Item – It has been a week since I last blogged on this here blog because nothing is happening. Nothing. It’s January, it’s gloomy, my job is irritating the living shit out of me, Satsuma seems to have gone into hibernation, H’s job is irritating the living shit out of him, etc. It’s boring boring boring. Dreary dreary dreary. Meh.
Item – Also, there is still no sign of the letter offering me the appointment for the follow-up-to-the-surgery consultation with Miss Consultant. You know, the surgery that happened in November. So tomorrow I shall have to spend my tea-break trying to get through to anyone at Miss Consultant’s office who a) isn’t the cleaner or a passing patient who fancied answering the phone, b) isn’t the answer-machine (I swear to God they take the tapes out of that thing just to burn them unheard on the roof, giggling all the while), and c) has a clue who I am, how to find my record in the system, and is prepared to tell me the date of my next appointment at once without trying any ‘we’ll send you a letter’ shenannigans.
Item – Re: Satsuma having gone on strike – well, right up until Thursday, which was day 17 of this cycle, I was clearly producing No Oestrogen Whatsoever. Which is weird. For me, at least. Normally the Signs of Oestrogen are apparant by day 11. Everything that happens that isn’t like what usually happens is of absorbing interest to me, because I have now not eaten wheat for a month and a half, and I want to know if there’s a point. Is there? Do I feel better? Will it take longer before noticeable changes are noticeable? How about now? Anything? And now? Anyway, Satsuma seems to have remembered her duties (note use of word ‘seems’) and we now wait to see if I ovulated last night, or will do so at some point in the next week, or whether she really is hibernating and this is merely a yawn-and-roll-over.
Item – As for the weight-loss thing, well. Bitter McTwisted seems to have taken the veto on wheat to mean that chocolate, being wheat-free, is perfectly acceptable, as are potatoes and rice, and I have not lost a single pound. No, wait, that’s not accurate. Over the past two weeks I have lost and regained the same two pounds every four days four times over. The end result is the same, but the anxst is doubled.
Item – When I was three and old enough to have friends to tea for the event, my mother made me a double-decker bus birthday cake. I think, basically, she made three rectangular chocolate sponge-cakes, stacked them on top of one another with a ‘cement’ of butter-cream, and covered the whole thing in pink icing. It should’ve been red icing, of course, but turning the whole batch scarlet took rather more colouring than she’d bargained for, so my particular bus was resolutely, camply, sugar-pink. And the wee faces of the passengers lining every window were smarties. And I loved it. I am no better a baker now than I must have been at three (unlike my dearest Hairy Farmer Family Wifey, who is a Cake Goddess), but used to amuse me to think that when my own sproglet turned three, I’d make him or her an ineptly pink double-decker-bus cake with smarties on. After all, if I’ve remembered the cake all these years as the height of cake genius, it’d be a tradition worth insisting on. This weekend, the weekend when I should have been making this stupid bloody cake, I made vegetable soup, two portions, one for me and one for H. And later I will cook trout, two portions, one for me, and one for H. And that’s it. No third. No three-year-old third whose birthday cake should be the Great Big Stressy Thing for this weekend. Instead, I stressed out about laundry, specifically, my tee-shirts, and H’s socks. And no-one else’s anything.
Item – And then H wonders why I am so AMAZINGLY FUCKING BAD-TEMPERED this week.