You know, I blame H. He was the one who pointed out, repeatedly, that if my period started before the weekend it would mean Day Nine – or Scan Day! – would come to pass while we were still flailing about in the Lake District, and therefore, naturally, we would have a late scan, confirming only that I’d ovulated eighty-three times in Kumquat alone, and now we’d be having decaplets. Or that Satsuma had tripled in size, gone nova and was now referring to herself as ‘V-ger’ and glowing ethereally.
Then he bought tampons. In a ‘well, if I don’t, May’s period will start right away and there will be much wailing and scrubbing of gussets, but if I do, said period will stay away for another fortnight or two, and May will get wound up, but hey, we can relax on our holiday,’ way.
My uterus will not be out-psyched by a mere man, and took this all as a colossal dare.
Day two of spotting, just morphing into a little red flow. Day One tomorrow (see? now I’m trying to psych that damn uterus out). Day Nine, halfway up Scafell Pike. Ha ha ha ha ha.
If H attempts to avoid sex, based on ridiculous fantasies of high-order multiples, over this holiday, I will, I swear, tell him all about testicular sperm aspiration. With pictures. While holding a bread-knife and a drinking straw.