Where was I? Oh, yes. Menstruating. It’s OK, folks. Despite the Mighty Bosoms, I didn’t feel that weird ‘I think I might be pregnant’ feeling that has, in my case at least, so often proved to be right. So, when my temperature dropped and I started feeling crampy right on cue, I was pissed off, but I wasn’t surprised. Just, pissed off. It’d’ve been nice to be wrong.
Anyway, the MIL was still with us, and we found that the museum we wanted to go to was shut on Mondays, naturally, so we went for a walk instead and had lunch out (at the crappy cafe, because MIL thought the nice cafe looked expensive, but the crappy cafe charged us exactly the same as the nice cafe would’ve. Appearances can be deceiving. Hmph). Then H took MIL to the station and I had a lie-down and some strong NSAIDs and a cup of tea. Owie uterus. Ow.
In the evening, as a birthday treat, H took me out to dinner and then to a concert we’d managed to get really cheap, really good tickets for because I have Friends in High Places. I took some codeine, and let the music run away with me. I was even floating on the drum-beats (that may have been the codeine). Alas, the happy family behind us were not in raptures about the music, and felt the need to talk jovially throughout, for the ‘if I wanted to listen to three teenagers gossiping with their mother I’d’ve sat on the top deck of a bus all evening’ experience. They had to leave early to catch a train, and missed the best bit of the entire concert ah hah hah hah karma is a bitch.
Tuesday was my birthday. It went like this. Wake up, take non-throw-up-able pain-killers, feel unGodly awful, take codeine, throw codeine straight back up, take more, lie in bed for an hour or more wondering why the bastard pills aren’t working, throw up again, realise they didn’t work because I hadn’t digested them at all, take the other painkillers via non-throw-up route, feel so miserable there’s an interval in which I lie half-naked on the living-room carpet with my washing-up bowl, whimpering while H rubs my back and looks worried, go back to bed, throw up con brio, take more codeine, at last it bloody works, doze off. At some point H gave me a selection of birthday cards and gifts to open, which was no doubt very nice indeed, but I wasn’t really in the best state of mind to be overjoyed by my goodies. As birthdays go, it was shit.
Wednesday was much better. I felt tired and woozy and much as if I’d been worked over with a selection of truncheons, but I could get up and eat soup and watch TV in a feeble, inattentive way. I think I may have… blogged?
Unfortunately, I was attentive enough to notice that a rather large crowd of tiny brown moths were staggering about near my yarn stash. I moved it aside and discovered a hole, an actual hole, in my best rug. I lifted the corner and found a mother-load of moth cocoons.
I used Bad Language.
Thursday, in which we were supposed to be on holiday, amusing ourselves with the sights and feeding me cake at regular intervals. Instead, we spent it moving furniture, sorting out all my yarn stash, binning things, hoovering things, wrapping things in plastic, putting a great deal of wool in the freezer, hoovering again, liberally dousing the place in repellants, feeling very much repelled ourselves whenever we found a wee white maggotty caterpillar chewing a hole in a cardigan, finding a bald patch on the fitted carpet as well as the rug, shrieking with rage, hoovering again, and so on, all this with me still on Volterol and codeine and A Tad Under The Weather. We have installed cedar balls in every seemingly unaffected bag of yarn, washed all the woolly jumpers, put moth traps in every corner, and H is dissuading me from running back to the hard-ware store and buying, variously, insecticide, napalm, Agent Orange, and thermo-nuclear warheads.
Fucking moths. I spend my evenings killing the fuckers one by one at the moment.