The parentals have gone, and in the first quiet moment of the last month, I exhaled.
With the next breath, I suddenly felt a great wave of depression come over me. I have spent the past four weeks making sure that my guests were happy, well-fed, entertained.
Now that they are gone, my urges to weep uncontrollably for no apparent reason have returned with a vengeance. Oh look, the phone bill has arrived- tears. The light bulb in the bathroom has burned out- more tears. The poppies are wilting and the rosemary pot has blown over- sob sob sob.
I think it has something to do with the fact that I know this month is a goner as far as our opportunities for catching the egg are concerned. I think- no, I know- that I am ovulating, like, right NOW.
You see, E. and I don't see each other much during the week. He works in the Other City, and the commute is so hellish that he can't face getting up at 5am to be at work on time. So he keeps a flat there, and stays there Monday to Thursday. Then he comes here to the flat we own together. It's an insane arrangement that we can do nothing about.
So to do anything about said ovulation means me getting on a bus to the Other City. Having woken at 4am to get my parents to the airport, then worked a grizzly 9 hour day, it's safe to say I ain't in the mood for a two hour bus journey, much less the act of babymaking.
Or I could phone up E., who is also having a nightmare week (and it is only Tuesday) and ask him to drive through to This City. What are the chances?
I'm a wimp. I should be more motivated. He should be more motivated too. I'm exhausted. I am pretty sure he is.
There is chocolate ice cream in the freezer. I'm going to go eat some while sitting on the kitchen floor, my answer to floor cake, not that my circumstances can really said to be considered floor cake worthy. But I'll cry if I want to.