H is busy networking. There are hints, there are irons in fires and what have you, colleagues-of-acquaintances-of-business-associates are saying nice things about him to each other. Good old H. He rocks.
Me, I am writing a poem about trees and chewing my nails down to the living quick. I do not rock.
Anyway. Enough about the Uncertain Future. It’ll carry on being Uncertain whether I fret myself into a cappuccino or not.
Meanwhile, innards! What are May’s innards doing? I don’t know. Ouching a lot. I am the Queen of Random Cramp. This could mean anything from ‘ovulation is imminent! Hump! Hump for England!’ to ‘come near me with that thing and I will explode in a puff of dust’.
I am trying not to feel hopeless and angry about getting pregnant. It’s not helping, it has been five months since my last teenytinyitsybitsystupidchemical pregnancy, this is in no way a big deal, I am not freaking out, what makes you think I’m freaking out?
And the news is stuffed with stories about IVF, and fertility, and miscarriage, at the moment. Complete with a trailing cast of commentating fucknuts, twatweasels, cretins, shits, heartless pigdogs, and clueless dribbling Pollyannas of every description and variety. Note to self: Do Not Read The Comments. Hell, Do Not Read The Stories. They’re usually written by arsehole jobsworths with no grasp of science at all. It’s too sodding depressing.
*Tears hair out, bangs head on desk*