Blazing Saddles

I am the woman who shares.

I have told you about the time I was infested with poultry mites.

I have told you – with photos – about the time I picked up Harry’s turd in my bare hands. 

I have written an entire post – with illustrations – about suppositories. (Note for American readers regarding British medical terminology: pessaries generally go in your vagina. Suppositories most definitely go up your bum.)

I have posted a photo of a spectacular geyser of baby Dire Rear.

I have told you in eye-watering detail about my gynaecologist’s exceedingly narrow escape from being plastered with the contents of my wayward bowels.

(I’m seeing a pattern here. The British obviously are obsessed with toilet humour.)

The only reason I didn’t tell you about my amnotic fluid bursting forth and hitting the midwife – and the wall 4ft behind her – like a water bomb, was that I hadn’t yet started blogging.

Consequently, I feel almost contractually obliged to provide you with a clear description of the current sad state of my undercarriage.

Imagine a small animal, with sharp teeth. A rodent, possibly, or a very small, yappy-snappy dog. Imagine those teeth sunk deeply – well, ummm… here, (and I should perhaps have warned you during my previous post that the link photo illustrating the precise anatomy – an improvement on the drawings I found, I assure you – is not entirely suitable for opening on your daily commute. John, incidentally, has just appeared over my shoulder, peered at the photo in surprise, and asked me excitedly if I was contemplating batting for the other side. I enquired: had he not read my previous post, avec link? ‘Oh yes, but I don’t go wasting my time opening links.’) and refusing to relax its jaws for any inducement whatsoever.

Yesterday, it felt as if the stitches (I think I have 4 of them, but I need binoculars to be sure; it’s a long way down there and I have to circumnavigate my intrusive belly) were in imminent danger of bursting, despite my having consulted an ancient edition of the BNF and judiciously prescribing myself 150% of the recommended dose of post-operative voltarol. Today, it merely feels like someone has sliced my perineum in half and stitched it about a bit. Funny, that.

Most women have a newborn baby to distract themselves from the unpleasantness of this procedure. I, instead, have a toddler, the prospect of a long afternoon selling cards (courtesy of the current plethora of fetes and produce shows, I am working every Saturday for the next… ever. But at least I don’t have to sit down, which, emphatically, is not my favourite stance this week.) and the necessity of readying our caravan for travel to Devon on Sunday or Monday.

This week is the only window we have to escape before winter; naturally, the weather forecast has satisfied my predictions by changing from warmly optimistic to wetly foreboding. I said I would never caravan in the rain again, but it’s a choice between biting the meterological bullet or going nowhere, as the budget will not stretch to anything more exotic this year. We are, at least, leaving the dogs behind – but we are swopping them for a 2 year old. I’ll get back to you on whether it was an improvement or not.

John is currently attaching an old cot-side to the end bunk to form a baby-cage

caravan

 but I’m still pessimistic about the chances of us, or the surrounding campsite, getting much any sleep.

I am going armed with a large pile of unread books (bliss!), an oil-filled radiator, and a steely determination to walk short distances only. John is likely taking his bike.

I will not be taking mine.

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