I know I know, I’ve been away for ages.

And unfortunately, I do not return triumphant, ready to launch my blog of obsessive pregnancy anxiety, or write a press release for my new parenting book.

Alas, the treatment failed.  And not only that, but after I had some (brief) respite by getting a boyfriend (wonders never cease), that relationship too failed.

In short, I am one massive, humungous failure.  A failure as a woman, and a failure as a human being.

I had hoped, when my period was late this month, that perhaps there was a happy ending to my story, but happy endings are of course a mere chimera, based on nothing but the arbitrary place in a character’s life where the author decides to end the story.  In a fairy tale or a chick lit novel, this might be at the point when the protaganist meets the man or woman of their dreams (although I struggle to think of a novel which ends with a man finding the woman of his dreams, as men are taught from birth to strive for other things, such as being a superhero who saves the world, rather than settling into cosy domesticity with a wife and children), but in reality Cinderella and Prince Charming surely didn’t spend their entire married life in a bubble of permanent bliss, so better to end the story on a high note rather than continuing on until one of them dies, via illness, old age and arguments over the washing up.  Although I suppose as Prince Charming was a prince they must have had servants so probably never needed to do the washing up.  Well, even that couldn’t save Mary and Matthew from that melodramatic car accident in Downton Abbey where Matthew got killed off leaving Mary a widowed single mother so a lack of washing up is surely not the secret to domestic bliss.  I think it’s fair to say it hasn’t worked for me either, no disrespect intended to the dishwasher for it is a worthy household appliance.

Anyway, back to happy endings.  So I had hoped when my period was late that perhaps there was a tiny possibility that the (now ex) Boyfriend had at least left me with a zygote rather than simply a rubbish book about Wicca, but alas no.  And yet again I had to suffer the indignity of going into Boots and buying a ludicrously expensive test only to get home and find that my period had started as if it was some cruel joke (Superdrug is closer to my house, but is cursed due to my having purchased so many negative tests from there in the past.  Also I can only buy the expensive tests as the cheap ones are also cursed).

AND I have now convinced myself that I have endometriosis, AND a hostile womb.  This is based on the following:
1.) I had two out of the ten possible endometriosis symptoms in an online quiz called “Do I have endometriosis?” which I found by googling the aforementioned terms.
2.) I am convinced that my late period is the sign of a chemical pregnancy as my period is NEVER late (apart from once, six months ago, which I also convinced myself was a chemical pregnancy).  The fact that I have therefore now had two of these means I have had three miscarriages in total and am a “habitual aborter” and therefore my womb must have an overzealous door policy which is stopping me from having any offspring.  Perhaps this is a result of the endometriosis which I have convinced myself that I have.  After all, chillingly there are sometimes no symptoms (it’s like that pesky chlamydia, which I thought I had constantly between the ages of 17 and 31).

Maybe I did have the pesky chlamydia, and this is why I can’t get pregnant.  Oh good God.  I am like a warning advert for promiscious teenagers.  “Look at me kids, this is what can happen if you’re not careful!” like a cautionary tale advising against unsafe sex as if it was drink driving, dodgy fireworks or crystal meth.

Speaking of crystal meth, Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas used to be addicted to that, and she is now pregnant.  And she is like 38 or something, so there is hope.  I always find Fergie (as in Black Eyed Peas, not Duchess of York or Manchester United manager) is a useful pin-up girl for hope as her husband is also very fit despite her being a bit crystal meth-ravaged, so there is hope for me yet.  Maybe I should call Will-i-Am and ask him if he could use me on one of his tracks so I too can be like Fergie, albeit with a bit more of a starring role for the auto-tune.

I was going to go on about how I attempted to cheer myself up today by abusing my useless body in the gym, and then by going to Kew Gardens, although the latter was a bit scary as a 32 year old woman was killed there a few months ago when a stray bit of tree flew off and hit her in strong winds, and I bet she didn’t see that one coming when she got up that morning and decided to take a trip to the home of retired horticulture enthusiasts and well-meaning middle class yummy mummies.  Luckily however, the only visible sign of death there today was the chair in which Queen Charlotte died.  Queen Charlotte apparently had fifteen children, most of whom survived into adulthood, which was pretty impressive for the eighteenth century, so I wondered if I should steal the chair and install it in my flat so I could sit on it and be infused with her fertility through the fabric (although hopefully not with the dropsy that killed her.  I had a pet goldfish that died of dropsy once.  How embarrassing to die of a fish disease).  However, I will stop there and leave you with the follwing thoughts of hope.
1.) Fergie is 38 or something, AND she used to be addicted to crystal meth, and she is pregnant and has a fit husband.
2.) I worked out that Queen Charlotte was 39 when she had her final child.
3.) I did not get killed by a tree today.  Nor do I have dropsy.

There is hope.