117

hCG 117 at 14 dpo. Not bad, really.  Betabase appears to be down presently, but 101 seems to be the median average.

I’m sorry this is coming to you late; I’ve been busy all day (appointment with counsellor – natch – and playdate) and arrived home shortly before teatime in full-on hormonal exhaustion. I didn’t think it would start so soon.

I had forgotten that the babysitter was coming this evening, and I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed at 7pm. As she was booked, though, John gleefully backed his newly-MOT’d 1972 – it’s as old as him – MGB out, and prepared to Motor. I am ambivalent at best about the vehicle: it takes 5 minutes to find the seatbelt, untangle it and put it on – and then it throttles you for the entire duration of the journey. You need arms like a gorilla to manoeuvre it at low speed: it weighs serious, serious tonnage and has no power steering. I once thought I was going to have apoplexy trying to reverse-park the bloody thing.

And it breaks down. To be fair: it has only ever previously failed to start when I have been in sole charge of it, and on those occasions I was eventually forced to concede the possibility that I might, at a push, have mismanaged the temperamental manual choke.  I managed to produce such exuberant, toasty exhaust fumes from it on one occasion when I was parked very close to the main doors of the building I used to work in, that I set off the fire alarms and promptly emptied it of every employee. Every one of whom filed past me, and either expostulated or hooted with laughter. I am not the car’s biggest fan.

Anyhoo. We got 15 minutes down the road to Chipping Campden this evening, paused briefly at a junction – and it choked, coughed – and died. It refused to re-start, much to John’s astonishment and hardly any of mine, so we pushed it into the grass verge, and happily swore at it for a while. It was not yet dusk, it wasn’t raining, we were out on our own in the countryside, and I, at least, thought it was funny. Cowed by our threats, it eventually gasped into life, and we immediately headed straight back through the villages to home. It made it to the far side of the crossroads facing our nearest pub, whereupon it sank, with an air of finality, into spluttering coma. Cars are generally easy enough to get moving, but pushing something so low-slung essentially means that, in order to get your weight behind it, you have to bend right over to the job and stick your bottom towards the sky.

I’ve arrived in pub car parks less ignominiously before.

John proceeded to drown his car troubles in two pints, so I was treated to the keys for the return journey. We set off home fairly early, as I was darkly convinced that we would be walking the mile-and-a-half home, but my fiercely muttered ‘Right, yer bitch!’ evidently had a salutary effect, as she started immediately, and purred home without a twitch.

If only the Miscarriage Fairy was that frightened of me.

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