This morning, my temperature was up again. H and I lay in bed for a while, holding on to each other like drowning people. H was actually trembling. I have always maintained Hope was a complete and utter bitch. I maintain it still. My H, good-natured, laid-back, phlegmatic dear old H, trembling.
Eventually my bladder announced that it would pop, seriously, if I didn’t get up and pee, so I got up and peed. On a stick. The last pee-stick in the house, in fact. With a sensitivity of 25 mIU/L. (Yesterday’s was an internet cheapie with no mention of mIU/L on the packaging anywhere, so had a sensitivity of whateverthehell).
And even H was staring at the arsing thing at seventeen different angles and in all varieties of lighting. Hot damn, I’ve turned my husband into a pee-stick compulsive too. Isn’t that against the rules?
And then I spent some time googling the best, most reliable brand of pregnancy tests available in the UK, and we shall go shopping when the shops finally open (11 am on a Sunday, which is normally fair enough, but today? Today I need a chemist right now this minute).
No sign of Red Menace either.
Of course, buying expensive pee-sticks is a good way of getting said Menace to turn up, isn’t it? Just after I’ve used at least one of them?