Item – I have had it with this m*th*rf*cking fracture in this m*th*rf*cking toe.
Item – Seriously, it’s a toe. It’s about the size of a grape. It has no business being such a flaming nuisance just because I broke it just a little bit.
Item – Work are being very nice to my toe, and are letting me sit tight in the office surrounded by crenellations of books rather than hopping about the stacks sorting out the bewildering mess only 5000 students with exams on the morrow can make of a library. So that’s OK. After nearly a week of pathetic limping, I can walk more-or-less normally, if rather slowly, but the bastard thing will insist on swelling up and aching at the end of the day. Especially after I attempted a gentle meander round The Big Park at the weekend, which, in restrospect, was daft. Also, I’m not keen on bending and flexing my foot yet; I have been known to yelp mid-stretch and freak out my colleagues just a little bit. I AM VERY BORED OF THE TOE.
Item – H is on some kind of mission to prove all other husbands in Britain wrong, and is still doing all the cooking and most of the house-work. Yes, most! I cleaned a loo the other day! All by myself! And I helped make the bed! Once!
Item – H has been looking after me very carefully ever since Zombryo, really. I don’t know if it’s because I was so obviously so fucking depressed it frightened him, or if it’s because he, like many dear good chaps, wants, needs, to Fix Things, and not being able to fix Zombryo, took on fixing me, in so far as he could, by treating me like a prize exhibit in the V&A. This has been very soothing, but I am feeling increasingly self-conscious about it all, also, H is right, I do make better cauliflower cheese than he does. And then I went and broke my toe, and made, say, standing at the sink or the stove into a great big stupid physical issue instead. Arse.
Item – I bought him a theatre ticket and dinner. I try.
Item – How long to bastard toes take to heal anyway? (Longer than legitimate ones, no doubt).
Item – Anyway, meanwhile, in Matters Arising North of the Knees, we are now all pretty certain my period is due on Saturday. So, there’s that weekend blown out of the water.
Item – This is not a hope-filled cycle (not that I find getting pregnant a hopeful event in any case, these days. Gah). H and I had sex four days before I ovulated, and then again the day after I ovulated, and unless H has the Sperm of Hercules, whose endurance and/or speed is beyond that of mere mortals, my poor little egg had a very dull trip down the Fallopian tube. No matter. SymptomWatch has been set to ‘ignore’. I have counted my drugs and my sticky-backed duvets. Onwards.