V Day
I know, I’ve been rubbish. A whole month since I wrote anything. Heartfelt apologies. I’ve been running around being busy and important. Finding a house. Slash mooching around the British Library in an old cardigan, trying to think of what to do next.
In the meantime, the nice people at Portobello sold the book to these other nice people. Which made me very happy.
Next? Time to get going on that other little project I’ve got going. You know the one. As per, I am throwing myself into it.
So far I have:
- Undergone keyhole surgery to check out my bits, and blue dye squirted through my fallopian tubes, leading to interesting Monet blue-green effect across lower abdomen and wonky scar just below the bikini line.
- Endured marathon session with Russian nurse giving encyclopaedic instructions on pills and procedures, Tot A at my side growing ever more bilious as we go into detail about bleeding, oozing and squelching.
- Been poked about by consultant with large metal implement with said Tot luckily not at my side but behind a floral curtain, merrily chirping ‘not to worry dear, I’ve seen it all before…’
- Indulged in an odd but nevertheless delightful hour of ‘breast massage’ with the lovely Rebecca – guaranteed to soothe the nerves, get the old blood circulating and produce oestrogen (she promised, so I know it’s true)
- Purchased and consumed large glass jar containing vile mix of seaweed, spirulina, sprouty things and other stuff, all ground into a horrid green powder that I sprinkle over my morning muesli. It looks (and tastes) like mould.
- Popped a course of hormone pills in pursuit of ‘super-ovulation’, resulting in transformation into a menopausal woman (hot flushes, cold shivers, obsession with the novels of Georgette Heyer and cosy knitwear) slash sex maniac (almost resulting in ill-advised tryst with dodgy casino croupier, but that’s another story).
However, all this pales into insignificance compared with today. For the past month I’ve been spending an hour a week with the lovely Danny, who specialises in sticking needles into various parts of my anatomy, thus ensuring a good flow of qi. When we started the sessions he told me he’d start with the ears and head, and arms etc, then moving to the belly, and then a bit further down and then, when I was ready, (whisper it), the vag. Usually, of course, I would have told him to steady on, but needs must, and so I decided that the only thing to do nod briskly, keep calm and carry on.
And thus it was, dear reader that at 3.30 this afternoon, I trotted along Harley Street (nothing but the best for me and my ovaries), freshly bikini-waxed (standards at all times) and sweating only lightly - a coiled spring. This is what followed:
3.40: Found myself starfished on the couch, lower portions modestly covered by a paper blanket, sweating rather more profusely as Danny told me how important it was to breathe deeply and that it wouldn’t hurt.
3.45: Became absolutely fascinated by the mouldings on the ceiling and started to ask questions about whether or not they were original.
3.46: Blushed furiously as the paper blanket came off.
3.47: Shrieked as the first needle went in.
3.48: Yelped as he twisted the needles to find the right spot.
3.49: Reflected that I’ve had more men poking about between my legs over the past 6 weeks than a cheap whore in Liverpool docks.
3.50: Danny withdrew, to leave me on the couch with the needles still in and a heat lamp directed onto my bits, like a sunbathing hedgehog.
3.51: Passed out, oblivion my only available strategy.
Nobody can say I’m not Giving This a Good Go…
In the meantime, the nice people at Portobello sold the book to these other nice people. Which made me very happy.
Next? Time to get going on that other little project I’ve got going. You know the one. As per, I am throwing myself into it.
So far I have:
- Undergone keyhole surgery to check out my bits, and blue dye squirted through my fallopian tubes, leading to interesting Monet blue-green effect across lower abdomen and wonky scar just below the bikini line.
- Endured marathon session with Russian nurse giving encyclopaedic instructions on pills and procedures, Tot A at my side growing ever more bilious as we go into detail about bleeding, oozing and squelching.
- Been poked about by consultant with large metal implement with said Tot luckily not at my side but behind a floral curtain, merrily chirping ‘not to worry dear, I’ve seen it all before…’
- Indulged in an odd but nevertheless delightful hour of ‘breast massage’ with the lovely Rebecca – guaranteed to soothe the nerves, get the old blood circulating and produce oestrogen (she promised, so I know it’s true)
- Purchased and consumed large glass jar containing vile mix of seaweed, spirulina, sprouty things and other stuff, all ground into a horrid green powder that I sprinkle over my morning muesli. It looks (and tastes) like mould.
- Popped a course of hormone pills in pursuit of ‘super-ovulation’, resulting in transformation into a menopausal woman (hot flushes, cold shivers, obsession with the novels of Georgette Heyer and cosy knitwear) slash sex maniac (almost resulting in ill-advised tryst with dodgy casino croupier, but that’s another story).
However, all this pales into insignificance compared with today. For the past month I’ve been spending an hour a week with the lovely Danny, who specialises in sticking needles into various parts of my anatomy, thus ensuring a good flow of qi. When we started the sessions he told me he’d start with the ears and head, and arms etc, then moving to the belly, and then a bit further down and then, when I was ready, (whisper it), the vag. Usually, of course, I would have told him to steady on, but needs must, and so I decided that the only thing to do nod briskly, keep calm and carry on.
And thus it was, dear reader that at 3.30 this afternoon, I trotted along Harley Street (nothing but the best for me and my ovaries), freshly bikini-waxed (standards at all times) and sweating only lightly - a coiled spring. This is what followed:
3.40: Found myself starfished on the couch, lower portions modestly covered by a paper blanket, sweating rather more profusely as Danny told me how important it was to breathe deeply and that it wouldn’t hurt.
3.45: Became absolutely fascinated by the mouldings on the ceiling and started to ask questions about whether or not they were original.
3.46: Blushed furiously as the paper blanket came off.
3.47: Shrieked as the first needle went in.
3.48: Yelped as he twisted the needles to find the right spot.
3.49: Reflected that I’ve had more men poking about between my legs over the past 6 weeks than a cheap whore in Liverpool docks.
3.50: Danny withdrew, to leave me on the couch with the needles still in and a heat lamp directed onto my bits, like a sunbathing hedgehog.
3.51: Passed out, oblivion my only available strategy.
Nobody can say I’m not Giving This a Good Go…
posted by Lady V at 8:26 pm
7 comments
