2nd January 2012
New year, new diary.
This time, I will stick with it, I promise.
I would have started yesterday, but I had such a raging hangover that I was unable to move from my bed, let alone focus my eyes on a bright computer screen.
As a result of this, my number one new year’s resolution is not to drink.
Yes, I am now officially teetotal.
I think I might have actually damaged my liver. Which reminds me, I was going to look up information about alcoholic hepatitis on the internet in order to aid my self-diagnosis.
Which brings me to new year’s resolution 2: No scare-mongering on the internet.
Might have to break that one, just this once, in the interests of one’s own health, of course.
Hmm. Just checked internet. I might not have alcoholic hepatitis. However, I might have hepatitis B. Apparently TWO THIRDS OF THE WORLD have been infected with that at some point. Two thirds of the sodding WORLD!!!!
I MUST be one of them. Especially as one of the symptoms is “itching.” I itch! I must have hepatitis B!
Good job I’m being tested for it on Friday.
Thursday (is it Thursday? I think it’s Thursday. I’ve lost track) 3rd January 2013
Very productive day. Went to the gym: This went a bit wrong, as I turned up an hour-yes AN HOUR-early for my induction, then ended up having to “kill time” on the treadmill. It was a bit like being in a medieval church fresco of Hell, except that instead of sitting in a big cauldron with a bunch of other sinners being poked with pitchforks by cackling demons, I was running on a treadmill, trying to pull my hair out of my eyes with one hand and avoid serious injury and/or saggage (WORSE) of my breasts by simultaneously holding them up with the other hand, as in the rush to get out of the house and not be late, I had not thought to bring either a hair band or a sports bra. And what a rush it was. It’s not as if the gym isn’t NEXT DOOR to my apartment building or anything, and I couldn’t have gone back and collected said useful items before returning to the gym still at least 55 minutes early for my induction.
God, I just called my flat an “apartment building.” Am I American now or something?
Anyway, that was not the only productive thing I did, as I also had all my pre-fertility treatment tests done at the doctor’s.
So all there is to do for the moment is pray that I don’t have any horrible diseases.
Pray with me folks, pray with me. And we’ll pretend we’re in one of those churches where people fall over in the aisles and lie twitching on the floor when the priest puts his hands on their heads.
p.s. I tried to start a new blog today. I was going to call myself “Min” after the Egyptian god of fertility and lettuce.
LETTUCE.
Apparently Min’s followers used to have what Wikipedia usefully termed “orgiastic rituals” involving lettuce. The actual lettuce used was not iceberg, rocket or little gem, but something called “prickly lettuce”. Not sure I want to know. Good job Wikipedia was tastefully silent on the matter.
Friday 4th January 2013 (is it Friday? I really hope so. I hope it’s not already Saturday, as that would mean I would forget to go back to work on the correct day and probably get fired. That would be a great start to the new year).
So much for starting a new blog. Before I could write anything on it (I was busy scanning Blogger for privacy settings so I could ensure it was private before I wrote anything) Google kindly decided it was spam and deleted it.
They obviously have no respect for Min, ancient Egyptian god of fertility and lettuce. May he send a pestilence upon them. A pestilence of lettuce.
Actually maybe not, I have to concede that Google is quite useful. Although nowhere near as useful as Wikipedia. Today’s searches included early 2000s female wrestlers of the WWE and former members of notorious LA-based gang The Crips who have had notable successes in the area of the arts known as “gangsta rap.” I have stored these away in the part of my brain usefully referenced “Things I hope come up in a pub quiz one day so I can look really knowledgeable about arcane matters.”
In other news, today I attended the gym. This was an education, in the sense that I hadn’t realised just how easily one becomes terribly unfit after a few weeks of sitting on one’s backside reading brief biographies of deceased rappers on Wikipedia. By the time I got home, I was frankly ready to throw up, although I did manage to make myself useful by going to Superdrug and purchasing several more items of make up vaguely similar to that used by top make up artist Lisa Eldridge in her online tutorials, but which it is unlikely I shall ever find a use for.
More depressingly, I also bought the latest batch of hair dye to be used for covering up my rapidly increasing stock of grey hairs. After all, as I am intending to be pregnant almost immediately this year (cross fingers everyone!) I may not have much time left for covering greys before hair dye becomes one of the very long list of banned substances for pregnant women.
A shame, as I had been planning to feast on it, as part of a buffet involving blue cheese, deep sea fish which dangerously high levels of mercury (i.e. tuna), a couple of bottles of gin, a box of cat litter and a crack pipe.
I’m sure such things are fine in moderation.
Saturday 5th January 2013
Standard Saturday night. I am sitting at home doing bugger all and reading articles off the Guardian website in an attempt to educate myself, then when I am completely up to date with my reading (let’s hope “items from the Guardian website” is a popular pub quiz topic), I end up perusing chat rooms full of desperate infertile women banging on about their 25 attempts at IVF in a vain attempt to reassure oneself at one’s chances of fertility success (20 per cent at best, despite the huge amounts of money being tossed about casually as if I was one of Bernie Ecclestone’s pampered daughters and not a lowly schoolteacher already several thousand pounds in debt) and despair of what my life has become.
I SWEAR I used to go out on Saturday nights.
Anyway, at least I have done one productive thing today, in the shape of a seven mile walk around the Capital Ring (this is a walking path, for the uninitiated among you, who may have thought it was an alternative name for the M25, or one of the burning Olympic rings that floated briefly above the Olympic Stadium this summer, or a new type of doughnut, or something horrifically filthy). This was altogether quite satisfying, indeed more so than the Thames Path, as unlike the latter, it did not involve an expensive four hour round trip from Paddington only to discover upon arrival that the path was rendered impassable by flooding.
So there you have it. Gone is the old me who used to spend Saturday nights getting bladdered on a gallon of white wine and rushing off to dubious local clubs to pick up twentysomething whippersnappers, and in her place comes the new me: wholesome lady rambler and virtuous teetotal.
At least it’s cheaper, I suppose.
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