Lord Lucan

The cervical screening agency have, presumably, been firing out my reminder letters to… someone. Judging by the plaintive tone of the letter I eventually received from my practice nurse, they must have been sending me exploding-speculum howlers.

I dutifully made an immediate appointment and bowled up on time, feeling virtuous. Our practice nurse is an old acquaintance and we were chatting merrily right up until she cranked open the speculum and went in search of my cervixes. Cervi. Cervices. Whatever.

There are a handful of medicos – lucky people! – that have had the opportunity of becoming reasonably au fait with my cleverly different

uterine didelphys construction: practice nursey is one of them.  A seasoned professional in any case, and veteran of several Voyages with Bow, Rod, Staff and Speculum along the Wifey reproductive bits, she had the forethought to prepare two vials, and two scrapy-things. And that’s where her carefully-laid plans went agley, because it seems that things downstairs have… really changed.

Bless the woman: she was down there an age. A 2010 age is about 15 minutes, I think.

Unflustered yet struggling, she gave me a running commentary of her difficulties with my recalcitrant cervi, during which time her complexion moved several shades towards Hard Labour and her neatly wound bun came several straggles nearer to Through A Hedge Backwards.   

She said it’s a good job she absolutely knew there were definitely two to begin with.

Apparently, one of them has fucked off.

Instead of a neatly-presented duo, I now have an enormous cyclops-like cervix (“It’s definitely had a baby, that one.”) that pops cheerily into view whenever the speculum is opened – and point-blank refuses to move outta the damn way and let its smaller sister have her share of glory daylight. The sadly concertinaed state of my innards following Harry’s bazooka-like launch to Infinity and Beyond, plus internal scar tissue that no longer sits pertly in its proper place, contributed to make my left-hand cervix a far more accomplished hider than the average great train robber.

I DID wonder why locum GP had seemed so nonplussed last Spring. Philogynae didn’t seem to have a problem during his delve about, but he was packing more sets of stirrups than an OCD hoarding John Wayne AND he had a natty array of pube-scorching floodlights AND a handy foot-rest half-way up the wall AND a stout-hearted assistant.

‘But they used to be together!‘ she cried mournfully, after yet another failed rummage. ‘I could see them so clearly! They were unmistakable!’

Poor woman. I did my best to be helpful and encouraging, particularly mid-smear when she was utterly flummoxed as to which side Cyclops actually resided.

‘Give it a prod!’ I urged her.


‘Right hand one!’ I announced.

It gave her a frame of reference, at least, but no glimpse of my lesser-spotted cervix was to be had what.so.evah. 

She gave up in the end, on the premise that she felt she had prodded me about more than enough, and both her scrapy-things (which have become extra scrapy of late, I noted) were covered in blood.

‘I never thought I’d not be able to find your cervix!’ she said, shaking her head over the paperwork. I resisted the urge to pat her shoulder.

‘Never mind,’ I said, as I opened the door to the backlogged waiting room. ‘I’ve lost worse things.’


Following a Comedy of Unfunny Stuff, I now have an appointment on the 25th with my Consultant – who has seen my exceedingly peculiar (ME? Quelle surprise!) cardiac report and, by the sound of it, has officially Had Kittens. She wants to See Me In Clinic.

Way to reassure a girl.

So, I expect there will be No Surgery For Wifey until Consultant has hurled me through a CT scanner – which is a pricey piece of kit and awfully popular with the cerebrally Catastrophically Unfortunate at all hours of the night and day. Hence, I am not expecting any exciting imaging action anytime soon and I’ll then have to wait for surgery all over again.

Did I mention I was 35?

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


 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.

Saves Nine, or Thereabouts

Continuing the theme of our glorious NHS:

Yesterday, Harry and I drove 31 miles to the regional hospital where I have received all of my fertility treatment to date, and where Harry spent 10 days in the (brand-new, state of the art) intensive care unit. I took my ticket, glumly noted that I was 81st in the queue and settled down to entertain a tired-but-refusing-to-nap toddler – in a ballroom-sized waiting room, containing nary a toy or book. I had anticipated a good old British queue and came dutifully prepared with sticker books and crayons, but there’s really only so far 2D Bob the Builder will take you: an hour and forty minutes later, I was running out of ideas. When my number did eventually pop up onto the screen, I was ushered into the inner sanctum – where Harry spotted a large toy box, and dove in happily. I was promptly and skillfully phlebotomised; the entire procedure took less than a minute. Then I had to extract my furiously protesting toddler, who had not even had time to strew the toybox contents messily onto the floor, which is his preferred method of proceeding.  NHS logical thinking FAIL. And then 31 long miles back home.

Today, I left Harry in the care of my mother, and drove myself to my local hospital. My appointment time was 2.15. I eventually made it into theatre at 5pm. Yes, theatre.

See, I had it in mind that it would be a quick snip of the scissors type-job. I had mentally signed up to a tiny slice of the scalpel and voila! A couple of minutes to stop the bleeding, and away I would go. I started to smell a rat when I was formally admitted, bunged in a gown, and consented. When I was (eventually) led into theatre which possessed the usual complement of begowned-and-masked nurses, I was beginning to wonder if it was worth babbling that really, it didn’t bother me all that much, and perhaps it was too much trouble to everyone, and maybe it would be better if I just went home and we forgot all about it?

It began to dawn on me that perhaps I had underestimated quite what the job entailed. A bit of lignocaine gel obviously wasn’t quite going to cut the proverbial mustard here: I was evidently going to be repeatedly jabbed in the perineum with sharp needles. Arse.

 The nurses (a competent, kind bunch) were potty with excitement over their brand new stirrups – a menacing pair of highly padded black plastic bondage boots – although it took them some time to work out, firstly, quite how to attach them to the trolley, and secondly, how to insert me inside them. They eventually velcroed me firmly into position, so I consigned to history my last vague thought of overturning the drugs trolley as a distraction and legging it down the endless corridors, hospital gown flapping madly, my fat bottom twinkling out of the gaping fabric at my unfortunate pursuers.

Philogynae was actually pretty skillful with the needles; one was sharp enough to make me draw breath, but God knows, worse things occurred in the area when Harry appeared. He pointed out the problematic web of skin to the juniors craning close over his shoulder, and talked them through the scalpel cut. I enquired, as he worked away, if another vaginal delivery would have done the job for him, and he agreed it would have done, albeit untidily. A stitch in time, I thought… 

I vociferously sketched for him the mind-blowing, consciousness-withdrawing pain I had suffered when Harry’s head became firmly wedged half-way out (the fiercest contraction at its peak was nothing in comparison to it, and I do now wonder if the second uterus and my [full to bulging] bladder were pressing down on nerves somewhere) and requested that he properly ensure the route for any future baby-heads was… free from obstruction, shall we say? He cheerfully agreed, although I thought I could maybe hear a faint roar of protest carried to me on the wind from home, 15 miles away.

I think I got what I asked for. The nerve block was total, but I suddenly became disagreeably aware that my bum was now sat in a small puddle of blood. Lovely. I watched, fascinated, as he drew long, gruesome lengths of bloodstained suture thread up into my view, and then down again. The tugging sensation as he tied them off was most peculiar, and put me in mind of c-sections I have heard described – painless, but most unpleasantly weird.

I was wheeled out of theatre at 5.20, and deposited in recovery. I was mildly surprised, upon clambering down from the trolley, just how much blood was on the fresh sheet they had put underneath my bum before leaving the theatre. Day 4 of period not withstanding, I appear to have bled plenty, and I am now fairly curious about the nature of the topography changes.

I experienced a little difficulty in discharging myself, as the nurses in recovery were horrified that I intended to drive myself home, and protested that I should obtain a lift. I dryly informed them that farmer’s wives are rather expected to paddle their own canoes at the best of times, and certainly in busy season. Hearing this seemed to actually increase their agitation, so to cheer them up I bracingly told them that the previous time I had been admitted to hospital I had unceremoniously discharged my 2nd-degree-torn self some two hours post partum, in the face of rather dour medical disapproval, and had promptly galloped at high speed across the hospital car park, lugging my own 3 heavy bags, and comically dragging my dead leg – which was the only thing the epidural had managed to successfully numb. I tried to drive the car, but John caught up with me by that point.

In fact, I had actually never suggested – or even particularly desired – that John accompany me today, as I am, when you get right down to it, reasonably good at wearing big-girl panties. There is also the secondary consideration that John is spectacularly bad at hand-holding, being fairly impervious to discomfort himself. He is even worse at kicking his heels in waiting rooms. Finally, a few stitches and an undercarriage shot full of lignocaine does not render someone incapable of safe independent locomotion; I shall be feeling far more sorry for myself tomorrow, I expect, when I am swollen and sore. 

Anyways. I am… re-sectioned. The area in which this rather chilly-looking young lady has her uppermost piercing is the area in which I am, once again, sporting stitches. The local anaesthetic wore off a few hours ago, but Philogynae enthusiastically bunged two Voltarol suppositories up my arse – in friendly fashion, you understand, but nevertheless… enthusiastically. He also told me he would prescribe voltarol suppositories to bring home, but discharge nursey was a bit hard of thinking and seemed to think he meant aspirin. I didn’t bother contesting the issue, I have plenty of voltarol here from the last time my back went.

Philogynae heard my descriptions of the disappearing adenomyosis with puzzlement. I explained that the period directly following my adenomyosis diagnosis was shatteringly painful. The period I am currently having – following on from August’s you-have-two-lovely-normal-looking-uteri-Mrs-HFF! scan, has been comparatively painless. He told me I was presenting a enigma; I gloomily agreed. He evinced no surprise at hearing that CRM were talking about laparoscopies and hysteroscopies, and obligingly sent the nurses scurrying to photocopy the scan report for me to show my consultant in a fortnight.

Scan report 

He also, upon hearing my Not The Right Uterus Again, Thankyou pregnancy worries, advised me to pay the £10 fee for a copy of my medical records, the maternity section of which could be shown to CRM. I was a little stunned hearing this, as I had always understood that requesting a copy of one’s own medical records in the UK was tantamount to declaring Intent To Litigate to the hospital in question, but he assured me not. I will be phoning up first thing in the morning, as I am avidly curious to read my labour notes: such a momentous few hours, about which I remember so very little.

So… here I am. Sat gingerly on the office chair, with legs clamped tightly together. It’s burning and stabbing a little bit, and the stitches feel scratchy. I shall, unfortunately, have to go and pee soon; I have been putting it off, but the time is nigh. I am intending to follow it up with an early night, accompanied by Voyager, which has been Shannon’s lifesaver to me throughout today’s lengthy wait (it has taken a good deal of concentration to ensure that I have not lapsed into phonetic Scots while writing this post, me bein’ verra osmotic wi’ accents, ye ken.) a plate piled high with illicit munchables, and packets of voltarol and paracetamol clutched firmly in my paw.

I am heading bogwards. Wish me luck…

On Cue

The red menace is attempting to get itself underway. It knows very well that today is our village fete and I am spending the entire afternoon stood in the middle of a facility-less field. If I am lucky, I will make it to this evening before the serious cramps start and the ominous knicker-staining becomes the ubiquitous trouser-soaking tsunami. If I’m not lucky, then really, neither is anyone else. No-one needs to see that.

I will now be spending Tuesday – *Monday is a public holiday in the UK – on a 60 mile round trip to have bloodwork done. I am not nervous about the needle; but I’m uneasy about what the results might show.

On Wednesday I am scheduled to have my everlasting, continually-tearing, over-enthusiastic-post-partum-stitching freshly-acquired-in-late-life hymen (some women would pay thousands for it, I’m sure) removed. I cancelled the previous surgery date because I was mid-period. Doh. A call is in to Philogynae, but I suspect I’ll end up getting it done anyway.

This month may also spell the (eventual) end of Harry’s protracted morning boob habit, as I fully intend codeining myself up to the eyeballs should I need to.  

That is all.

*Not every Monday. Damn fine idea, mind you, but just this one coming.

Philogynae. In A Nice Way.

Or, Not A Misogynae At All.

Fact One

Attentive readers – which is all of you, yes? – will have picked up the fact that Dire Rear is currently doing the rounds of the Hairies. We are not incapacitated or in pain, nor is every visit to the toilet a sickeningly liquid one – yet we have a confirmed collective case of the Runnies. A stool sample from Harry – the most persistently affected and whose bottom skin status is hovering at Precarious – has migrated from its very own shelf in the fridge (because… well, just because) to the lab for testing.

Fact Two

I had an appointment with a consultant gynae yesterday in order to assess quite how much damage my dear child’s head actually inflicted during his emergence into the world.

Fact Three

Fact One impinged on Fact Two. 

I was sat quietly in the waiting room, minding my own Twitter, watching the various clinic nurses materialise from various far-flung corners of the building to summon their victims patients, when the unmistakable sensations began. I have 2 uteri shoehorned into a space that is only really designed for one; consequently I am extraordinarily sensitive to the peristalsis of the last half-foot of large intestine that runs behind my uteri. During period-time in particular, and whenever the uteri are feeling sensitive, bowel-filling (I can hear you clicking away in droves…) is a sensation which curls my legs up in pain. 

Having a crowning head stuck half-way out scores a 10 on my personal scale. The worse of my contractions were probably a 8. This is about a 4, and gets my undivided attention. And it was happening in the bloody waiting room. My appointment was at 3pm,and it was already 3.05pm. What to do?! There was no receptionist. I would have to ask a random stranger to inform any nurse hollering my name where I actually was. And they could disappear for their own appointment any moment – so they’d have to tell someone else! It would be Chinese Whispers! Pass it on: Mrs. Hairy Farmer is in the toilet, folks! And it wasn’t as if I could pretend I was just vanishing for a quick wee; I could tell I had serious business – of uncertain consistency! – to attend to that today (a warm day), of all days, should not be hurried or skimped. Or could I actually get away with putting it off? I’d surely not be in clinic long…? I could hold on…

I had just decided that Out was better than In, turned to my neighbour and braced myself womanfully for the inevitable embarrassment – when my nurse rocked up and announced cheerfully that ‘the doctor will see you now’! Aaaaiiiiee! Too late! I walked briskly behind her, sending stern Be Still! messages downstairs. Sensations subsided. Definitely not a liquid offering; I relaxed a little. Panic over.

So, I sat and talked to Gynae-man, who was lovely, gigglesome, courteous, articulate, and clearly knew his didelphic onions. I explained my various symptoms – I shall spare you the details, any of you that are still grimly hanging on – and then it was time for The Examination.

I have never had a exam from… ahem… the rear before. Being asked to lie on my side and bring my knees up to my chin: I could cope with happily enough. It was the subsequent elevation of my leg towards the ceiling that gave me the cringes. It’s not dignified, is it? At least there was a handy bracket for the anglepoise lamp that I could rest the waving-in-the-air leg on for a while before he decided he needed a… umm… wider angle, and Cheerful Nurse had to earn her money with some sterling prop-work.

The difference between a skilled Speculum Driver and an unskilled… sigh. At no point did I squeak, hiss, draw breath, stifle a groan, or let out a small moan of entirely the Bad Sort. I think I did, however, let out a small and silent fart when he, watching the area in question closely, asked me to cough. My feelings on this would usually be a hot mess of shame, but in the circumstances, considering what I was holding back, I feel the man got away lightly.

The only tricky part came when he asked me to really… push. Push hard. Push like I ‘needed a number two’, God bless his euphemistic heart. I gave it as much welly as I could – a fine judgement call, I assure you – but I feel the full extent of my bulgy bits may have gone undiscovered. Which fact, I consider a reasonable exchange for avoiding abject humiliation in front of a very nice man, for whom I felt a vague moral obligation towards of not instilling a phobia of women’s bottoms.

I left the clinic and managed to get as far as meeting my troughing menfolk in the canteen before a leg-wobbling wave of OMG, PROPER DIARRHOEA NOW attacked me and I was obliged to take noisy refuge in the nearest ladies for 10 minutes. These? Good invention.

The upshot: Harry’s cannonball passage from north to south has caused some mild vaginal prolapsing (*Listens carefully to the deafening silence. Yes, that’s my last reader vanished*) but nothing to be concerned about: he’s confident it’ll go the distance if I attempt another. I need to work on my… ahem!… vaginal muscle tone, apparently. He gave me a mark out of 5 (a test! and I didn’t revise! stuff of nightmares!) that I do not feel quite inclined to share. Hubby will read this and clamour to know what it was. He can bugger off.

The occasions when I – literally – piss myself laughing are too rare and minor to warrant his concern; he advised me to ‘finish my family’ and see how my bladder is coping with life then. He is referring me for an ultrasound scan by a consultant radiologist I have seen a few times before (and trust his wanding ability) to see if the mysterious Kraken that appears on some scans and not others is, or is not, a fibroid. And he is also – and this is the one that makes me gulp – surgically adjusting things a little.

The lovely midwife that stitched my bloody great tear up did a conscientious job. Too conscientious. My topography has changed noticeably; in particular I now have a smallish web of skin that never used to be there; it splits open and bleeds a little at every… ummm… leg-opening occasion. Horse-riding type activity can present a small challenge to vaginal integrity. Sex – and you can probably hear Hubby preening – is a large challenge. Philogynae jokingly said that he’d just do it under a local, as he’d ‘heard I was brave’. I promptly winced, and requested that he do it without an injection altogether, and just bloody get on with it quickly. 

No, I’m not actually mad, or masochistic; I find that local anaesthesia needle infiltration often hurts more than the procedure. I had a particularly awful injection in my armpit once for a skin-tag I’d quite happily have snipped off with scissors myself, had I known what their plan was. Dentistry is an notable exception to this Just Bloody Get On With It rule, but I’m buggered if I fancy a needle being mined about in my perineum. Now, freezing-type gel, on the other hand, I will be enthusiastically requesting, plus whatever other topical assistance I can get my paws on. If anyone has any relevant advice for me here, don’t sit on it. So to speak.

He ummed and ahhhed what to call it on his surgery sheet, and we eventually plonked down ‘perineum re-shaping’ because I was too nervous to suggest ‘Designer Vagina’ – which I find darkly amusing, redolent of the increasing global trend towards absurd-surgery-that-you-dont-ever-actually-physically-require.

Anyways, he’ll be approaching my undercarriage with a scalpel. And no drugs.

That’s to look forward to, then!


I was going to kick this off by comparing us all to a different dwarf  – à la Snow White – but as soon as I really began to think about it, I realised that we are actually all Grumpy and Sleepy. I leave you to apply a judgement re: Dopey, yourselves.

John is grumpy because it has been raining on his grass, and some of his tractors are poorly sick. I feel I don’t blog often enough about farming: perhaps I should bring you up to date. His current excuse for not fencing the garden or digging out the steps is haymaking and silaging. This involves, firstly, praying for dry weather, secondly, mowing dry grass (if you are pollen-sensitive, cue: Sneezy), thirdly, tedding it about while praying really hard and meaning it for more dry weather, and lastly, dashing out with your baler mere minutes ahead of the towering black cloud and driving at breakneck speed around your field. Naturally, this injudicious speed results in a bunged-up baler, so you must repeatedly crawl underneath and perform grass midwifery. Off you go again, only to hear a sinister thunk followed by a symphony of tearingly unpleasant machinery noises. The rain begins to fall faster.

If you are the wife of the owner of said machine, this is where you quietly disappear.

The core priority is to remove your stricken object back to the yard as soon as possible; you must, if you value your reputation, conceal the affliction at all costs from your farming neighbours. Apple, let me assure you, has nothing to teach UK agriculture. 

These type of mishaps can presage a lengthy spell parked in front of the workshop. Panels are removed. Exploratory surgeries are undertaken. Hands blacken further in filthy oil. The mechanised equivalent of femoral head pinning is discussed. Dog-eared parts manuals are consulted. Phone calls are made. Wives are dispatched to collect the Vital Transplant Organ.

Of course, if your yard is already populated with agricultural engineers who are repairing the tractors that you don’t actually have time to tackle yourself, then your chances of keeping the latest twist in your machinery misfortunes quiet are pretty much nil. Hubby has, I believe, one key tractor due to be broken open into two halves in order to fix an oil leak, and another yard tractor parked up sans steering ability, awaiting fettling. He came home Friday lunchtime to find that I had given Harry a toy tractor to play with that was a scale replica of a rather swish new model – a distinct improvement on any of John’s current collection. I caught him looking wistfully at the New Holland website a few minutes later (he is a diehard blue-tractor man. Speak not to him of green ones, even if they are the only company servicing the farm-mad toddler market) and sure enough, he has now announced that he wants a new one. These things can cost £50,000+ for a used one. And the farm profit is currently our only income. Yikes.

I am grumpy because I have a gynae hospital appointment tomorrow afternoon with a Mr Sorinola, as opposed to Mr Steven Olah, the other consultant gynae, or Mr Savonarola, the 15thC Dominican monk I initially confused him with. There was a time when I used to whip my undercarriage out for medical inspection with nary a qualm, but this will be the first time someone has looked – I am discounting my GP’s vain attempts  – at my cervi since about 2 hours before Harry emerged from one of them, and I have gone a bit Bashful. I’m also rather nervous about what he will be telling me.

I will be obliged to schedule a lengthy and awkward session with the the razor around my sadly uncared-for pubic area later this evening – lengthy because of the sheer level of neglect, and awkward because, despite 2 weeks of dieting savagely and exercising like a demented thing, I have only shed a measly 4lbs. Hence, I still cannot see what I’m actually doing down there.

Harry is grumpy because he has had intermittent diarrhoea for a couple of weeks which is worsening; he is being carted to the drs tomorrow. We have gone 22 months with hardly a day of nappy rash, but over the course of today his poor beleaguered bottom has gone, yet again, from delivering a turd the consistency of a housebrick, to shooting out spoonfuls of watery squits; his skin has gone from palest pink to abraded and ever so sore. He is a tough little shoot when it comes to bumps, cuts and bruises, but he’s coping badly with this.

I didn’t know my heart could wring itself into such a sad little shape until I saw him waddle towards me, knees bent, clutching his sore little bottom in waily distress. His skin has deteriorated astonishingly quickly: he was left in a dirty nappy while we were at my parents’ house early this evening – possibly for the best part of an hour, because the contents were weirdly undetectable by nose – and that has unfortunately been responsible for his skin breaking open. I have kept his nappy off since and slathered him in Bepanthen once his skin was dry- despite his violent, heart-rending struggles and hoarse shrieks – but the poor little lad kept pooing every 20 minutes and undoing my good work. Sigh.

Hopefully he will have a quiet, crap-free night and I will attempt to sneak a dry nappy onto him when I go to bed, too. Which may not be late, as the little bugger decided that 4.30 was the new 7am this morning, hence we are all Sleepy. And probably Dopey.

PS. John wants me to tell you that he is actually a Brand New dwarf called Frisky. And I am not the only one with a neglected undercarriage, hint-hint.

That is all.

Crotch Care

My word! I had no idea that my undercarriage had such exciting bloggy potential; it seems that the UK ladies are in the minority with their tweezing prowess. Just so the rest of the world don’t think us utterly provincial, let us take a quick spin through the alternatives, just to prove we know about them.

Hair removing cream

Nice in principal, but HFF wifey is deadly allergic in practice.


Epilators Smepilators. They’re just a big bunch of tweezers on a stick.


Hmmmm. Yeah, I have one of these thingies. For the first 4 hours after I bought it, I electrolysed fervently. At which point I read the information manual, and realised that even when I’d killed the active follicles, they had hundreds of little buddies per square inch, all waiting dormant, ready to spring up in sprightly fashion. At which point I decided life was simply too short.


The disposables are my weapon of choice for leg hair, but the thing with my follicles à la upper bikini area is that they seem prone to getting excited at the least little thing (in marked opposition to the ones produced by my ovaries) and can turn a nasty bright red if provoked. I then look as if I’ve tried slash and burn agriculture, which is not such a good look on a groin. The blasted sprouting things are back again in a couple of days or so, ruining your smooth finish, noticeably so if you are blessed with lustrous thick dark hair.

Also, blades wielded in haste around one’s lower bits can produce unhappy results. When I suddenly (and correctly) decided that my Delhi belly was premature labour, I was attempting to relax the pain away in the bath. Realising that even another false alarm would necessitate a baring-of-bits at the hospital, I swiftly snatched the razor and made a couple of rapid swipes around the target zone. You can see where this is going, yes? A fumbling combination of insufficient reach, rising panic and my blind-summit belly resulted in a painful and rather embarrassing small gash. But not to worry, because the bloody big tear I incurred a few hours later in front of a roomful of intently watching people put it all nicely into perspective.


Ahhh, waxing. Happy memories. Psyching yourself for the big pull.

When the hospital kindly lent me their oldest battleship of a breast pump, it became apparent that it had only one setting: violent. For several weeks I sat on the edge of my bed at 3.30am, holding the suction cup hovering over my breast and taking deep breaths whilst repeating the holy mantra in a fervent undertone: Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck. Final deep breath, apply suction cup. Suppress scream of agony as tortured nipple shoots 2 inches down the tube the moment an air seal is achieved.

I’m shuddering with the memory. My nipples have crawled away and hid under my armpits in terror. The pain-parallels between waxing and the malevolent Medela Lactina were startling. And since my pumping agony (Hire a Symphony, girls. Or an Ameda Elite. Trust me on this: they’re worth the money.) ended, my wax strips have resided in the cupboard undisturbed. Can’t seem to get excited about them, somehow.

I have to confess that since I have discontinued use of the wax, my lower areas have become a little more… festooned than they used to be. Tweezers can only take you so far, I agree. But hey, I’ve been married 4 years and have a 10 month old baby. It’s normal to not find your arse with an atlas at this point, surely?



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