[very quiet, muffled hammering, as if on well-padded door in distance]
Satsuma? SATSUMA! Are you in there? Sats?
Well, are you going to do anything?
I mean, are you going to ovulate, then? What the hell else did you think I meant? You’re an ovary. I’m not exactly expecting you to cook a roast dinner for six, am I?
Of course I’m being sarcastic. It’s day 26. You can stop being ‘helpful’ now, you know. In fact, if you don’t ovulate soon, you’ll be helping Cute Ute screw H’s birthday up even further by making it difficult for me to go to the theatre with him. You know? Those shows I already have tickets for? For when I was recovering enough to go out for an evening?
Yes, I know this is what you get for being clever, thank you. I’ve been clever all my life. So now I do something clever just so you and Cute Ute can sneak around the back and batter me with extreme prejudice while my stitches are still healing?
God. Bloody gonad.
You do know my mother wants to come and stay while I’m recuperating?
Yes, I know. That’s what I thought.
Yes, I will be scrubbing the bathroom.
If what’s stopping you initiating a luteal phase is a Giant Sense of Awkward about throwing up in front of my mother (yes, I know she’s your mother too), then I strongly advise you get over it. I know we’re all scarred by the time I puked on the radiator when I was six when she was already coping with the Fountain of Vomit that was my little sister in the bath. But we’re a grown-up, and we’re much better at aiming for plastic basins now, and she showed me the weeping blisters her elastoplast dressings left when she had surgery, and we do deserve vengeance.