The Game’s Afoot

Ye Gods, I’m on fire with this blogging business. Me again! Feeling rather a lot better today, thank you; I’ve been out for a little drive and, importantly, tackled some laundry before the family trouser situation became sub-critical. I might even have vacuumed the pot of gold tooth-destroyers dragees that Harry had previously knocked over the kitchen floor, but John beat me to it early this morning, and promptly broke the Dyson. (Or, at least: he was the designated operative when it ceased to function – which is generally a sufficiency to have me blamed for causing mechanical disasters.) The smell of twin-cyclone putrefaction wafted up the stairs to where I, still cowering under the duvet, emerged like a Bisto kid 

to smell the expense. This Dyson’s had more retirements than Sinatra. After a prolonged, luvvie-like expiration some months ago – I feel a sock-snaffling incident was an eventual catalyst – John finally took it apart and replaced everything customer-replaceable. It was pleasingly restored in wind and limb and we have had trouble-tree dust extraction – until the motor entered a plea of nolle prosequi this morning. I declared its demise on BaceFook, but it appears I was premature: John has ordered a new motor, and is planning to raise it from the dead early next week. Zombyson may yet continue.

I am enormously grateful for all your support, and am hugely appreciative of your concern. I puffy-heart the internet, or some such phrase; you are all invited for high tea and cake, in any event. (Or does high tea already include cake? I’m never sure. I must go back to my Blyton to check.) I have duly taken note of the popularity of Harry’s bon mots, and started to record some of his more comical utterances. I’ve been meaning to write a post on his improved speech for ages, but the camcorder footage I shot is… um… still on the camcorder. It’s coming, honest. The post and his speech both. Suffice to say: this week we have really hit the ‘why?’ and ‘what’s that?’ stage. I am a little boggle-eyed, and it’s not all OHSS pressure.

Anyway. The embryos! Are doing very well. All 9 have moved on from Wednesday. Day 4: we have one 7-cell and one 8-cell; the others are all showing signs of compaction (first stage of blastocyst) or beyond. Two of them have gone a step further and are cavitating. I made delighted noises at the embryologist, although, until I internetted, I had only the foggiest notion of her meaning. I expressed bright hopes regarding spare freezables, but although she conceded we were doing well, she didn’t want to be drawn, as apparently only 10% of cycles have good-quality blastocysts to freeze.

(I would, incidentally, like to type ‘blasts’, because I’m not the world’s best typist and abbreviation is always easier. But if I give ground on ‘blasts’, then it means the thin end of the wedge for ’embies’ – and at that point, I will have to fall on my sword.)

I am taking the best back on board at 9am tomorrow. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood – and make damn sure the doctor aims for the correct fucking uterus.

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