Why yes, this is absolutely a two week wait. We performed our marital duties most assiduously at exactly the right time and everything.
Naturally, I am using the fact I ovulated merely as a good indicator of which day I will need to have filled the bathroom shelves with sanitary products and feminax ultra by (Friday or Saturday week, thank you for asking).
Eh, no. I am not going to let that bitch Hope in the house again. No no no. She can stay out in the yard and howl at the lighted windows in the drizzle and the dark. Now she knows how I feel.
Meanwhile, in the rest of my life, H, poor lamb, has my horrible cold/possible swine flu. I came home on Friday evening to find him tucked up in bed feeling shivery and pathetic. As I type, he’s huddled in his towelling dressing-gown, laughing very feebly at the comedy on telly, and looking clammy and glassy-eyed. Oh joy. Especially as he is a man, and therefore a rotten patient:
a) He will whimper about how much he aches or his head hurts, and I will recommend two paracetamol and a cup of tea, and I will make him tea and fetch the pills, and he will drink the tea, and he will complain about being achey, and I will say sympathetically ‘oh, isn’t the paracetamol working?’ and he will say ‘I didn’t take the paracetamol,’ and I will stare at him in bewilderment.
b) He will roam incessantly about the flat in nothing but underpants and slippers, answering every query with ‘dunno’. Can I bring you anything? Dunno. Are you hungry? Dunno. Are you thirsty? Dunno. Do you want a cup of tea? Dunno. Shall I cook dinner now? Dunno. I’m going to the shops, can I get you some throat sweets? Dunno. Do you want a sharp kick on the shins? Dunno. Shall we find out the hard way? Dunno. Etc.
c) He has naps in the middle of the day when he’s unwell. I am a royal bitch, aren’t I? Of course the poor ailing lamb should be allowed a nap. Lots of them. But I am envious. I am an insomniac and I can’t nap unless I have a migraine (in which case I think it’s technically passing out, not napping). Envy envy envy. Also, I can’t do a bloody thing when H is asleep, I can’t watch tv or listen to the radio or otherwise crash about; well, I could, but then I’d wake him up, and like I said, the poor lamb should be allowed a nap. I retire to the kitchen and read a book in conflicted and resentful silence. The stupid thing is, I like reading, and by the time H wakes up again, I am thoroughly absorbed and wish he’d go back to bed and stop pacing about and opening and closing the fridge behind my head.
‘Do you want me to bring you a drink, sweetheart?’