s fab! I did not waste the year! But this euphoria never lasts long. It’s another Booby Prize, really. The prize I really wanted, the one I had my name down for and everything, was a baby.
Shit, I’m depressed. Shit.
I really ought to talk to my GP about that counselling thingy apparantly I’m entitled to.
Am in serious danger of mauling H for no good reason.