I peed on another stick last night. You know, what with feeling itchy and icky and ouchy and shouty.


I ended up lying on the bed, staring at the blank, blank pee-stick at all angles with the assistance of my ferociously bright bedside lamp, while H stroked my back and said, occasionally, apologetically, ‘I just can’t see any second line, sweetheart.’


And this morning my temperature had dropped and then at work I started spotting and now I am crampy and ohhh, bugger.

And now we have to start all over again. The wait for Miss Satsuma decide whether she’s feeling cooperative, or Tired and Emotional. The constant, increasingly frantic and resentful, shagging, like courtiers leaping and dancing on the whim of a bored adolescent absolute monarch. The self-doubt and anxst and obligatory migraine which almost, but not quite, entirely doesn’t presage ovulation. Shouting ‘I shall get more provera! I shall! I’m not kidding!’ at my own abdomen sometime around day 30 of the cycle. Wanting to throttle anyone who says ‘at least you know you can get pregnant.’

Meanwhile, I award this month’s Oscar for Best Supported Actresses to my breasts, for their convincing and deeply moving portrayal of Newly Pregnant Titties.

Lying bitches.


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