Item – So, you know, my husband is quite interesting. What else shall we get him to talk about?
Item – It’s been a hell of a week at work. It’s the beginning of term, and we are overrun with brand new deeply confused students who need patting and soothing and instructing and restraining and shushing and redirecting and, occasionally, shaking until their teeth rattle. We are very short-staffed at the moment (don’t ask. Big, easily-identifiable-workplace drama. Ugh) and I, who am only supposed to be doing two hours a day face-to-face with the hoi polloi because I am so very senior (no. I am not), am currently doing four hours at least, while my actual behind-the-scenes, back-office-boffin work gets done by the Invisible Non-Existent Gnomes of Not. My desk is disappearing under the Pile of To-Do. I think it ate my travel-mug.
Item – Speaking of which, when you take the lid off the travel-mug to check how much coffee is left in it, it’s fairly important to make sure you put the lid back on properly. Bent over the sink in the staff toilet, half-naked and cursing like Al Swearengen while you rinse your shirt-front is not how you want a colleague to find you. But no, I wasn’t burnt, thank you for asking. Just soggy, decorated with shreds of tissue from the impromptu mopping, and frankly quite glad to let the Pile of To-Do keep the sodding travel-mug.
Item – Anyway, I had a large G&T as soon as I got home, and I don’t think I want to stab anyone anymore.
Item – No, I have not ovulated. Current strategy, pretending I don’t give a flying fuck. Too busy, life goes on, concentrating on other things thank you, tra-la-la, haven’t even got an ovary, I just take my temperature every bloody morning at 7am for the heck of it. Ohhh, yes, this strategy is absolutely working, I’ve never been so relaxed. Hah.
Item – I’m certainly too much of a level-headed atheist to go about ascribing Malign Intent to the Universe, but really, this is all turning into the most insane obstacle race. First I don’t ovulate for nearly two years, and my uterus fills up with polyps and bleeds incessantly, so we send in the surgeons and they sort that out (false hope alert!), and then I even ovulate occasionally (false hope alert!), and then there’s Clomid and Satsuma the Bitch Ovary is forced to cooperate, so I get pregnant (FALSE HOPE ALERT!) and that goes wrong, and then my body decided Clomid is for the birds and it stops working for me AT ALL, but hey, I can ovulate on my own (yes! False hope alert!), which turns out to be a nasty game of moving goal-posts (see?) as I keep miscarrying, so at last we find a possible cure for the miscarriages (ohh, I’m tired now), but no! The goal-posts hare off back to the other side of the field! I’ve stopped ovulating again! Whatever next? Cysts? Endometriomas all over the Only Tube and Ovary? Hostile cervical mucous? Homicidal immune system? Barbed wire and trenches filled with crocodiles blocking the cervix? Armed nuclear warheads in tucked in each uterine horn? Armageddon?
Item – It’s my niece Minx’s 7th birthday soon. (Oh God, she’s seven. And I’ve wanted a child of my own since the first moment I held her and she fell asleep in my arms, less than 24 hours old). What do 7-year-old Minxes want for their birthdays, anyway?