Item – I have been ‘seconded’, I think the term is, to another sort of job entirely for a couple of weeks. Pros, the days are much shorter. Cons, dear crikey fishnuts, it’s stressful. And very Secret Squirrel (ie, this is an attempting-to-be-anonymous blog, the details of my secondment are a) confidential and b) highly identifiable). So I can’t talk about it. AAAARGH. I don’t do not talking. *Tears hair out, paces in circles*.
Item – The Landlord ‘popped by’ today, alas while I was at home (see ‘shorter hours’), and you know, the law says a landlord has to give 24 hours notice if he wants to come in and poke about, but ours said ‘did you know your bathroom is leaking into the downstairs flat?’ and I said ‘OMFG no!’ or a variant thereof tailored to elderly landlords in tweeds, and rushed back up to check none of the taps were on, and they weren’t, and the Landlord followed me up to also check, and then, of course, he was in the flat passing remarks about the immense quantity of laundry currently hanging in front of every radiator in the place (why yes, the Landlord saw my pink polka-dot panties. Hurrah!) and the general mess. Well, OK, the flat usually looks, ohh, how can I put this without losing the respect of the entire Internet? The flat is usually Colossally Untidy. And today, it was also Colossally Untidy with sink-full-of-dirty-dishes and kitchen-table-covered-in-bits-of-paper. If I’d had 24 hours, it’d’ve merely looked a bit… bohemian. Heigh ho. Anyway, the Landlord has promised us builders, to see why there’s a damp patch on the ceiling of the flat below, and I am now too scared to use the toilet. Also, the Landlord wanted to know why the flat was full of laundry instead of us hanging it outside in the yard. I gave him my best ‘Watchoo talkin’ ’bout, Willis?’ stare, because, seriously? Our contract says we may not hang laundry in the yard. We may not, in fact, use the yard for anything at all except going to and fro from our door to the street. The Landlord said ‘nonsense! You could put up a washing-line!’ and lead me back out to show me where we could put said washing line. (I told all this to H, later, and H said ‘we’ll get that in writing first.’ I concur). Anyway, builders, imminent. Arse. (Oh, and we need to clean up this yard we may not use. It has litter in it, you see. I forbore say anything about the neighbour’s cat-shit, the gigantic towering buddleia pulling the opposite wall apart, and, oh, the fact we aren’t allowed to use the yard for anything at all, except Laundry Tomorrow, Laundry Yesterday, but not Laundry Today).
Item – Meanwhile, H and I are on Bang Like A Barn Door schedule, or would be if I didn’t keep getting bouts of ferocious cramp and tenderness, which may or may not be ovulation-related, but nevertheless put an almighty crimp in my desire to have anyone or anything poking me there. It’s better today, thank fuckitty, because I was getting quite cantankerous about it. *sigh*. The Cute Ute is utterly borked, isn’t she?
Item – I know none of the many doctors who have dealt with me think I should be doing any kind of medicated anything (go forth and procreate! they said politely) and therefore I am now doing exactly what I should be doing to further Operation Schrödinger Take Oh-Crap-I’ve-Lost-Count. But it doesn’t feel like I’m doing anything move matters along. Doing more of this, when doing exactly this leads to face-planting in the worst way? Agh. Also, ugh. And other gutteral noises of anxsty disaproval. I’m even a tad envious of people doing medicated cycles and IVF, because they are actively doing things to increase their odds (even though neither of those things would increase my own odds one jot, such is life, damn and blast). I’ve been mud-wrestling primary infertility and RPL in the Slough of Despond for five-and-a-sizeable-chunk years now, and we’re still on old-fashioned Lie Back And Think Of England. Which is the right approach for us and what we should be doing, medically speaking, logically, sensibly, what-should-actually-work etc.. It’s just, same old same old, year after year, cycle after cycle, nothing to add, déjà vu, déjà fait. It’s, oh, fuck it. It’s boring. I don’t know why you all bother hanging around reading this.
(Pause, while the Positive Thinking Fairy takes me by the shoulders and shakes me until my teeth rattle, for my own good).
Item – And this is post 600 (and I am looking ever-so-forward to post 666). 600, Gentle Readers! I’ve been here for bloody ages! You load 600 posts and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in – actually, I’m pretty solvent at the moment. Deeper in fret? Regret? Unmet? Upset? Sweat? (Stop right there. This is getting out of hand).