Can we talk about the size of my arse please?
I’m 5’11, and have been a “curvy size 10”, as an elderly Italian gent once euphemistically called my size 12 frame, since I was 15 years old.
But lately, an increasing emphasis is going on the “curvy”. Probably because, for the past nine months, my emotions have yo-yoed between “pretty sure I’m eating for two” and “depressed. Need cake”.
There’s probably a week at the beginning of the cycle (currently 45 days long) where my giant appetite isn’t a problem. But other than that? Cake.
Has anyone else had this…? I just don’t really care what I eat any more.
Moving away from confectionary for a minute, I won GP bingo last week. No one has “a doctor” at my local surgery – they just hand out appointments based on whoever’s free when you need them. I got a new lady this time. I was ready with my sob story: “I know we haven’t waited a full year but my husband has translocation and conception is just the first step and…”
She looked at me like I was mad, then proceeded to refer me for every test there is. “You had an ultrasound on your ovaries last year? Better get them checked again. Let’s try and get you in with the consultant.”
Recent experiences have suggested the NHS can be a mixed bag if you’re not actually at death’s door. But when you win, you win big. If this level of gusto persists, I’ll be pregnant by next Wednesday.
Think I might have a slice of cake to celebrate…