I actually dreamt I was having a mad passionate affair with a Depp-alike last night. It was highly enjoyable. Truly, my subconscious is a peverse and inappropriate place to linger.
Meanwhile H was sleeping poorly and has woken up with an entire set of Lous Vuitton under each eye. Life is not fair.
When we got to the EPU at Mothership, the nurse was terribly apologetic for the queue, there was a long queue, because the computer wasn’t working (oy vey but the Mothership’s new system is doing my head in). There were quite a few people sitting about in the waiting room, but by no means anything I’d call a proper NHS queue. It’s things like this that endear Mothership to me so. The staff are so flustered if you have to wait for more than 10 minutes, even when it couldn’t possibly be their fault.
We waited for about 40 minutes.
I was quite pleased it wasn’t for three or four hours. Ooh, look at me in my big dusty Veteran Boots.
And then, bless the nurse all over again, she was terribly apologetic for having to stick me in my tender pallid flesh. And to think I had just been about to compliment her on her technique – it was one of the least uncomfortable blood-draws I’ve had in months. And then we both had a look at my file to see where we’d got to in all the testing, and I felt my usual mind-bending surge of adrenalin on seeing that, holy crap, the NHS actually thinks I might be pregnant rather than delusional, and then I was allowed to go home and wait for the results.
Whereapon we’ll find out whether I have, after all, spent the past week being completely delusional.
The nurse warned the results could take all day. Bah. Bah bah bah arse bah damn and bollocks.
Mood: Trip to and back from hospital, on verge of tears, sure Zombryo had died, sure entire thing was miserable waste of time, deeply freaked out and upset by mild cramping I’d been having since the night before (no bleeding at all. Mild cramping is normal in early pregnancy. Jaysus, May, you are such a big girl’s blouse). Currently, have had some toast and a cup of tea, Universe suddenly seems less bleak, desire to cry has receded (low blood sugar always turns me into Pissy, Goddess of Anxst. H knows this. My Mum knows this. The entirety of sentient creation knows this. I don’t know this, because, clearly, I am not sentient).
What to do to pass the time? I would knit, but such was the ferocity of my tension last night, I snapped the yarn. So much for the soothing needle arts.