Another month goes by and I’m not pregnant.
I look for the positives in the situation. I eat a fish finger sandwich and don’t bother putting any veg with it.
We hit the pub. I order a nice bottle of wine, I can afford a better class of wine now I’m only drinking once a month. Another small positive.
Every month I’ve been working on the assumption that I am pregnant and therefore staying away from the no go food list. Not this weekend. At the deli I order 200 grams of a dark peppery Italian salami, a large block of camembert and some duck pate.
My hairdresser tells me my hair is in the best condition she’s ever seen it. I’m glad the small fortune I’m spending on folate and other supplements isn’t entirely going to waste.
For breakfast I have poached eggs with a bright running middle. Sunday roast is bloody and rare, how I like it. I have a warming glass of whiskey
I make love to my other half; not because it’s scheduled in but because we’ve been tipsy in the pub and laughing together talking bollocks over a good bottle of wine and remembering why we love each other.
It feels like a weekend off.