Day 25. Satsuma is still lolling on her satin cushions, flipping the clomid the bird and drinking gin.
I have run out of OPKs.
I have a plan. If Satsuma has not shifted her baggy arse by Monday, I am calling the ACU and making a fuss. Hopefully they’ll offer me a ride on the dildo-cam, and then we shall know if I should wait because Satsuma, teenager-style, has started cleaning her room just, and only, when the adults turn up with big black bin-liners to put everything still on the floor into (why yes, my mother did do this once. How did you guess?). Or, alternately, declare Clomid Take 4 a complete waste of everyone’s time and money, neck provera, start again.
If the ACU do not offer me an ultrasound, I shall kick a hole in the nearest brick wall. So there.
As for the rest of me, on Monday morning I slipped clambering into the bath (the shower is also in the bath), and somehow caught myself a right ding above the inside knee. I have a bruise there so startlingly navy blue that I catch myself yelping ‘bloody hell, what is that?’ every time I take my jeans down. Startles colleague in next toilet cubicle, I can tell you. I also, in my flailing, managed wrench or yank or jolt my shoulders, which are now a mass of knots and pinched nerves.
And I have a mysterious bruise the size of a thumb-print on my forearm. I cannot account for it. It turned up just before the flinging-self-about-in-tub incident. It hadn’t been there the previous evening. Admittedly, the previous evening finished in gratifying style, but I simply cannot begin to think how doing that bruised my arm. Unless… No. Actually, no. Let us not speculate. Better not. No.
(It’s all H’s fault, of course).