Yet again it is 9.30pm on a Saturday night and I am sprawled on the sofa at home, alone, looking up Wikipedia entries on little-known European royals of the eighteenth century through my ovulatory phase rather than-as we would all doubtless be doing-having passionate baby-making sex with someone really, really hot.
Desperate text messages have been sent enquiring whether either of the two people who might potentially want to have sex with me and live just about close enough to pop over are free tonight. No messages have been received, although I did receive word from one “potential” that he was playing football in Surrey today and wouldn’t be back until “late.”
The predictive text managed to alter my return message to such an extent that it made it look as though I was also going to Surrey, presumably to stalk him while he played football, simply by changing the inoffensive word “well” to the more inclusive “we’ll” (as in “we’ll go to Surrey and play football.”) It looked as though I was planning on joining him and trying out my skills as a centre-forward. Needless to say, he has not responded.
At least I have some potential baby-making to look forward to next month, given that I have now officially purchased some sperm.
I’m not sure which was more painful, having to ring up the clinic (from work) and announce within earshot of my startled co-workers “I’m just calling to pay for some SPERM,” or handing over eight hundred pounds for the privilege.
I’m telling you, this thing better bloody well work. Half the women on the Fertility Friends website (don’t ask) seem to have their cycles cancelled before they even start, what with underresponding to the medication, overresponding and all manner of obstacles in between. Why is life never simple? Why can’t I just be Kim Kardashian? Or Kate Middleton? I’ve given up alcohol and everything, for Christ’s sake. I even turned down a trip to Walkabout in Shepherd’s Bush last night I was so full of my wholesome and discerning new self. After all, Kate would never be seen in a Walkabout. Instead I bit the bullet, went home after one hot chocolate and cooked a healthy dinner and tried to download Call the Midwife on Blinkbox (practising. Or at least I would have been, if it weren’t for the fact that after 30 minutes of trying to punch in my card details with the TV remote, the damn thing wouldn’t recognise my address).
The highlight of tonight ended up buying a dress on Asos that I hope will make me look like Rihanna.
Bring on next month and its attendant drama.