80’s pop classic Shattered Dreams by Jonny Hates Jazz has been on a loop in my brain all morning. Why? Because last night I had a dream that I was shattering eggs with a hammer and pouring their albumen in a gloopy beard down my window sill and onto the people below. One after the other; shattered egg after shattered egg. I looked up my dream’s meaning on Bella (the first entry that popped up on google) and learnt that it symbolised “disappointment in a creative endeavour or threat to home and family”. Yes, I’d say that failure to conceive pretty much covers all that.

So what have I learnt today? That disappointments so deep that they attack the subconscious can be dealt with using 80s pop and Bella magazine. Wanna know what else I learnt? That my other extremely dear friend, i.e. second only to my recently popped best friend, is, as of yesterday.. pregnant. She was my last bastion of hope for people like me – people who are neurotic, over-thinking, controlling, stressed-out work addicts and who, for all these reasons, will be completely unable to get pregnant because that’s why I’m not pregnant. She was the only friend I had left in the fertility motorcade and now she’s taken a right turn to up-the-duffsville.

I was supportive, of course I was, I am a fucking marvel of self control when it comes to my friends. I told her to make an appointment with her g.p., to stop drinking so much and cut down the 11pm returns from work. Sounds bossy, it wasn’t. She just hadn’t really expected this so didn’t know what to do. Then I called BH. He got sad, I got sad. I just wanted to turn right round, go home and sit on the sofa listening to Cindi Lauper’s True Colors, eating iced buns and peanut butter off a fork. Then I got over myself. And then I got angry. BH reminded me, come on, he said, let’s stick to the plan, you know, the one we made involving anti-oxidant rich foods, no caffeine, no alcohol, total marital support of each other and a general suppression of all fertility issues? Yes, let’s do that, I agreed. Let’s stay on track, we were doing fine until this news impregnated itself into our worlds.

Only I can’t stay on track. I can’t stick to the plan. Everyone knows it takes ages for an ocean steam liner to change track even when it’s on a collision course with a massive ice berg. I am heading for a emotional meltdown of titanic proportions but I just can’t stop it. I am steaming at the unjustness of it all, and no amount of Jonny Hates Jazz is going to exorcise that. I love my friend, but she wasn’t even that bothered about getting pregnant. She drinks like a fish and did I mention she was stressed and neurotic? Where are the rules in this game? The rules are, there are no rules. I can’t believe I just realised that. And if there are no rules, there’s definitely no plan. No antioxidants. No plan. I’m going to play it my way, my rules, my gin bottle, my way.

I’m signing out with Beth Orton’s Central Reservation. Today is whatever I want it to mean. And if that means losing control with a gin bottle, throwing myself at my husband and collapsing in a pile of tears at the end of it then so be it. Nothing works, there are no rules, so what have I got to lose?

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