Snowed under

So, our instructions were, return to Mothership this morning for another beta, 48 hours after the previous one, to see, you know, what, if anything, Zombryo is doing, and, possibly, when he/she is going to do it (so over the waiting, chez May. Over. It).

We woke up to an inch of snow, and more falling all the time from a sky like a tupperware lid.

No problem, we both own big boots. We stomped through to the train-station, and found the trains were running a little late, but still fine. So we got to Mothership on time, and they were able to take blood pretty much within ten minutes of our arriving.

And the nurse recognised me from October, Goddamnitalltohell. No one wants to hear ‘ooh, are you back here again?’ from the nurses at the Early Pregnancy Risk Assessment Clinic.

To my annoyance, all the veins in my right arm, including The Really Good One You Can’t See But Can Feel, had disappeared, so the nurse had to go back into the same vein they punctured on Monday, which while not massively bruised was, you, know, bruised, and this hurt like a, well, it hurt. Also, I am getting a rash from the tape they stick your cotton-wool ball down with. It’s a bitch to get off again later.

And then we trundled, slid, trundled, back to the station, to find in the 30 minutes we’d been up at the hospital, the transport system had noticed it was like, proper snowing, and was beginning to fold. We got on a train that was running about 15 minutes late, which a fellow commuter referred to as ‘the last train out of Siberia’ in a voice juicy with sarcasm. H checked the travel updates on his iPhone, and woah, sarcasm misplaced. Points frozen, train-wheels skidding on the lines and unable to grip and pull the train along, electric engines burning out, station after station shutting.

Sadly, even the most fresh and inches-deep snowfall looks revoltingly sordid after five minutes of traffic and pedestrians and dogs (urgh. Yes you do still have to pick it up if it’s snowing, you horrible little dog-owner). The handkerchief-sized front gardens were the prettiest, with each leaf and twig bearing its own little inch-fat snow-cone. At one point H scooped a handful of snow off a wall and, looking sideways at me, threw it at the (deserted) bus-stop.

‘Satisfying?’ I asked.

‘It would have been more satisfying to throw it at you, but I don’t know how you’d react,’ he answered.

‘I don’t know either. I might have cried. I am terribly, terribly brittle and precious at the moment.’

‘Exactly,’ he sighed.

And then I walked under a tree, which decided this was a good moment to off-load a little weight, wompf, right onto my hat. H started sniggering helplessly, which set me off laughing after all. I threw a snowball at him, naturally. I have my pride.

And now we are back at home, and waiting. I double-checked with the nurse, and they won’t call back until evening, but at least now I know evening means after dinner and not, say, 5pm.

The snow is still falling. It’ll be just fabulous if I need to go back to hospital and we can’t get there.

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