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.


27 Responses

  1. Chipping Campden! I love English placenames.

    Not going to say anything else at all, nope, not me, nothing to see here *hums aimlessly to the heretofore unknown tune of “Go Turbo Go”*

  2. Well then. I’m thinking 117 is my most favoritest number.

  3. Yep, that’s a good number. I’d say more, but I know you don’t want to hear it just yet. 🙂

  4. THAT’LL DO!

  5. *quietly hums the Rocky theme for young Turbo*

  6. No cheering or flag-waving here 😉

    Although a man with a flag to walk in front of the car and push when required could be useful!

  7. 117 piddles all over my most recent effort. Sounds rather promising Mrs HFF,



  8. *Clasps hands, looks starry-eyed with delight, is speechless*

  9. Well, splendid. The car making it home, obviously.

  10. 117 is a very nice number, you know, just as a number. No other reason…

  11. 117 sounds splendid. The husband had a similarly aged mgb (chrome bumper -apparently that’s v important). Pre me though. My Own precious british classic funded cycle 3 if I remember rightly.

  12. CXVII – rocking!

  13. That’ll do nicely.

    Lala la!

    Feeling your pain on the Ancient Vehicle. Ooh, painful flashback to forced ownership of 1974 orange Beetle, which dumped me unceremoniously all over town. Bloody thing haunted me for years.

  14. No, not bad at all.

    And I’m with QoB on the place names! All we have around here are unpleasantly mispronounced copies of classics. Like Vienna (pronounced Vy-enna) or New Athens (pronounced New Ay-thens). I can’t even explain to you how they pronounce Cairo.

  15. Smiles ….

  16. Not commenting at all about anything numerical. But very excited to hear about you tooling about the English countryside, the Adventures of The Hairy Farmer Family coming to a PBS station soon!

  17. Pre-children, my parents had an MG, although I don’t know which kind. Decades later they continue to make jokes about its constant propensity for parts falling off, things breaking, etc. However when I asked they also chose it as their favorite car ever to drive–“when it was working” they said. I can imagine that if you don’t even enjoy the driving experience, there are not many kind words to be said about it!

    117. I have known a couple nice country roads bearing that number. Sort of a nice number, isn’t it? I hope there are other nice numbers in your immediate future (hope that isn’t too rainbows/sparkles/unicorns either).

  18. 117 is a most pleasing number. I’m sitting on all the rainbows and hope that soon I can treat you to the sound of a multicolored borborygmus heard all the way from California.

  19. I’m wondering if there are any other nice numbers out there?

  20. For some reason, probably only known to socialist society’s excessive rule and regulation approach to the innernets, access to your blog was verboten to me for the last four days! I have been hopping from foot to foot with anxious excitment in the moments I was not heartily swearing at the vagaries of cable internet in IndoChina. (See my text to you re your tweet, I was right!)

    Moving right along (after stepping over the pom-poms and rah-rah skirt I wore in Geodhe’s honour earlier), your MGB adventures remind me of an equally temperamental Austin 1800 I owned back in the day. I swear the scene in Fawlty Towers where Basil takes to his Morris 1100 with a tree branch came about after I was spotted in action by a screenwriter from the show.

    I do like Chipping Campden

  21. Well how about that?!

  22. That is a very respectable number for 14dpo. Junior was 67 or so at 13 dpo so you seem pretty on track to me. Will you get another one?

    Fingers crossed”!

  23. Oh my god my boyfriend’s parents bought plates in Chipping Campden once in the seventies (they were living in England for his father’s sabbatical)–it is a running joke around here (one gestures to the plates and says, sonorously, “There’s a WONDERFUL little town in England called…CHIPPING CAMPDEN….”)

    I know the car is impractical, but damn, is it ever cute.

    Thinking of you, natch. xxx

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