Every Now and Then, a Woman Has To Whinge.

Today was supposed to a usual Monday slob day. A decent sleep in, followed by catching up with the washing, a spot or two of cleaning, a lengthy indulgence of on-line activities and the chance to stay dressed in trackie daks all day. Bliss.

I went to bed last night relatively early as I was not feeling the best. A headache that ebbed and flowed, general aches and pains and an unsettled tummy. A dose of brain mush. Sleep was difficult to attain. I was awake for a couple of hours and not by choice. I was alternatively hot and cold. Both Michael and Loic engaged in a stereo effect of sleep talking - one in English and the other in French. Rather surreal.

I remember thinking to myself "if I didn't know better, I'd say I'm having a period". Surely not. In November 2012, after a dozen years of peri-menopause, a new gynecologist delivered me paradise in the way of a relatively minor operation. He assured me that I would be entering menopause "soonish" and that this procedure should render me symptomless until then.

And so, a full three years and ten months after that wonderful little operation, this afternoon I was horrified to discover I was indeed having a period.  Ye Gods. Surely I was getting a bit long in the tooth for my body to keep preparing for pregnancy. Fifty-five is not an age for one's hormones still to be rattling.

But rattling they are. And I am furious. This is so not fair. I have been on this road since I was fourteen. The standard joke was that my first husband could get me pregnant without taking his pants off. I spent twelve years either expecting or delivering or breastfeeding. I have the scars of five caesarian sections, the droopiness of middle-aged and well-used boobs and a pelvic floor that ran away twenty-five years ago. I hair wobbly bits, grey hair under the vivid colours, varicose veins galore and hair growing out of unexpected places, like my chin and my nose.

I am not even that keen on children anymore. I have no desire to be a grandmother yet. I am exceedingly content with Michael, the Three Stooges and the Fickle Fairweather Feline. The East End Gallery is now my baby.

I am not amused. I am hoping that this unwelcome event is a one off and disappears with no more fuss. Otherwise, I will be returning to my lovely gynaecologist to complain very loudly.

And just don't annoy me or expect me to make important decisions in the next few days...

I know this feeling...

leading to shutdown.

I AM NOT A FRIGGING GIRL

I could not have said it any better

And this is what I'll be telling my gynaecologist if this does not cease and desist...Immediately!