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:
oh god. oh god. oh god.
really, how do humans usually reproduce? they make it look so easy on video. you go in, you squirt. you go out. baby is ejected through the same slot, can-of-coke-like. so why is it so hard for us? a friend going through the same ordeal told me tonight I should keep the family jewels cool, heat being a terrible enemy of the little soldiers. he said "no jeans, but baggy trousers and boxers". I recoiled in horror. BOXERS!??!! NO. FUCKING. WAY.
I am certainly no expert in Chinese medicine, but surely vag qi is not the ish? How much vag qi does one need? And how does sticking needles in it get you more vag qi?
Also, speaking of vag qi, tell us more about this croupier!
Also, boxers and baggy trousers are strictly verboten. Stick ice cubes down there if necessary.
I started to tell you about the baggy trousers and boxers months ago darling, but then realised there was no point. You can take the boy out of Milan...
So, let me get this, er, straight... You're paying a woman to fondle your boobies. And you're paying someone else to fanny around with your, er, fanny. Since when did you get such a massive prostitution habit?! Not that I'm being judgemental. After all, I understand high-flyers and the famous find it very difficult to get casual sex.
albeo: I understand the contemporary fashion is to "go commando", which might solve your problem. Just make sure you wash the trousers every day, though -- we wouldn't want to develop unpleasant rashes, would we?
Have to say I think Tom is the Voice Of Reason in this (as indeed in everything). My knowledge of lady parts is, at best, sketchy, but I would have thought the issue was not so much the vag as more about the, er, is it an "ovary"? I have *got* to spend more time on the internet.
2 words: oooooh! scar!
i say let the old tackle run free. commando, the way forward.
As usual, don't know whether to laugh or cry (so doing both at the same time). How did I miss this episode in the search for 'qi'?? Where Lady V goes, only the most intrepid may follow... Boxers sound like a small price to pay, no?
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