Barren Mare

Day 20 awaits

Whoa there, my furry little comment monkeys! Easy, tigers! Now, I know that the subject of my stimming injection choices is such an immensely fascinating topic, one on which you are dying to opine. But let's just take this one step at a time, no need to be hasty-like. Even if that makes me...how did my friend Truculent Girl put it again? Oh yes, "a stim tease". Yes, I believe that was it. Har.

Actually, I'll tell you that one of my main reasons for holding back on that particular discussion is because in recent telephone calls, I have noted that my mother is taking a rather keen interest in the entrees on my Stimming Menu. And she is legendary amongst those that Google. I fear if I start bandying about the brand names and methods of delivery as I will inevitably do in due course, she might just accidentally googleplex her way...well, here.

Besides, before we even get to the delights of stimhood, I have to undergo my Day 20 scan. As my period arrived like a well-trained puppy to heel right on cue, this is coming up in two weeks time. As I understand it, Day 20 will involve my first date with the OC wand monkey, for a simple check for any lurking unwanted cysts or other garden produce.

One would have thought perhaps that this was the kind of thing we could be looking for, say, now as opposed to the day before starting down-regulating. But hey, what do I know? Besides, I suppose there is nothing like a little 11th hour suspense to liven up the proceedings, is there?

Another happy event on Day 20 will include the handing in the crate of consent forms. The good news is that I saw Dr Best Friend yesterday and she was perfectly content to sign the dreaded Declaration with very little fuss and bother. I realised afterwards as I left the doctor's office that up until that point I had a tight knot of tension in my shoulder which suddenly and miraculously lifted as I skipped home with a much lighter heart. Funny, because if you had asked me, I would have said I was not worried about it in the slightest- that I was operating on the presumption that of course she would sign it. These things, though, they stir in the dark recesses of the subconscious, coiled and waiting to strike.

Assuming my dalliance with le singe de baguette magique* reveals nothing untoward, my appointment will conclude with handing over my credit card for payment of the (*gulp*) full amount for the whole treatment cycle. Farewell, contents of my savings account- it was nice knowing you. Don't be a stranger, you hear?

In return for forking over vast sums of hard earned cash, I will be sent away with some nasal spray, the inhaling of which will commence the next day. And, not to obsess over this Drug Menu thing, but looking over the prices, I see there is quite a big difference in the cost between the Synarel nasal spray, and the alternative Suprecur subcutaneous injections. But not big enough to make me opt for sticking myself every day instead of snorting.

Ooh, and lastly, Day 20 will be, I hope, the day I introduce a new category to ze blog. A witticism along the lines of "IVF I". Or possibly IVF the First. IVF Round One? In vitro primus? Mmm. Something to ponder while we wait.

* I also thought it would be an amusing little diversion over the coming months to explore the phrase "wand monkey" in various languages. A girl needs something to look forward to, after all.

Sunshine on my shoulder

I have big news. Big, big news.

Are you ready for this? Are you sitting down?

OK. Tonight...melodramatic pause...I ate my dinner....outside, in the sunshine, on my terrace. In a t-shirt, cropped jeans and bare feet. Not a cardigan, woolie beanie, fluffy pullover or fingerless gloves in sight. Nope. I was quite comfortable, temperature wise. I ate my dinner and drank a glass of wine, while the sun continued to shine. A light wind (note: light, as in not blasting icy arctic air) gently ruffled my hair.

Even after cleaning up my dinner debris, I keep wandering back out there, to the scene of this miraculous event. If only E. had been here to confirm that it was not all just a happy dream.

I think my system has gone into shock from the experience. Perhaps that also has something to do with the fact that the pollen count is eye-wateringly high. Ooh, and speaking of pollen- that neatly enables me to segue onto an amusing little anecdote which I forgot to share with you about our last appointment with Her Nurseness at the OC.

One of the things we discussed, in between the endless shuffling of consent forms, was our options for the various drugs in our upcoming IVF cycle. The nasal spray for suppression was a bit of a no-brainer. Basically, "Do I want to inhale mood-alterating, nostril-clogging, head-ache inducing, cooter-drying medication twice a day? Or five times a day?" Mmmm. The "five times a day" option was marginally cheaper- but we decided that life is probably going to be complicated enough for the duration, without me having to excuse myself from my desk to sneak off to the ladies' toilet cubicle for a snort. I spend enough time in there weeping and sniffling as it is.

The stimming injections, on the other hand, are proving slightly more complex in terms of working out what is best. More on that later- though suffice to say I've been gradually Googling my way through a vertitable smorgasbord of choice. For those of you who are furrowing your brows and wondering why I don't just inject what they tell me to inject, I should explain that this is crux of my dilemma. Because apart from the dosage, the OC are pretty much leaving it up to me to decide. Which is why I will shortly be needing your help.

Anyway, kids, let's not get ahead of ourselves, all in good time. For the moment, for the purposes of tthis particular tale, let's just say we touched on the issue of my general unease with the whole "stabbing myself in the gut with a pointy needle" aspect of IVF. Because, really, if you want to pinpoint (geddit- pinpoint?) my major stumbling block with the treatment process, it's this. The needles, and the self-imposed injection thereof. I feel as everything else is surmountable- the cost, the emotional upheaval, the scheduling, etc., etc.- but the injecto-tastic element has given me, shall we say, pause.

Yes, I know it's going to be fine, and that the idea is worse than the jab, and so on. I know all of that. I know when the time comes, I should hopefully be able to summon those nerves of steel (I think I have a spare set in trunk of the car, for emergencies). And somehow, I will get the job done. But in the meantime I'm just trying to explain that this is the part that, rightly or wrongly, is making me go "OH FUCKITY FUCK" right now.

I was explaining this to Her Nurseness, and you know what E. says? Do you?

"It's no big deal, sweetie. You'll be fine." he says, waving one languid hand in the air. "When I was a kid, I used to get really bad hayfever, and my mother had to give me an injection every day. And it was fine."

To which Her Nurseness and I both responded by serving up our best withering looks, before resuming our discussion about my stimming options.

Aftewards, in the car, I said to E., "Your hayfever injections? I am sure that was all very traumatising at the time, but really, I'm not sure that, ah....well, I don't see that it's strictly...what I mean to say is...your hayfever injections?!"

I'm still at a loss for words.

Perhaps I need to wander out to the terrace one more time and gaze upon the fleeting beauty that is a rare, warm summer evening in Scotland. And perhaps just see if there is a droplet more of wine left.

Since you asked

It seems the view is quite good from up here on the soapbox. Having gone through all the trouble of making the ascent, I hope you'll bear with me if I stay a short while longer and answer/clarify some of the points and questions from the comments on my last post.

BJ asked (hi, BJ!) what is meant by "treatment" in the UK in terms of all this assessment malarkey. What constitutes treatment under the legislation has actually been the subject of some complex legal discussions in the highest courts in the land. But the short answer is that for the purposes of the Act, we're talking about HFEA- licensed treatment, which includes anything involving mixing sperm and eggss outside the body, or anything involving any donor material.

BJ also asked whether the law/Code of Practice means that lesbians are unable to get treatment here in the UK. The answer is that, strictly speaking, by law no category of woman is specifically excluded from treatment. So in principle a single woman, older woman or lesbian couple can be treated. My understanding is that at least half the licensed clinics in the UK do offer treatment to single women or lesbian couples, with a few clinics operating on a definite "yes" policy of such treatment.

However, before the treatment can commence, the welfare of the child assessment has to take place, as it would for any other couple. If in the terms of the legislation, the child will have "no legal father", then according to the current HFEA Code of Practice the treatment centre is expected to "assess the prospective mother's ability to meet the child's needs and the ability of other persons in the family or social circle willing to share responsibility for those needs." Whatever that means!

Whether in practice single women or lesbian couples are actually assessed more stringently is not something I can answer, since I don't personally know anyone in the UK who has experienced this. Like I say, even for heterosexual couples, the extent of the assessment can really vary from clinic to clinic, depending on how they apply the Code.

To be fair, the current view emanating from HFEA is that the welfare of the child test should at least be amended in its anachronistic reference to the need for a father, so as to be less discriminatory to single women and lesbians. Things have changed in some ways in this country since the dawn of the Human Rights Act, and while I'm not aware that anyone has ever raised a legal challenge on that basis, I would have thought there was a good chance that eventually, someone will- if things stay as they are.

BJ's wonderfully inquiring mind also wondered what was the deal for unmarried couples, like myself and E, and whether that affected our treatment options. Again, the answer is that we have to be assessed like anyone else, and there may be some clinics with particular policies on treating unmarried couples. At our clinic, our unmarried status does not in and of itself make any difference. There are some peculiar legal quirks here in Scotland about parental rights for unmarried fathers. And the Code of Practice recommends that clinics explain that legal position to unmarried couples before commencing treatment. I'm not particularly worried about any of that. Things could get very legally messy at other points in the treatment process, but that would apply to everyone, even married couples.

Estel commented (hi, Estel!) that her government is taking a leaf out of the UK's book with introducing more checks prior to commencement of fertility treatment. To that I would say, whoa, Nellie! To look to the UK for inspiration seems like a misinterpretation of the way the wind is blowing here.

In fact, very recently, a report was published by the Parliamentary Committee on Science and Technology, inquiring into a number of issues, including the ethical framework for legislation and reproductive technologies. It's long, but it makes for extremely interesting reading. The upshot is that one of the things the Committee are recommending is abolition of the welfare of the child principle in its current form, on the basis that "it discriminates against the infertile and some sections of society, is impossible to implement and is of questionable practical value in protecting the interests of children born as a result of assisted reproduction".

The Committee is also quite openly critical of HFEA in more ways than one, so it is quite heartening to see that common sense has not completely vanished from government.

Whether it will actually make a difference is something we will have to wait and see. I'm not naive, but I do hope so. I really do, especially since there is every sign that infertility is on the rise in Europe, and more and more people are going to be affected. Not to mention that evidence indicates that it is male infertility that is on the increase. Which sort of makes me go "hmmmm."

But certainly if things get any worse, I am joining LEB (hi, LEB!) in the hills, stockpiling assault weapons, like water-pistols.

OK, I am done. Next time, something more prosaic, I promise.

They be Guidelines!

Oh, I assure you, I was deadly serious when I said that we were given forms to take to our GP. Forms on which it is open to them to opine on our fitness to be parents.

Some of you may recall this discussion, in which I asked for your views on a public consultation being held by the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority (HFEA). However, having read over that post, I am not sure I explained myself very well as to the dealio in the United Kingdom. So, let's review.

The Law

If you were to run run run to your British statute book, flip merrily through the pages to the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Act, and scroll down until section 13(5), what you would find is this little gem:

“A woman shall not be provided with treatment services unless account has been taken of the welfare of any child who may be born as a result of the treatment (including the need of that child for a father), and of any other child who may be affected by the birth.”

I won't get into how we ended up with such a provision- though the short answer appears to be because MSPs were worried about single or lesbian women getting treatment. If you are interested in the full background of how we were saddled with such a law, there is a very full, cogent and worthwhile dissection of the issue and its history here.

Right, so what does the section mean? It means that by law, anyone in the UK seeking fertility treatment cannot be provided with that treatment until the provider has considered what is commonly referred to as the "Welfare of the Child" principle. It makes no difference that the "child" to be born from treatment is but a mere hypothetical at that stage. A twinkle in the lab technician's eye, as it were.

The observant among you will note that the section does not say anything about how one goes about making such an assessment, and indeed, the Act itself is silent on that point. Obviously, given a very stringent interpretation, it would be open to clinics to make prospective patients jump through all sorts of hoops. And what's more, theoretically, clinics could simply deny treatment to anybody they didn't like the look of.

The Code of Practice

However, in order to receive and retain a license for fertility treatment, clinics must comply with the HFEA Code of Practice. Now, as Captain Barbossa would say, the Code is more like...guidelines. These guidelines are issued to all clinics, to set out some parameters as to how they should go about meeting the legal requirements of the welfare principle, and the kinds of factors which should be "taken into account" in assessing prospective patients. And it was those guidelines which were recently up for review, and on which HFEA carried out their consultation.

I responded to that consultation, and my main view was insert wet ppppphhhhttttbbb sound. Though, to be fair, one of the possibilities is that in response to the consultation, the guidelines might be loosened up somewhat.

In the meantime, every fertility clinic can choose to comply with the Code as they see fit. And it would seem there is some room to move around to how the assessment takes place. So what you get can really vary. For example, despite my disgruntlement about other aspects of the Ass Con clinic, they did manage to dispatch the "taking into account" rigamarole with relative lack of fuss and bother. We had to fill out a questionnaire and talk to Dr Percent about a few general things like our living situation. But that was about it, and it was handled in a very low key, non-intrusive way.

The Declaration by General Practitioner

The OC on the other hand, have obviously opted for the other end of the Code spectrum. Before we can commence treatment, both E. and I have to have our respective GP's sign off on the rather grandiosely titled "Declaration by General Practitioner". What this requires in a nutshell is for the GP to declare that they have discussed fertility treatment with [me]/[E.], and considered "the interests of any children born as a result of treatment". The GP also has to tick a box that says :

A: "I know of no reason why treatment should not proceed, or relevant facts that should be brought to the clinics attention;

B: There are issues which should be taken into account;

C: I am/am not (delete as appropriate) willing to supply information that I consider to be relevant upon request.

Sign/date/practice stamp. Love and kisses, Doc.

Oh, and we also have to fill out another questionnaire, in which we are asked stuff like, "have you ever been convicted of a criminal conviction", or even been investigated for a criminal offence. The latter part leaves no option to do a Danny Ocean- you know, "Well, ma'am, as you say, I was never charged."

E.'s GP has already signed the form, ticking A (with a little grumbling about what a crock of shit it was) and I am hoping that my GP will have no difficulty in simply doing the same.

How do you like them apples?

Er, yeah. How do I feel about this? Huh. Not great. But you know, when one is looking down the barrel of a shotgun, one's options for complaining about the person with the finger on the trigger begin to seem a little...limited. We need the treatment, so we need to get the form stamped. That's the reality. And I can only hope that in time, with other aggrieved voices added to the chorus, that things can change.

Until then...? Well, I've known for some time now that infertility is a dish served with lashings of injustice and unfairness, with a side of helping of bitterness. This part of it is, for me, simply one more sour garnish. It won't kill me- but I suspect I may never get the bad taste out of my mouth, ever again.

The Burning Question

I am feeling marginally better- or at least enough to push on with a bit more storytelling. I ask your forgiveness in advance if I spin it out a little- it's been a long dry spell in terms of actual treatment doings here, and it's nice to have something concrete to yarn about again.

OK, where were we? Oh yes, wait wait wait wait wait BIG APPOINTMENT at the OC.

I have known for some time that I was probably expecting more from the appointment than I should. Part of this may be the fact that the whole thing seemed so shrouded in enigma and mystery. Nobody seemed quite able to explain what it was for, or why exactly we needed to wait all these long weeks. However, I firmly resolved beforehand that if we were sent away to do any more testing or form-filling or waiting, I would immediately- and without prior warning- spontaneously combust all over the clinic floor.

It didn't quite come to that- although if you look closely, I am a little charred around the collar.

Having learned our lesson about leaving plenty of time to get to the clinic, we got there a bit early. It was an evening appointment, and there was no one at reception. We could hear voices down the hall, but neither of us was inclined to start sticking our heads into the examining rooms. I mean, can you imagine what you might be interrupting? Sheesh.

So we plunked ourselves down on the waiting room chairs and waited.

E. immediately become engrossed in a magazine article, which I noticed was titled "How to Survive Having an Affair". I sat and stared at all the posters on the wall. There seemed to be a great many clubs and meeting groups for the involuntarily childless. CALL 1-800-GetALife for more information. That sort of thing. How cheering and encouraging.

The minutes ticked by, and we waited.

After about 20 minutes I decided death by embarrassment was preferable to sitting there with those posters, so I got up and went down the hall to an open office. Ah ha, a clutch of nurses!

"Um, hi. Does anyone know we are here?" I asked.

"Why are you here?" one of the nurses responded.

Mmmm. Now, that is an interesting question. If only I knew, I thought.

She must have clocked the blank, confused look on my face, because she went on to suggest, as if speaking to a six year old, "Counselling? Implications Counselling?"

"Yes! That's it! That's why we're here! I have no idea what implications counselling is, or why we need to do it, but here we are!" I said.

"Oh, good. Wait outside," she told me.

I went back to my chair, where I was happy to see that E. had moved on to an article about men who love women who need IVF too much.

We were finally shown into a consulation room, where we were informed that the nurse would be with us shortly. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell the nurse that we were no longer in the waiting room, and she thought we had left. Because that's what somebody who has waited 10 weeks for an appointment would do if the nurse is running 10 minutes late, right? Never mind. What a jolly and amusing laugh we all had half an hour later, when it was discovered that we had been right there under her nose the whole time.

"OK, let's get started," she said. She opened a file. She clicked her pen.

"Can I have your name and address please?" she began.

I told her.

"Date of birth?"

I told her.

"OK, how long have you been trying to get pregnant? Any previous pregnancies? Any children? Do you have any allergies? Any family illnesses? Are you taking any medication? Apart from the control freakery and the psychosis-inducing experience that it is infertility, are you in good health? Star sign? Opinion on the future of the EU Constitutional Treaty? "

Et-cet-er-a.

Then she turned to E. and asked him much the same. And so it went for the next half hour.

E. and I can sometimes (though not always) read each others' minds, and I knew we were both thinking at mental top volume, "THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THIS?". I mean, it's not as if we hadn't already been to a prior consultation with His JazzHandedNess , which incidentally did not come cheap.

The nurse was really very nice, though, and not at all condescending. And E. and I were both on our best and most charming behaviour. So we soldiered on. We got gold stars for having all our blood work and screening completed. We had a short and harmless digression regarding the results of E.'s last semen analysis. Then, at last, we were rewarded with... some shiny new consent forms to fill out! There were consent forms for me, consent forms for E., consent forms for both of us to take home so we can ponder the fate of any embroyos in the event of our mental incapacity or death (and consent to that fate), consent forms for the signing of the consent forms. Oh, and the consent form be taken home to our GPs, to enable our respective doctors to offer an opinion about our fitness to be parents.

More on that last one later- every time I start thinking about it, there is a sudden smell of singeing and ash.

Finally, finally, finally, we got on to talking about the drugs and the treatment. I'll leave the drugs chat until next time (so many options! so much Googling to do! cha cha cha!). But the really burning question topmost in our mind was when can we start?.

OK, so the answer is this: We wait until Day 1 of my next period, which by my reckoning will be sometime later this week. I then phone to make an appointment for Day 20 of that cycle, whereupon I go in for a dildo cam roto-rootering to check for cysts, etc. I return any remaining outstanding consent forms (including all the new ones that have been breeding in the back of my blue folder). Oh, and I also have to pay for the whole treatment at that point (including embryo freezing- how fiscally optimistic!).

Once I fork over the money, they hand over the down-regging/suppression drugs. Away I go to snort Synarel nasal spray with carefree abandon, eagerly anticipating my next period and the start of stims. Huzzah! Basically, if all goes to plan, I am guesstimating retrieval will be sometime the first week in August.

But don't hold me to that. E. tried to pin me down on the relevant dates yesterday, and folks, the ensuing brawl was not pretty. Things are a little frayed around the edges here, temper-wise, at the moment. Again, more on that another time.

As for the conclusion of the appointment, suffice to say that- once we had covered the basics: file notes, screening results, consent forms, treatment timetable, list of drug options- our time was up and we were dismissed. So, on the whole, perhaps not worth all that waiting and anticipation. But on the upside- comparatively speaking- it's progress.

Now, I am overcome with weariness, and feel the need for some uplifting sticky toffee pudding.

Splutter

For those of you who are wondering as to the outcome of our long awaited appointment with the nurse at the OC, I'm afraid I am going to have to leave you in suspense on the detail for just a wee bit longer.

I am busy, you see, coughing up bits of lung as I enjoy my annual summer throat infection. This has crept up on me over the last few days, until finally settling in with an energy-sapping bang yesterday. I am trying to fend off the dreaded lurgy from getting any worse, but already E. is casting malevolent glances in my direction as I try (and fail) to hack demurely. I may have to sleep in the spare room tonight at the rate we are going.

Anyway, I promise to fill you in fully, very soon. 'Til then, and by way of a sneak preview I can tell you that yes, we are now good to embark on our IVF merit badges. But- thanks to our usual excellent timing, it's going to be approximately three to four more weeks before any actual action takes place. It's actually a big relief to us, since that should just about allow us to complete the "Diagnostic Testing, Screening, Signing of Endless Consent Forms and Establishing our Fitness to be Parents" badge. Not to mention the "Sitting Around with Our Thumbs up our Asses" badge.

Mmmm, now- a hot, slightly medicinal flu-remedy-type drink awaits. De-lish.

Meeting Amy

Hurrah! The first interesting thing I mentioned earlier came to pass yesterday. I had a special visitor here at the Barn, none other than the ever delightful Amy, she of Fertilely Challenged fame.

I had refrained from speaking of it until now, because I was worried that like the best laid plans, this one would somehow get derailed by a last minute work/domestic crisis. And then no one would believe me when I claimed that I was having blogger meetage. After all, the Barn is, admittedly, some ways off the beaten track- in a place where "summer" in the usual sense (you know- heat, sun etc.) is something of an urban legend.

What can I tell you about Amy? Let's see. For starters, she's punctual. Always a plus in my books. There's something ever so slightly daunting about a pre-arranged meeting of someone from the Internets. Even though you are completely confident that they are who they say they are, there is a part of your brain that wonders if in fact they may turn out to be, say, an elderly Dutch woman with a wooden leg, or a crazed axe murderer with a bloodlust for infertile girls.

Happily, Amy arrived right on time at the designated meeting place, which left virtually no opportunity for my tiny mind to dwell on such unwholesome paranoia.

Another thing about Amy- she appreciates, as I do, the value of a good "Happy Hour" offer. Buy two large glasses of wine and get the rest of the bottle free! Yippee! There's nothing like a couple of glasses of house vino to loosen the tongue- not that we really needed any such incentive, since within a few moments of perching on those ghastly trendy bar stools, we were gabbing away like we'd known each other forever.

Oh, and yet another thing- she's a funny, sassy, articulate, insightful and interesting conversationalist. She has a lovely deep and frequent laugh. Not only that, but she is a good listener. Unlike so many other people who have heard me ramble about our infertility woes, she didn't glaze over, tune out, or change the subject. Although we did both veer off, frequently, into frivolous talk-such as current hot trends in jeans and handbags.

I'm sure someone else has posted about this recently (forgive me but I cannot for the life of me remember who)- but it occured to me during the evening that I was experiencing this overwhelming feeling of relief to be in the company of someone who totally and completely gets my situation. I think it is the first time since this infertility lark began that I have truly felt that comfort. Not only that, but as we were sitting there talking, I thought to myself- here's a woman who has been through IVF three times, been through more medical crap than I can even contemplate. It didn't work for her, and there's no obvious reason why. But it wasn't the end of her- far, far from it. Quite the opposite. I sense very good things are coming Amy's way soon. That was very encouraging, especially for someone like me, as I stand on the brink of so much uncertainty.

Rather amusingly, E., who as I think I have mentioned is not often in the same city as me during the working week- suddenly- and for no apparent reason, decided he wanted to drive over that night. He had emailed me earlier to announce that he was "at a bit of a loose end" and "what was I doing later?"

"Sweetness," I replied, "I am happy for you to join us, but I am meeting Amy for drinks & dinner, remember?"

I don't know if somehow the synapses in his brain were not firing, or if I was somehow typing in Greek, but this message repeatedly failed to penetrate his cerebrum. Consequently, when I finally remembered (at the end of Happy Hour, just before we went to the restaurant) to turn on my mobile phone, he was rather grumpy that I was not at home.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"I'm at the flat. Our flat. I thought we'd have something to eat."

" Ahem. May I remind you, as I have done repeatedly over the last several days, and indeed a mere few hours ago, that I. AM. HAVING. DINNER. WITH. AMY."

Oh.

Turns out he was too tired to come out and meet us (plus he had started cooking dinner!) but like a good sport, he drove into town later to pick us up and give Amy a lift back to her hotel. Unfortunately, instead of looking like the delicious Sex God he so essentially is, he chose to appear in a rather peculiar ensemble of baggy biking shorts with a grubby old jersey on top, and a pair of nasty old sneakers on his feet. Mmm, scruffy, and not really in a sexy way.

Sorry, Amy. He's really so much hotter than that, I promise. And not usually so absent minded. Please do come back and see us again- and with any luck, next time you'll be bringing your daughter with you.

'Til dress do us part

Had I stayed married to my first husband (or rather, just "my husband", since strictly speaking, as of this writing, there is no second husband), we would have very recently celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. And no doubt, I would have been the recipient of some lovely tradtional tin item.

I have to say, I much prefer the modern anniversary table. If I'd hung on for ten whole years with that man, I would have been expecting a hell of lot of more than tin to mark the occasion. Like a diamond, perhaps. Mmm, tin or diamond. Tin or diamond. Tough choice there.

I suppose I was thinking about the whole anniversary thing, not because I have any particular regret about not reaching that milestone (relief would be more like it), but more because everything about the wedding itself reminds me of how much my taste has changed over the years.

In actual fact, there were two weddings. Due to some complicated visa issue, the first was a civil cermony at a registry office. We were trying to pretend it wasn't the actual wedding itself, thinking of it more as jumping through a necessary legal hoop. So we had a quiet, simple service on a weekday, and didn't invite anyone except two friends to be our witnesses.

I wore a yellowy-cream silk shift dress with matching jacket, cream tights and a pair of cream shoes with a low heel. I looked like a vanilla ice cream cone. Oh, and I had extremely long, permed curly hair at the time. I had so much hair that it made my long, small and pointy face look even longer and pointier than usual. If photographed from the wrong angle, the effect was decidedly Howard Stern.

But perhaps even worse was the get-up for the proper full-blown church wedding event. My dress was so large that the airline threatened to make us buy an extra seat for it. It had a long sweeping train, and gigantic intricate lace bow at the back. A bow! Good God, as if I needed to call any extra attention to my ass! I was about 20 pounds heavier at that age, and the dress was cut low in the bodice and off the shoulders. At dinner, my bosom threatened to spill out into the rack of lamb and raspberry pavlova.

I haven't been able to track down an online picture of the actual frock itself, although this comes very close in giving you the flavour of it.

I had my hair up, too, much like in that picture, in an elaborate coiled bouffant, with small flowers woven through. There were two big curls hanging down loose at the front. It poured with rain on the day, and the curls eventually drooped on to my shoulders in long lackluster strings. I hadn't discovered eyelash curlers or liquid eyeliner at that point in my makeup bag of tricks. So instead of appearing sparklingly wide-eyed and alert, I had a sort of dull heavy lidded look about me.

But who are we kidding? The main thing I had wrong was the choice of husband. Nice guy, sweet person, but utterly unsuitable for me as a long-term life partner. Fortunately, I figured that out before we made it to our cotton/china anniversary.

About a month after the wedding, I chopped my hair off into a pixie cut, ala Winona and never wore it past my shoulders again. And it's safe to say I have very different ideas about the choice of bridal attire, should E. and I ever decide to embark on matrimonial bliss.

So, what about you? Do you look back on the photos of yourself on your wedding day and think, "Ahhhhh, yes." Or do you slam the album shut, thinking "Urrrrgh, no!"?

Pregnant Pause

Work= kicking my ass.

It's been the kind of week that makes me wonder why I went on holiday in the first place, such are the steaming mounds of poo awaiting the shovel on my return.

I am hanging on to the hope that things are probably going to get onto a more even keel when I get a new boss. My current Team Leader is finally about to waddle off on maternity leave at last. She is, by my reckoning, at least 37 weeks pregnant, and is now so big that she can barely fit her bulging self through the door.

What I have learned recently is that it's one thing to work side by side with someone who is pregnant. And it's another to work next to someone who is so pregnant that she looks as if her waters are about to break any second now. I don't honestly know how she carries on managing come in, and to efficiently cope with all the stuff we have to deal with, and I don't think she quite knows either. Sometimes I catch her sitting there with a slightly glazed look on her face, hands methodically stroking the curve of her belly. It's a little unnerving, to tell you the truth, even without the added cosmic kick to my infertile jaw.

Knowing my luck, she'll probably go into labor in the office and I'll end up having to deliver the baby myself. Maybe I should start stockpiling supplies now. The only thing I know about emergency baby deliveries is from the movies or TV. In particular, people always seem to be shouting for boiling water and clean towels. Water! Boil water! Hand me that clean towel, stat! More water! Somehow I don't think the little office kettle would cut it, which is a worry.

As for me, there are two interesting things happening next week, hopefully, if all goes to plan. The first I shall keep in reserve to tell you about later. But the second is our very long awaited appointment with the Nurse at the OC. And I assure you, I'm getting down on my bony little knees right now and praying that we get the green light to start treatment immediately, because I am utterly hacked off with all the waiting around.

I'm ready to cry, beg, bribe, cajole, and harass- please oh please oh please can we at long last get this show on the road?

Prime Meridian

On Saturday afternoon, I straddled the eastern and western hemispheres. I was standing on the Prime Meridian of the World. That is, the zero degree longitude line which runs (conveniently) through the Royal Greenwich Observtory in Greenwich, England. Mean point for the universal, nautical and astronomical days. I hate to sound like a geocaching fiend, but it was a bit of a thrill, frankly.

My dad, who rarely leaves the house without his GPS in his hand was perhaps understandably more excited than I was. When you travel with my father, chances are he may not be able to figure out what street he is on, or even what town he is in, but damn if he won't be able to otherwise ascertain his exact navigational coordinates at any given moment with the press of a button. So for him, the Prime Meridian was almost like some sort of Mecca.

We stood there grinning at each other. All around us, tourists balanced on the line, clicking clicking clicking away with their cameras.

Except...there's a twist.

Because what the Royal Observatory keep rather quiet is that in fact, the true Prime Meridian has actually moved from the rather elaborately signposted location, the inlaid silver line running across the Observatory courtyard. What they don't tell you at the ticket booth is that the real Prime Meridian is to be found approximately 364 feet to the east of the Observatory entrance.

Folks, zero degrees longitude is actually over in the park area, marked only by a rather mishapen tree and a rubbish bin. We knew this because of course my father had his GPS monitor at the ready, and was able to tell us, precisely, when we reached the correct spot.

"What does it say back there?" I asked, waving in the direction of the massed throng photographing themselves over in the courtyard.

He sniffed.

"Oh, it says 0'8' or something. Certainly not 0 degrees," he said, poised to take a snap of the mishapen tree.

"So. Mmm. Who moved it? Who moved the line?" I asked.

Well, bit of a mystery, that. I'm still trying to Google that one out. Something to do with the moving of the earth's crust, or possibly the Americans playing around with their satellites.

In any event, it stayed on my mind for the rest of the afternoon as we wandered through the exhibits, including the infamous H4 pocketwatch used by good old John Harrison to sort out the whole longitude problem in the first place. Poor Harrison, so misunderstood by his peers that they denied him the Longitude Prize for years, even after his H4 gadget has proved itself over and over to be a worthy mechanism. Talk about getting a raw deal.

As we wandered back down to the river, I realised once more a basic truth. Sometimes, things are just not quite what they seem. We make the long trip to find zero degrees longitude. We stand on the silver line in the designated spot, believing- as we are told by all the signs and fanfare- that we have at last arrived. And yet with a whisper of technology, we learn to look again. We learn to override all our earlier expectations, while still having faith we can find it.

It is then we discover that what we are seeking is actually just that little bit further away. Unmarked and unnoticed, but celebrated by our extra steps- and by our desire to know that we have truly made it.

Made it, after all, to our own Prime Meridian.