I am now a fully registered chick with fertility checks inked into her diary. I bit the baby bullet and saw my GP this morning who listened to my anxious drivel and in four, maybe five, minutes had despatched me for LH, FSH and oestradial blood tests, printed out an appointment sheet that detailed my full fertility assessment at UCH in a few weeks time and given me strict instructions to return for a progesterone blood test on the 21st day of my cycle. I inked it all in like a swotty school girl and set off downstairs to see the darling blood work man.

I hate needles. It’s not so much the initial pricking sensation but the uncomfortable ache of a slim yet threatening foreign body sticking out of your arm and leaching your very life force before your eyes. I explained to the blood work man (sparkly eyes, fit, young, extremely healthy) how deeply unsettling I found seeing my insides on the outside, still so warm and vital. So he proceeded to ask me questions about my life to distract me.

Turns out the fit and sparkly blood work man knows several of my clients – so well, in fact, that he had recently fallen out with one of them when they vied for his obviously very attractive girlfriend with sparkly eyes and healthy hair. Needle definitely ached more as he told me this story through gritted teeth. I said I didn’t want to patronise him when it came to issues of patient confidentiality but would be mind not ever dropping into conversation, over a pint with any of the unnatural number of my clients he just so happens to know, that he’s leached my life force juice for hormone checks related to my future baby plans. He rolled his eyes and I left the surgery with something rare and beautiful, vital and sparkling – a plan.

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