Category Archives: Clomid take 6 – 6 is my lucky number. Yes it is. No it isn't.

And back again

So, we got the internet back. Why yes, we lost our broadband; where did you think I’d been? Anyway, I’m here now.

(Oh God, I nearly went mental not having access to the internet. Evenings went ‘oh, I’ll just check my post, wait, no. OK, I’ll check my blogs, arse, no. Twitter then, arse arse, no. Fine, I’ll just go online and see what’s on telly, ARSE, no. I shall have to google that actor I’m sure I’ve seen in something else AAAAAARGH,’ and so on and infinitum. I am such a sad eejit).

Anyway, update on current situation. Today, 12 days post ovulation. Past form would indicate period starts tomorrow. I was so bored what with the lack of internets I whizzed on two separate pee-sticks, both so very negative I am snow-blind from staring at them. Mind playing usual favourite trick of talking me into feeling nauseous every time I think about it too hard. Also, I have spent days being bothered by nasty metallic taste in mouth, which Logic would dictate is caused by extensive building works at work, which fill the air with dust, but Logic is being chased round the locker-room and towel-flicked by Hysteria at the moment. So, two pee-sticks sacrificed the gods of MindFuck.

Having peed on the second (blanketty-blank) stick today, I now feel crampy. Go me.

All change

Why yes, this is absolutely a two week wait. We performed our marital duties most assiduously at exactly the right time and everything.

Naturally, I am using the fact I ovulated merely as a good indicator of which day I will need to have filled the bathroom shelves with sanitary products and feminax ultra by (Friday or Saturday week, thank you for asking).

Eh, no. I am not going to let that bitch Hope in the house again. No no no. She can stay out in the yard and howl at the lighted windows in the drizzle and the dark. Now she knows how I feel.

Meanwhile, in the rest of my life, H, poor lamb, has my horrible cold/possible swine flu. I came home on Friday evening to find him tucked up in bed feeling shivery and pathetic. As I type, he’s huddled in his towelling dressing-gown, laughing very feebly at the comedy on telly, and looking clammy and glassy-eyed. Oh joy. Especially as he is a man, and therefore a rotten patient:

a) He will whimper about how much he aches or his head hurts, and I will recommend two paracetamol and a cup of tea, and I will make him tea and fetch the pills, and he will drink the tea, and he will complain about being achey, and I will say sympathetically ‘oh, isn’t the paracetamol working?’ and he will say ‘I didn’t take the paracetamol,’ and I will stare at him in bewilderment.

b) He will roam incessantly about the flat in nothing but underpants and slippers, answering every query with ‘dunno’. Can I bring you anything? Dunno. Are you hungry? Dunno. Are you thirsty? Dunno. Do you want a cup of tea? Dunno. Shall I cook dinner now? Dunno. I’m going to the shops, can I get you some throat sweets? Dunno. Do you want a sharp kick on the shins? Dunno. Shall we find out the hard way? Dunno. Etc.

c) He has naps in the middle of the day when he’s unwell. I am a royal bitch, aren’t I? Of course the poor ailing lamb should be allowed a nap. Lots of them. But I am envious. I am an insomniac and I can’t nap unless I have a migraine (in which case I think it’s technically passing out, not napping). Envy envy envy. Also, I can’t do a bloody thing when H is asleep, I can’t watch tv or listen to the radio or otherwise crash about; well, I could, but then I’d wake him up, and like I said, the poor lamb should be allowed a nap. I retire to the kitchen and read a book in conflicted and resentful silence. The stupid thing is, I like reading, and by the time H wakes up again, I am thoroughly absorbed and wish he’d go back to bed and stop pacing about and opening and closing the fridge behind my head.

‘Do you want me to bring you a drink, sweetheart?’


You mean… all this time… we could have been friends?

Do you know what pisses me off?

Well, apart from everything, I’m easily pissed off.

But just right now, what is pissing me very much off indeed (can you tell by the swearing?), is the bloody irony, that back in the Autumn I was ovulating solo. Yes, OK, late, and erratically, but I totally was. Start Clomid, stop ovulating. Stay stopped. Stop but totally. Up the Clomid. No doing. Try a third time. Nope. Satsuma pulls all her follicles in and pretends to be dead. Weeks pass. Eight weeks.

Fine, I cry. Bollocks to the Clomid. We shan’t bother any more. I will set fire to the remaining packets with much ceremony in the back yard. Ha ha.

And Satsuma, who is two parts contrariness to three parts laziness, hearing this, yawns, rolls over, and idly pops one out.

Can I stop myself from thinking about how many au-naturale cycles I could have had in the last six months if I hadn’t been battering Satsuma senseless with Clomid? Can I buggery.

Too f*****g busy, and vice versa

Where was I? Where am I? What is this? Is it a blog? Should I be writing something in it? Wait, I can do that. I can try. Yes. This is trying. Right. Updates. Let’s have some of those.

The Cold That I Mentioned Last Sunday – yes! Still going strong! I Have had the sore throat stage, the feverish stage, the sneezing snot-face stage, the hoarse, croaking stage (ongoing), and the coughing-like-a-grampus stage (also ongoing) and I spent two days off work feeling like the arse-end of Blackpool Pier after the stag-night to end all stag-nights has shaken its prongs across it. I thought colds were only supposed to last a week. Hah.

The Huge Big Miss-This-And-Be-Disinherited Maternal Family Sunday Lunch – this was originally complicated by the fact the Father-In-Law was staying with us for the weekend (he was playing at a festival, and I felt, sounded, and by God looked like a barking frog. Originally, H was going to stay home with his father and I was going to catch a train and face the hordes alone. Then H’s father was going to drop us both off at Aunt D’s house for said lunch on his way home, as he was planning on leaving on Sunday morning after all. Then H’s father realised he needed to bring quite a few enormous and delicate musical instruments and would have to strap one or both of us to the roof-rack if he was going to be giving lifts. Nevertheless, H’s cover was thoroughly blown, so we both got the train to Aunt D’s. Wait. I made notes:

  • The gathering consisted of Aunts A, B, D, E (C is my mother), Uncles F and G, Spouses B, E, F, and G, Cousins 1 (me), 3 through 9 (this includes Trouble and Diva), 12 and 13 – cousin ages, 34 to 3 -, spouses and boy/girlfriends 1 (H), 3 (Fucktard), 4, 5, one grandchild (my five-year-old (‘five-and-three-quarters, Auntie!’) niece Minx), and assorted friends of the family. 30 people. For Sunday Lunch.
  • Luckily Aunt D has a big garden, and maids. I am not kidding about the maids.
  • My most heartfelt thanks to Roger Federer and Andy Roddick, for keeping their Wimbledon final going for four hours and sixteen minutes. While that was on, most of the Maternal Relations could not possibly spare a thought for any, any, of each other and there was a miraculous lack of nosiness.
  • I spent a vast part of the afternoon playing with Minx and the two teeniest cousins in the garden. Minx ran me ragged. Also, bless my dear sweet cousins for this bit of dialogue. Keep in mind, we were only playing football.
    Minx: Let’s pretend! Let’s pretend I’m the Feather Fairy and I’m playing football with dragons!
    Cousin Twelthelina (who is 4): Then I’m a princess! In a ball-gown!
    Cousin Smallest (only 3): I’m a boy!
  • Uncomfortable infertile moment: H was talking to Cousin 5, who moved in with her boyfriend in Abroad-land a year or two ago. He asked her how things were Abroad, and she moved from Abroad to getting married before her visa runs out to her future in-laws to how said in-laws are already hinting wildly about babies, in about seventeen seconds. H looked gravely at the table while she went on a little ‘isn’t it funny how badly people want to be grand-parents’ shpiel, complete with amusing anecdotes about the Aunts all competing over cuddle-time with the teeniest cousins, references to biological clocks, and complaining in a jovial way about all the pressure. I tried to catch H’s eye for a brief ‘you have no idea,’ eyebrow moment, but H was studiously avoiding anything of the sort. He later said this was in case it was obvious, and lead to questions. Poor lamb. He’s known my family for 17 years and still can’t quite take on board how astonishingly unobservant they are in mid-anecdote. And then Minx created a diversion by clambering all over us, and then I was dragged away to play Dragons and Feather Fairies Play Tennis (‘Tennis’ in this case consists of Dragon Auntie May being absolutely banned from touching a racquet, and instead having to gently under-arm bowl at the exact centre of Princess Feather Fairy’s racquet, on pain of scolding. Princess Feather Fairy is Very Good At Tennis When Dragon Aunties Play It Properly).
  • Minx also dragged me out of another Uncomfortable Infertile Moment. Aunt D saw us playing and came over to tell me I was ‘very good with children’ in tones of astonishment (thanks), awkward pause, ‘I mean,’ she added, ‘you don’t have any yourself…’ at which point Minx rushed up to point out I wasn’t chasing her. Which I wasn’t. So I did.
  • Trouble, Aunt D and I got into an awkward conversation about clothes sizes (Aunt D and I, avec curves, Trouble, absolutely sans), which lead to a very tedious conversation about diets, with Trouble being sententious in the middle (did I mention she is sans curves?). Aunt D went off, and Trouble then wanted to know why I was dieting so hard, having always curled my lip at diets before. I started to give a brief response about NHS guidelines for further fertility treatment and do you know what? Trouble stared vaguely into space for a few seconds and then interrupted me to point out we both have thin lips, like our Dad. And then she wandered away. So that was the Trouble WTF? moment of the day.
  • H and I eventually got home, after much enfafflement, being driven to my mother’s for supper (the most silent meal I’ve ever eaten there), and more trains, at midnight.

My Amazing Inner Organs, Or, The Saga Continues – I wonder if H stopped to wonder why, despite the heavy cold and the Social Engagements Of Libido Death, I was so very eager to make sweet sweet love leading up to and over the weekend? I’ll tell you why, at any rate. Satsuma was Up To Something. Owing and pinging and EWCM and The Works. So, may as well have a good old college try, even though she’s probably lying and/or deluded. And on Saturday night, I thought, seriously, I know that damn ovary is faking it, she’s done this to me before, I know she’s faking it, but sheeee-IT that felt like ovulation. Only, now my charting software agrees. As do all the physical symptoms. Ovulation on Saturday. Well I never, stap me vitals, crikey etc.

I still suspect she’s faked it.

Several cuts of the whip

It has been a less than fabulous week.

It ought to have been a fabulous week. There were theatre visits, and a weekend, and my husband bought star-gazer lilies, and I saw friends, and a last birthday present turned up in the post, hurray!

But I was in a foul mood anyway, about the Clomid Doesn’t Love Me Anymore thing, so I was attracting anxst. As you do when your mood is foul.

On Wednesday, the evening of the day in which I had learnt this cycle was another Epic Fail (I am so good at those now), H and I joined my good friend E, and some friends of his, to go to the theatre (that bit was great, we saw Waiting for Godot, and it was AMAZING. A. MA. ZING). Anyway, E’s friend hasn’t seen me for a couple of years, but we always ask after each other, so, as we were walking along, she asked, ‘so, how’s the kid?’

Awful pause.

‘The… the what?’ I stammered.

‘Your kid? You’ve got a baby, haven’t you?’

‘No,’ I said, evenly (yes, evenly! I was impressed too!).

‘Oh, I thought you had,’ she said, looking confusedly at E, who having missed the exchange, smiled back.

Arse. E was one of the first people I told when I was pregnant, mostly because I nearly puked on him. Oh, don’t be angry with E, both his friend and I know he tells the other all about each, and I know eye-watering stuff about her, so it’s only fair. Only, he seems to have missed out the vital point that I did not, in fact, have the baby.

I didn’t elaborate. I couldn’t face it. No doubt she interrogated him at length later.

Then, at work, a few days later, a colleague, let’s call them P for Parent, having told me all about the lovely things they’d done with their small children over the weekend, asked me what I’d been up to. I mentioned the theatre trips (I’ve been on several). ‘Oh,’ said P, ‘That’s the problem with having kids. You don’t get to have so many evenings out. You’re so lucky. I wish I could go to the theatre as often as you.’

‘To be honest, I’d rather have the kids,’ I said, stung, and not very evenly at all.

There was a horribly awkward pause. A LONG, horribly awkward pause.

‘No, you wouldn’t. They’re such hard work, they take over your life,’ P began, and then, thank GOD, the meeting started, and P had to shut up. This being the same P, remember, whose children are the light of their life, and whose weekend was one great ocean of family cuteness, three minutes previously. As P is quite a nice person, I can only assume this was a cack-handed attempt at comfort.

Because, really, I’ll totally take the cute kids over the theatre visits and lie-ins. And I’m willing to bet P wouldn’t take the years of fertility treatment, surgery, failure, and the silent bitter weeping of their beloved partner over the loss of their child, even with all the Godot versus the Space Wizards theatrical triumphs in the world thrown in.

Yesterday I was hauling my pathetic arse out of the incommunicado funk everything had hurled me into, when I got a migraine. It was a two-stage migraine. I ran home with one eye completely blood-shot, half-blind, nauseous, dizzy, collapsed, and the actual agonizing headache failed to materialise. I had a headache, but not as bad as that headache, and despite infuriating photophobia, was quite chirpy by evening. Aha, it was merely biding its time, and I woke up at dawn feeling like a rugby prop forward was standing on my head. Most of day spent in bed with head under duvet, as blinds utterly unable to keep a sufficient quantity of that bastard light out of the room.

A fine end to a pisser of a week. I think I shall have a drinkie.

P. S. The oven just broke, blowing every fuse in the house. When I have got over my joy that the modem survived, I shall swear a great deal and have ANOTHER drinkie.

Step we waily, on we go

I don’t really know what to do with myself now.

Obviously, there is the Next Step, and the Next Step is IVF, but I have at least a stone to lose, a stone-and-a-half, say, before the NHS will agree to do it. Enter hiatus of, I hope, merely several months, while I wrestle a) my love-handles, b) my lazy arse, c) my demons and d) my thing about chocolate when peeved, into submission.

What the hell am I supposed to do with myself for months on end, waiting to be treated? I was going to be doing clomid cycles, about which Miss Consultant wasn’t hugely optimistic, but clearly she thought, and I agreed, that they’d keep me busy. And clomid has shat on me and flown away.

H, who very much wishes to do or say something helpful, has suggested acupuncture. Hell, I’ll do acupuncture. I was raised by credulous hippies, and therefore am very keen on scientific method, double blind trials, results reproduceable under laboratory conditions, and, umm, the placebo effect. I may not have much faith in being stabbed, but I do have a lot of faith in having somebody prepared to take me and my failing, battered, ornery blob of a body seriously, and dedicating time and sympathetic attention to it (and me). This is not something the NHS has the money to do. It will treat me when I meet its checklist. When I don’t meet its checklist, it will turf me gently out until I do. How I get to meet the checklist is no concern of theirs.

(H was also raised by credulous hippies. In is case, he is still three eights credulous hippy, bless him).

I am actually losing weight, so I am not sure why I am having helpless hopeless wailfest moment here.

Except that I am 34. And if it does take me months to lose the weight, which no doubt it will, as PCOS makes your fat cells cling oh so determinedly to every damn ounce, well, then it will be months and months before I do IVF. I could be 35. My sodding lazy eggs could be withering away inside my sodding lazy ovary, week by week. Yes, my mother got pregnant at 38, so I should have no trouble on that score, or so family members have reassured me, and yes, but, this being the kicker, my mother never had PCOS. I should imagine that has a much greater effect on my fertility than whatever Catholic-Jewish Rabbit genes I inherited from either side of the family.

Anyway, I was bollixed from birth, so clearly didn’t inherit any of them. I had a dermoid cyst that destroyed an ovary – you’re born with those. I have an arcuate uterus – not a problem as such, but something clearly went slightly awry in the growing of me. And look at my hands. My ring fingers are longer than my index fingers, a sure sign of raised testosterone levels in utero, and does that sound good for a woman’s fertility to you? (though it also apparantly means I will be athletic, mathematically and spatially gifted and not so good with words. Yeah, athletic, haha, and I still can’t do primary-school level mental arithmetic without a pencil and the back of an envelope, regularly walk into tables and door-frames, and write sestinas for fun, so either I am an anomaly or the finger thing is drivel). Where was I going with this?

Oh yes. I feel that as I am reproductively botched, I don’t have the time to faff about eating lettuce and ‘concentrating on my career’ until next year.

I agree, written down this all sounds stupidly neurotic and vapouring. It’s only a few months. It’s fine.

It’s not fine. I’m panicking. It’s not fine at all. On with the needles.

Now what?

So, back to the ACU at the Hospital Out In The Country, in the rain, at stupid annoying mid-morning-time, blowing an entire morning at work out of the water, about which I’d normally be quite happy, but right now, what with me being all New Job Shiny Eager Busy Kitten, it is, I think I mentioned before, annoying.

(But I did get a lie-in, and breakfast in bed, as H is on a mission to prove that the row we had at the weekend was an aberration of the most aberrative kind and he is, yes he is, the sweetest man in England, dammit).

Nice Lady Wand-Monkey took one look at my insides with her trusty dildo-cam, and sighed, and said ‘your ovary is stubborn,’ not a sentence designed to fill the heart with gladness at all, though I did appreciate the sigh, and the general attitude of sympathetic disappointment. Satsuma, you see, has got rid of the 11mm follicle, and now only has about half-a-dozen teeny-tiny little 2 or 3 mm follicles. There is nothing there to ovulate with. Nada. Zip.

On the plus side, Cute Ute has grown a lining. So, you know, I can have a period, if I like.


Conclusion, I am now immune to Clomid.

Like I said, hur-fucking-ray.

I shall sing loudly until it all goes away

On Tuesday, I got up at 6 am, yes indeedy, so I could get to the Hospital Out In The Country by 7:30, as Nice Lady Wand-Monkey starts work at 7:30 am, presumably prepping IVF ladies for the Giant Stabby Day, and she decided she could squeeze in a quick look at Satsuma and her little side-kick Kumquat. It was day 12 of my cycle.

Well, she said, having poked about in my innards for some minutes, there’s an 11 mm follicle on Satsuma (she calls her ‘Your Right Ovary’ really, which is so very formal, perhaps I should introduce them properly?). Not much of a lining yet, though. Last cycle, I had a 12mm follicle on day 9, which then proceeded to do absolutely nada, so she thought it best if I go back on Friday (day 15) for another ride on the dildo-cam.

I went about my business for the rest of the week.

But I did notice a distinct lack of EWCM. And, my dear internetty intimates, I normally produce that by the gallon – the gallon, I tell you! – so I thought, wow, this Clomid stuff, at higher doses, somewhat freaky, huh?

Friday morning I got Nurse Capable, instead of Nice Lady Wand-Monkey. Nurse Capable is nearly as lovely, but did have to be warned that Kumquat is only a Kumquat and the more you look for her, the more she isn’t there. We then looked at Satsuma. 11 mm follicle. What? Why yes, 11 mm. The sodding thing hadn’t grown AT ALL. And neither had my lining, which was still very very thin indeed. It would seem that whereas my body flips 50 mg of Clomid the bird, it is absolutely steam-rollered by 100 mg and is now in a massive sulk, refusing to produce any estrogen at all. Silly bitch.

I go back for another scan on Wednesday (day 20, FFS), unfortunately not at arse-crack of dawn but, infuriatingly, mid-morning, so I have to take time off work, which will no doubt be fine with Alpha Boss, but pisses me off. And if nothing is happening on Wednesday (which, did I mention, will be day 20, FFS), well, a consultant will have to be called in.

Argh. Argh argh argh argh.

Just as I was leaving, Nurse Capable said, cheerfully, ‘Have you lost weight? You have? You’re looking good! Well done!’

Being May, I went away thinking, so, they tell you to lose weight because, on top of everything else, it’ll help you respond better to medication and regulate your cycle. So, you lose some sodding weight. Do you respond better? Are your cycles regulated? Ah hah hah fucking hah.

But I was a teeny weeny bit pleased.

What I did on my holidays, by May aged 34 exactly

Hello, hello, we’re back, we’re washing eighteen zillion loads of laundry – I’m sure we can’t possibly own that many pairs of socks, let alone have worn them all over the course of a mere ten days, but there they all are, and most of them have clearly been in big muddy boots for hours and hours.

As have my feet. Poor feet.

In the grand tradition of last time we went Oop North, I give you:

Holiday High-Lights –

  • Sun. Lovely long days of bright and cheerful early summer sun. I am all brownish and glowy. Despite haphazard but determined plastering on of Factor 15. And standing on top of a hill looking out at miles and miles of finest English countryside, jewel-like in its very greenness, with a soft breeze ruffling your hair, and a red kite, or even an osprey, balancing above you on the same breeze, ah, well now. You can feel your very bones smiling.
  • The ospreys. They have a nest! They have three eggs! No, wait, they have three chicks! The male has brought a fish back to the nest! Look! Look! The male is soaring right overhead! OMG, it really has a six foot wingspan!
  • On the theme of birds of prey, twelve red kites as we drove up through Oxfordshire, and three as we drove back down. On the day we found out Pikaia had died, golly, a whole year ago now, we walked about for hours in the local cemetery, chiefly because it was deserted, and partly because it seemed appropriate, and we saw a red kite, flying away from us. As they’re endangered, and creeping back from near total extinction, I am a little superstitious about them. Seeing 15 of them on one holiday was extraordinarily exciting.
  • Eating our heads off. We struck lucky and had some very fine meals indeed this holiday, and it’s only thanks to the fact we also walked for miles and miles that I don’t weigh 12 lbs more than I did last week.
  • In fact, I weigh a couple of lbs less. Feel free to hate me. Thank you.
  • Though I think The Hairy Farmer Family may have put paid to that. We stopped off on the way home, to raid HFF Wifey’s fridge and over-excite her child, her dogs and her chicks. Oh God. The Mississippi Mud Pie That Was Not Banoffee Pie. Oh God. Oh God. Chocolate custard was the one best thing about boarding school, and she gives me a pie full of it. Yes, I had seconds. Totally. I only didn’t have thirds because even I can’t store food in my cheek-pouches and still talk coherently. Also, there was the lemon meringue ice-cream.
  • I still think I shall kidnap HFF Wifey on day and rush up to Gretna Green with her and we shall live in food heaven for ever and ever so there.
  • The view from Aphra‘s house. Loved the apricot crumble too. In fact, Puddings of Wonder and Delight were a big theme this holiday. Hi, Aphra! Thank you for lunch!
  • Femi.nax Ul.tra. I actually would probably still buy this drug even if it was made by Nazis. I love it that much. But see below.
  • H, who was being as patient and sweet as ever, which is to say canonization looms. H full stop. H, high-light of my entire life.

Holiday Low-Lights (there’s always some) –

  • The exceedingly wet day, waterlogged trainers, and the exceedingly wet socks that went with them, squelch squelch squelch squelch, all day long. Urgh (squelch squelch squelch squelch squelch…)
  • Clomid-induced weeping tantrum over a pair of cheap binoculars. Or, more to the point, over the grovelling apology that H did not instantly produce when he broke said binoculars, admittedly while trying to adjust them for me and my freaky eye-sight. (He fixed them later. They work fine now.  Umm.). At least we kept another sight-seeing couple mildly entertained for some minutes, before I realised we had an audience and stormed off to the car in a kind of furnace of humiliation and rage.
  • Tourists (oh, not us, we’re not tourists, dear me no. We’re visitors). We cleverly chose to birthday and anniverserate during Half Term, and landing face-first in the crowds of families trying to keep assorted rug-rats, ankle-biters and pout-faced teens entertained or at least quiet. No luck. The hills were alive with the sound of whinging. There are moments when I really, really really, wonder why the hell I want kids at all.
  • My period. In full down-pour all Saturday and Sunday (Sunday being my birthday, of course, obviously, goes without saying, ah ha ha ha). We change a super-plus-extra tampon every two hours at these times, and are wearing a sticky-back duvet, because there are gushes, you know, and therefore we are also wearing a tunic, so people can’t see either just how padded the crotch of my jeans looks, or that the padding has been ineffectual, oh hurray. So the fact I went on a 7-hour hike on Sunday has everything to do with the availability of pub toilets and with Femi.nax Ult.ra, which, dear ladies, please listen, WORKS. I take it, I am not in much pain. I don’t take it, I curl up in a ball, blench, vomit, faint, etc. But see above.

Holiday WTF Moments (because what is life, without the odd WTF moment?) –

  • The heavily pregnant waitress, waiting on us, yes, and gently pressing her belly against the table every time she brought us something. Torn between guilt and concern – why isn’t she sitting down and getting me to bring her stuff? – and irritation, because, you know, miscarriage anniversaries deserve to be free of pregnant bellies bumping into your very fork-wielding hand as you tackle your steak and try to think happy thoughts.
  • Trying to hold a detailed conversation with the ACU about my monitoring scans, dates for, over my mobile phone, with a crap signal, in the rain, on the corner of a busy street, surrounded by tourists, most of whom were family groups. Managed it without saying ‘period’, ‘blood’, ‘ovary’ or ‘uterine lining’ out loud, though I did have to say Clomid at least twice.
  • On which subject, hot flushes. In the middle of the night. I wake up running with sweat. It’s revolting. I don’t like sweating. I stopped taking the Clomid five days ago. Enough sweating, thank you.
  • One of my eight brothers and sisters remembered my birthday. One. Unum. One. I will buy him a drink next week, and the rest can go screw themselves.

And now, I must go and do more laundry. Please excuse me.

We’re not here

We are, in fact, there *points northwards*

Well, we will be.

H has just this minute told me we may well not have any internet access when we get there.

I have screamed like banshee stepping barefoot on a lego brick at three in the morning.

Very well then. We will be back in civilized parts on Sunday the 30th of May. If you don’t hear from me before then, dinna fash yersel’*. If you don’t hear from me after then either, fash away like anything.

In my possible (and enforced) absence from internetland, a) I shall turn 34 – same birthday as Queen Victoria and Bob Dylan, dontcher know – and b) it will be the anniversary of the miscarriage. The fatal scan that proved Pikaia was utterly dead was on the 27th, three days after my 33rd birthday. It will be an interesting holiday. Which is why we’re going on it.

*Proper Northern for ‘don’t worry yourself’.