All I want for Christmas is a present.


Our first Christmas cards arrived yesterday and I suddenly realised Christmas is upon us. So, I thought a gentle reminder to the doctor AKA Andrew (my husband) about my presents.  I seriously think I would have achieved more by writing to Santa.

‘There’s plenty of time,’ he says.

He’s no idea. Do all men live in a different world or is it just my man?

I’d already tried the Christmas list which I’d given him and my stepson over two weeks ago after stepson had asked what I would like. I’d also emailed husband the link to the camera I wanted.

Two weeks on and the Christmas list is nowhere to be seen. I’d like to think he has it in his jacket pocket but I’m no fool.  So last night I casually mentioned how close Christmas was.

‘There’s only a few weekends left to do Christmas shopping,’ I say.

‘Oh no’ he gasps and then with a relieved sigh adds, ‘But we have everything don’t we?’

Well I do, I can’t speak for him. I’ve been preparing for the past two months. One thing I hate is last minute Christmas shopping. And as I have ten people on Boxing day I don’t want to leave anything to chance.

‘Have you bought anything for me?’ I ask.

Might as well be up front is my motto. Now, I should mention at this point that my period is not far off. A week to be exact and the week before my period is not my best time. I’m highly emotional and feel quite sure that doctor and the whole world are against me. So when doctor replies to the question with,

‘Ah, that reminds me, where is that Christmas list that you wrote?’  Obviously I see red.

‘If you don’t get them soon, there won’t be time,’ I say emotionally.

What is it with men? Or is it just the doctor? I swear it would be easier to buy the presents myself. Ask him for the money and off I pop. It’s the same with flowers isn’t it? Doctor claims the Sainsbury he goes to doesn’t sell them. This seems to be the case with camomile tea too and popcorn. When I go, the store is abounding with them. Strange that. The other annoying thing doctor does is query my list.

‘Do you really need more books? Don’t you think you should read the ones you’ve got first?’


‘Do you really want that DVD? That was rubbish if I remember.’

Oh was it? I never realised. I can’t imagine why I put it on the list.


‘This camera looks ok but do you really want one that takes AA batteries?’

Why ask me what I want for Christmas if you’re going to question everything I ask for. Oh, that’s a point. He never asked me what I wanted for Christmas now I come to think about it. Also when I come to think about it, the one year I didn’t give a list or ask if he had bought me presents was the first year we went to Cambodia. We were leaving on Boxing Day and I had so much to do before we flew that I totally forgot about my presents and I got a beautiful bracelet and an internet radio and some perfume. Am I at fault? Should I just sit it out and hope for something fantastic? Or should I rummage around and try to find that elusive list?

Answers on a postcard to Lynda.

Merry Christmas and I hope you get everything you want.

Legs Open

tootsieSo, last night I glanced through the book ‘Why men don’t listen and women can’t read maps.’ I was mostly reading it to stop myself checking my book sales every two seconds. This is the problem when a new book comes out. I become desperate. Neurotic almost, in fact you could say demented. Such is my fear of failure. But enough of my psychosis. Reading ‘Why men don’t listen and women can’t read maps’ made me realise how different men and women are. Not that I needed the book to tell me that. I quickly threw that in the bin. I hate self-help books don’t you?  Let’s be honest if you haven’t helped yourself by the time you buy a book you’re never going to are you? No, it’s therapy you need, trust me. A book is never going to do it. But I did think about what a charmed life men have *prepares herself for man onslaught*

Maybe Dustin Hoffman will side with me…

I don’t know about you other women but I would love to be a man for a day. I really can’t see what issues they have. Do they have breast screening, oh no. Do they have to worry about lumps, oh no.

There you are with your tit being squashed between two plates and having it look a little like a pizza while the lady doing the squashing asks.

‘Have a nice holiday this year?’


Of course you try to make polite conversation don’t you? Neither of you wants to acknowledge what is actually going on. You both act like it is the most normal thing in the world to have your tits on show and that she is in fact becoming more intimate with your breasts than your husband. The thing that really gets me is when they tell you it is just a little uncomfortable. What the hell does that mean? A bit uncomfortable to me is when I can’t get settled on the couch or the label in my top is irritating me. You get my drift don’t you? Then of course there is the dreaded pap smear. Where you open your legs all in the name of prevention. This time you have your, you know what, on show for all to see. And as she sticks that cold speculum up you and you clench every muscle possible she says ‘Just a little discomfort.’  and you’re just praying that the fart you’re desperately holding in won’t escape. I’m right aren’t I?


Then she tells you that you might feel a little scrape as she removes half of your cervix. Of course we kindly thank her for the indignity before leaving.

Men don’t have to put up with that. I don’t think they have their private parts yanked around that much or do they? I’m sure there will be one man to put me right.

Of course there is the other business. You know what I’m talking about. That awful moment when you need the loo and it seems a hike away, or you find yourself in a supermarket that doesn’t have one. One reason not to shop at Lidl I find. I don’t know about you but I have often cross legged my way to a loo looking like I’m auditioning for River Dance.


‘If you are standing, cross your legs and keep your feet together. If you are sitting, press your legs down and keep your pubic area up.’

More often than not, you don’t make it right? And then there is another disaster to deal with. What do men do? They find the nearest tree. No, sorry that is dogs isn’t it? The nearest field, or the nearest bush and drop their trousers. I know we could do it too. Ever tried it? Yes, you sit there praying it will come while every muscle in your bladder screams no I will not allow it. Nothing worse is there?


We slap all these creams and lotions on often to be told by the other half,

‘Why do you bother?’

To look young for you of course, but they don’t appreciate it do they?

Then there is the whole weight issue. Oh God, don’t go there. While the men stuff their faces full of chips and chicken we’re chomping away on lettuce and radishes. Not happily in my case I must admit. I mean, we don’t want cellulite and all that stuff do we? Why don’t magazines make a big thing of men and their weight, or their looks, or their wrinkles? They don’t suffer with Bartholin cysts do they? Headaches, oh no. Vaginal dryness? No, it’s all us.

Okay they have the impotence thing but apart from that their little private parts do okay don’t they?

Men don’t have periods. They don’t have a clue. My husband went shopping for sanitary towels once and came home totally confused after being asked ‘With or without wings, regular or super. Or was it tampons you needed?’

‘How do I know the difference? God forbid I got wings and you wear without wings,’ he’d moaned.

I can see it can drive him to suicide.


They don’t feel like the wicked witch of East for two weeks of a month do they? Get a tampon stuck, oh yes, I’ve done that. You can read that post here. Or have to face that dreaded menopause. No, let’s not go there yet.

So my question is this. If we suffer all this, can they not suffer two hours a week of shopping? That’s all I ask of my other half. Ten minutes into the shopping trip he is yawning and asking how many more shops are we going into. If I go near a clothes shop he has a panic attack. I have many times asked him to wait outside a fitting room so I can show him a new outfit only to tra la in front of a total stranger as my man has gone.

‘Looks lovely,’ said the stranger. Except I wasn’t attending a wedding with him was I?


I have been known to wander around a store in one of their dresses looking for husband. I even set off the alarms after spotting him outside.

‘Do you like this one?’ I’d shouted to have sirens and bells going off everywhere as I got too close to the entrance.

I’m always phoning him in supermarkets because he wanders off when I look at beauty products.

I wonder what it would be like to be a man. Maybe I wouldn’t like that expectation that I can take care of everyone. That everything is down to me. Perhaps it isn’t easy to seem strong all the time. I like to cry easily plus don’t I get to live longer supposedly?  I need to weigh all this up.

The new book by the way is ‘The Valentine Present and Other Diabolical Liberties’ available from Amazon and all good bookshop. £1.95 kindle and £5. 95 Paperback.


Shameless plug over.

Doughnuts and Valium (the best combination)

Even this sight of me doesn't drive the builders away
Even this sight of me doesn’t drive the builders away

I thought to myself, because I do that sometimes. I talk to myself also (more than I should) but let’s not go there. I thought to myself, let’s write about this building work, after all it might be cathartic. Before I even wrote three words there were tears falling onto the paper blurring the words Okay, there would have been had it been on paper written in ink. In fact the words may well have been blurred by the scarlet red of my blood, so suicidal have I felt. But… there is always something good to be found. I don’t have to worry about dieting. It’s quite impossible to cook anything. The slow cooker is buried in brick-dust, the kitchen no longer exists and even heating up two TV dinners has become a skill. Balancing one on top of the other, making sure the dish covering one is just large for the top to take another TV dinner while continuing to rotate nicely. Wednesday night has become fish and chip night while Sunday has become Roast dinner down the pub. I buy the builders doughnuts and myself hot cross buns. I’m drinking copious amounts of wine (mostly because the doctor won’t give me Valium and wine is the next best thing) I don’t have to clean (no point) I use someone else’s bathroom as I don’t have one (luxury) and I always have a man about the place. Some of them are admittedly as good as useless but I have men never the less. I don’t have heating but I do have a small electric fan heater which we sit huddled over. I have found washing using a bucket isn’t so bad. I’m beginning to wonder what the fuss is about sinks. So between popping pain killers and laughing till I cry I am managing to stay sane amidst the chaos which begins every day without fail at 7.30. Come rain or shine I drag myself from my bed at 7 or earlier and am sitting in my tatty towelling robe when they arrive. They sadly realised quite early on that I am no Brigitte Bardot so why pretend? If Andrew can cope with the morning nightmare of me then so can they?
There is Mark, also known as ‘Dipstick Mark.’ Named thus by us. Dipstick Mark swaggers around all day swigging from his never-ending cans of Red Bull. I imagine he is flying by the end of the day and seems incapable of doing anything without an ensuing disaster. He plumbed in pipes for the heating and then forgot to turn the water on. We attempted to later that evening only to have a flood. Dipstick Mark returns to repair said damage and fits a tap in the bathroom so we have water upstairs. He then forgets to turn the water back on. When we do turn on the water we discover said tap has a leak. ‘Dipstick Mark’ almost flooded out our bathroom and ruined our new ceiling.
There’s lovely Dan, who I would adopt if I could. I’m not sure life will be the same once Dan goes and I won’t be able to shout ‘Dan,’ every time something doesn’t seem to work. Dan flies out to bring in the washing if it rains and takes in any deliveries. It’s like having my own manservant but without the ‘Mam’ bit.
There is lovely Kevin, the boss. He doesn’t say much but does plenty. There are two Steve’s otherwise known as sparky and the plumber. Not being versed in this language I spent several days waiting for someone called Sparky to arrive. I finally said to Dan,
‘I must keep missing Sparky. I haven’t met him yet.’
Dan patiently informed me that Sparky is the trade name for electrician. Well, I’m not to know that am I?
I’ve had four periods during the time they have invaded my home. Trying to insert a tampon while sitting in a portaloo with three builders outside having a tea break is no fun at all.
I’ve read builder nightmare stories of course but you never think it will happen to you. Oh, be afraid be very afraid. These builders are all the same. I’m actually lucky to still be alive after a rain of scaffolding came hurtling towards me. I have slipped on the mud inside the house not outside I hasten to add. Lovely Dan places the dust sheets neatly on the stairs every day showering the living room in a cloud of grey making the room resemble smoky Joes by the time he has finished. There was also the day they forgot to tell me that although I could see a cat flap hole on the outside, they had actually plastered it up on the inside. That night the cat couldn’t

Bend the cat has a tea break
get out to pee, hence the house reeks of cat pee now.
The worst thing possible they have done is… filled my fridge with Snickers bar. The overwhelming temptation has proven too much and was a disaster for my diet. But I am proud to say I weakened only once and stole one. ‘You’re roughing it very well,’ said Kevin. Is that a gloat I see on his face?
But enough of my story telling. Have a look at the photos.
All donations to the new building fund to repair builder damage can be sent to me directly.
Lovely Dan

Our living room/bathroom/kitchen/junk room

Living room

Bendy thinks ‘Ah this looks promising.’

This looks even more promising


Our current draining system

But it will be worth it

Forceps anyone?

Sorting through the bathroom cupboard, I found my Mooncup. Suffices to say it was not fit for wear. Memories of why I bought one in the first place flooded into my head like a haemorrhage (forgive the pun) and I thought what a blog entry that would be. So, hang onto your hats and be prepared. By the way if you are like me, you will be wondering what on earth a Mooncup is. I would never have known had a good friend not introduced me to them. Throw away your tampons and sanitary towels and join the revolution! Save money and never worry about Toxic shock syndrome again and when you came as close to it as I did, for that alone you would be grateful. Okay, I exaggerate a bit, well, maybe a lot but hey I was the one who had a tampon surgically removed. Okay, ready, because, I shan’t be telling this story again in a hurry. So let us go back a few years. It is close to Christmas and a good friend has invited me to her works Christmas party. A great opportunity to buy a posh frock, dress up and basically have a good time. Now, if you’re a woman you probably know all about tampons. Easy to insert (apparently) not in the least bit messy (apparently) Gives you amazing freedom to do just about everything (apparently) and they are safe (apparently.) The latter I would question. But hey, it was probably just my luck. So, here I am, all doled up, posh frock, fake diamonds and all, ready for dancing, should anyone be asking. Just a change of tampon and I will be as ready as ready can be. The next eight hours free of worry and full of fun fun fun. Oh, why does life have a habit of backfiring on me? I had ten minutes. Plenty of time for a quick tampon change, you would think. Oh no, not in this case. My first fumble for that little piece of string didn’t cause me too much anxiety. I still had another hour or so to go before it was due to come out. With as much elegance as I could muster under the circumstances I cocked one leg and tried again. Now, there was a feeling of mild anxiety. Good god where was the damn string? I fumbled and probed and felt myself perspire. I stopped to check the time and then flew back for another go. Five minutes later and almost losing my hand up there I sat down panting onto the toilet seat. Now, I was seriously beginning to doubt I had even inserted one. I mean just high can the thing go? And more importantly how the hell did it get that high? One more try. This time I feel the string. God it is so high I almost lose my arm. Okay another exaggeration. I scream as I pinch myself and quickly give up. I am now fighting the clock in more ways than one. My friend expected me ten minutes ago and my tampon (bless its cotton socks) expires in less than an hour. Frantic now, I grab the Tampon box and yank the Toxic Shock Syndrome advice sheet and slump onto the bathroom floor with it.
* Remember to wash your hands before and after inserting and removing the tampon.
(Well, obviously, I know that!)
* You should change your tampon every 4 to 8 hours
(Oh good lord, it is close to the 8 hours now.)
* Be sure to use the lowest absorbency tampon for your flow.
(A quick check of the tampon box confirms my fear. Yes it is super strength.)
* Always remove your used tampon before inserting a new one.
(I’m bloody trying aren’t I?)
* Be sure to remove your last tampon at the end of your period.
(I’m having trouble removing one In the middle of my period, let alone the end.)
* If you wish to use this product overnight, you may do so, provided that you insert a fresh tampon before retiring and remove it immediately upon waking.You should never wear a tampon for more than 8 hours to reduce the risk of TSS during your menstruation.
I pulled myself up from the floor, grabbed my car keys and drove like a maniac to my friends. She rushed out smiling on hearing my car screech to a halt. I never hated her more in that moment. Dressed to the nines and tampon free, I mean, I just couldn’t help myself. I was so sore in the nether regions from so much poking about that anyone without a period was a target for my hate.
‘We have to go to A&E.’ I announced.
It suffices to say I was not popular. All credit to her, she did agree to come with me. Of course the only thing that propelled me to A&E was fear and that quickly trebled to absolute terror on seeing the board as we entered.
‘Patient waiting time is an estimated 8 hours. Please report to the triage nurse.’
Eight hours! I didn’t have eight hours to spare. I would be dead before they even got near my vagina. This was turning into a nightmare. My friend pushed me into the queue and found herself a seat. Constantly checking my watch, I edged closer and closer to the desk, very aware of the man with the bleeding arm behind me. Not because of his bleeding arm, you understand but because he would overhear everything I relayed to the triage nurse. I was embarrassed enough.
Finally she calls me over and just my luck she has one of those voices that closely resemble a fog horn. I want to die. In fact I am thinking dying is preferable to the embarrassment.
‘I have a tampon stuck. I have tried everything…’
‘How long has the tampon been in there,’ she interrupts and I feel sure the whole of A&E stops. A bit like one of those John Wayne moments when the stranger walks into the saloon.
‘Almost eight hours,’ I quiver.
‘You’re certain you have one in there?’ She says dismissively looking behind me. Ooh, excuse me is there a better class of patient waiting?
‘Well, yes,’ I say feebly. ‘I can feel the string.’
Did the man behind me tut?
‘Is it a regular one?’
‘Super,’ I say blushing and she raises her eyebrows. Is this bad?
‘Have you had intercourse?’
Good lord is that relevant?
‘Well, when do you mean exactly?’ I ask stupidly.
She shakes her head.
‘Today, have you had intercourse today with the tampon in?’
Does she think I am totally stupid? The look on her face tells me she obviously does.
‘Of course not,’ I reply defensively.
‘Take a seat.’
I question whether I really ought to be seen urgently but it seems to be met by a sneer.
And so we wait and we wait and my friend gets more and more anxious and I get more and more convinced that the symptoms of Toxic shock are beginning to show. At 10.30pm I am called in. I have been there 4 hours and the tampon has now been in for 12 hours. My days are numbered. My friend assures me it is fine and that the symptoms of Toxic shock are not that bad. She obviously has not read the same horror stories I have. I leave her wallowing in her ignorance. I then spend what seems like agonising hours being poked by a very handsome doctor and trust me it was not as nice as it sounds.
‘Are you certain you have a tampon in here,’ he calls from somewhere within my nether regions.’I can’t even see it. How did you get it so high?’
Well, if I knew that…’
‘Shall I have a go,’ offers a nurse.
Why not. Anyone else want to get in the queue? Trust me if you want to hang onto your dignity, don’t lose a tampon up your… well anyway. So, the nurse has a go and the doctor tries again. Forceps are requested and general surgery is discussed. Then the words I had been dreading.
‘We have to get that out. If it is in there much longer we will face a serious threat of toxic shock. Prepare for surgery.’
My heart sinks and I think it is time to call my husband. Forceps are pushed in and the nurse screams.
‘I see it,’
I almost cry. I have been vindicated.
‘Can you grab it,’ asks the doctor urgently.
More probing, more pinching, more biting of my lip and she calls out triumphantly that she has it.
‘Push,’ orders the Doctor.
This is probably the closest I will ever come to giving birth so I make the most of it. I push, she pulls and this lasts for all of a few seconds and then she is holding it up for all to see. Suffices to say they did not wrap it into a blanket and hand it to me while tears were shed all round.
Walking rather like John Wayne I approached my friend and with great difficulty drove us both home. After that little story do you blame me for resorting to the Moon cup? Talking of which I am heading over to Amazon to order a new one as we speak

Magic measures and Tantric sex

It may have something to do with being excessively premenstrual and if you do not believe I can be excessively premenstrual then speak to my husband. This, providing he is still alive, of course, and I have not throttled him. Anyway, this may have something to do with why I am blogging about diets. Because, the absolute worst time to be on a diet is a few days before your period. I am at that point now and my desire for something sweet is so overwhelming that this morning I almost strangled the milkman when he said he did not have any orange juice on his cart. What once seemed a sweet caring smile on the face of Rosemary Conley, now rather resembles the devil incarnate. In fact if dear Rosemary should pop her head round my front door I am likely to punch her lights out.
I first started dieting in earnest about five years ago. I was then, and hold your breath, almost thirteen stone. I never saw myself as thirteen stone of course. I was one of those fat people with anorexia in reverse. I never saw myself as fat.

Me at just under thirteen stone

I progressed from Marks and Spencer to Evans in a flash and thought absolutely nothing of it. Evans have much nicer clothes, I remember telling myself. In much the same way I progressed from a size 16 to a size 24 and still thought nothing of it. I consumed a curry, a pot of ice cream two bags of toffee popcorn and chocolate on a Friday night without a seconds thought. God, I was happy in those days! I mean who wouldn’t be happy eating whatever they like. Don’t you just hate the likes of Elizabeth Hurley who claim they watch what they eat but basically eat what they like, without gaining weight as they have some kind of special metabolism? Doesn’t it just make you want to throw up into your ‘Primark’ handbag? Or those other celebs such as Gwyneth, who kick box, do aerobics and Pilates and of course we must not forget the tantric sex. Okay, maybe it isn’t Gwyneth, but hey let her sue me. After all a celeb is a celeb after all. Don’t they just make you want to have a ‘Hello’ magazine burning party? All those, ‘You can look like’’ articles. Yes, I am sure we could easily look like them. All we need is a personal trainer, our own personal make up assistant, at least a million in the bank, a housekeeper, a full time nanny, a cook and five holidays a year on Branson’s yacht. Indeed, I feel quite convinced that after two months of that, along with the tantric sex of course, we must not forget that. I am certain, totally convinced in fact that I would look and feel twenty years younger and would probably have to trade Andrew in for a younger model. As it is at the moment, I rely on Boots protect and perfect, for keeping me young and rather think a twenty year old stud may not give me the time of day. Such is the price of obscurity.
So, it was in sheer contentment that I moved into our lovely little village and our lovely little cottage five years ago only to be asked by three of the villagers.
‘When is the baby due?’
Mortified and embarrassed. In my case hugely mortified, I decided to diet. No, I lie. It was after a lovely elderly gentleman offered me a seat on the train. He must have been all of eighty and I must have looked all of eight months pregnant! My stepdaughter was marrying in Egypt so I chose that occasion to aim for a slimmer me. I chose weight watchers at home. In a year I lost three stone and became a size 14. Andrew was delighted and there lies my problem. In a word, Andrew, whose favourite quote is.
‘No one likes a fat person.’
You heard right. He doesn’t use the quote. ‘I love you just the way you are.’
Oh no! Those types of quotes are only heard in ‘Bridget Jones’ films and certainly not in real life, at least not real life in this house. Correct me if I am wrong. On second thoughts, don’t correct me. I really couldn’t face another divorce.
This time around I am only a few pounds overweight. Easier to shift I thought. How wrong could I be? It is sheer torture. I sent for Rosemary Conley at home. When my parcel arrived I became quite excited. I assure you those initial feelings have well and truly gone down the drain with the mincemeat’s excess fat. Her magic measure has been agitatedly thrown to the back of a drawer and her measuring cups are scowled upon every morning. The one thing that is still lovingly stroked is the pot of Rosemary Conley firming cream. The only thing I seem to have lost is my sense of humour and on occasions my temper. I managed to break one pair of weighing scales and spend endless hours staring at my naked body in the bathroom mirror trying to see where the weight has come off. My jaw hurts from chomping on raw carrot and I am beginning to crave more than a drop of honey in my yogurt to satisfy my sweet tooth. But I persevere. After several weeks of this I try on the pair of trousers that have been so resistant the past few months. I hold my breath and pull them on. I grasp the button hole and pull them across. Guess what? They still don’t blooming fit! How can this be? After weeks of starvation and glugging down litres of water, not to mention humongous amounts of peeing, how can no weight have been lost? Is this some kind of cruel joke? But hold on…
‘You’ve lost weight, I can see it,’ says Andrew.
Well, that is good enough for me.
Ooh, must run, I have ‘Hello’ on the phone. My secret, you ask. I don’t really have one. I don’t need to watch my weight. Why? Because Andrew does it for me.
Me today and loving it.

How to be a Hypochondriac in six easy lessons (and get what you want)

Being a hypochondriac has enormous beneficial uses as many women have already found. It will get you the right kind of attention from the man in your life. It will give you the much-needed rest you need from the housework and in the case of a good friend of mine it even gained her a nanny, Life as a woman, is not easy. We all know, having it all, means doing it all yourself. Now with Hypochondria becoming the most popular accessory, you too can have it all too just like the top celebrities without doing anything at all. Be like Lindsey Lohan whose weeping got her the comfort of tough women cons. Lessons. 1) Don’t underestimate the use of tears. They are a great stress reliever and probably all those headaches you get are due to stress because of all the things you have to do. Angelina Jolie and Hilary Clinton have used them to wonderful advantage. Easy to create with the use of an onion. Or, take a tip from Chris Brown and use tear inducing eye drops. A little more expensive but you should get the best you can when using hypochondria as an accessory It really is worth wearing that mascara you are so allergic to also. A few tears and you can put away the pots and pans, Your husband is sure to take you out to cheer you up. So he should after all you do. After one of those really tiring days, when you have filled the dishwasher and done the school run consider this as your treat. 2) Remember exercise is dangerous. If you insist on running then be aware if your knee hurts or your back hurts it is most likely you have slipped a cartilage or a disc. Be sure to hire a cleaner for three months and do not lift, not even an ironing board, or even an iron come to that. Be careful when lifting your arms as that could strain your back. Ask your husband to brush your hair when he gets home. He will be happy to have something to do after his boring day. Take painkillers four times a day and bed rest if needed. 3) Most severe, serious headaches come on at night, according to specialists. All physical activity should be avoided at these times. Your husband will understand that sex is out of the question. After all, this could be the start of a serious tumour and needs to be taken seriously. Take two aspirin and sleep for as long as possible. If this means all night and the following day, so be it. Your husband can sort out the children. If he is late for work, he will not be missed. It is important to understand your importance in the world and a tired woman is an unproductive one. 4) Any breast pain should be investigated properly. Often it may be due to the wrong size bra, but if you are a busy housewife and mother juggling a part-time job when can you find the time to buy a new one? Should you suffer from ‘Too tight bra syndrome’ do not lift your child/children as this will aggravate the pain. Hire a Nanny until your busy schedule allows you to get to the shops. Or make sure your husband leaves his credit card with you so you can shop for one online. Be sure to take pain killers every four hours and rest as much as possible. 5) Never forget Periods are an illness. They affect you profoundly both physically and mentally. You may notice your husband goes through something similar at the same time. This has now been diagnosed as ‘lack of brain activity syndrome’ and hits men once a month. Unlike women their lives are quite empty. Sitting at a desk, pushing a pen and checking emails can lead to ‘lack of brain activity syndrome’ very quickly. This leads the man to look for some activity during the month and this often coincides with your period. He will try very hard to arouse activity for himself and you will notice he uses you for this and may make comments which deflects the issue from himself. The comments often follow a pattern and he may use words like. ‘Is your period due?’ or ‘Is it that time of the month?’ He really means is it that time of the month for him, when he will be argumentative and then blame it on you. You must not forget that periods are an illness and that bedrest is needed when you are cramping. Again, you should not attempt anything too hazardous and housework is out of the question. A cleaner should be considered at all times. After all a slight pull to a stomach muscle could lead to a fibroid, I am told. 6) Celebrities have already seen the dangers of childbirth and use their hypochondria to its best advantage. Pregnancy causes stretch marks and can be unsightly and may even cause pain. You may also suffer from cracked nipples if you choose to breast feed. This is all detrimental to your health. Use your hypochondria here to explain the dangers to your husband and use a surrogate mother. For a few pounds you can get a good one these days and for just a little extra you can hire a nanny so you get the sleep you need to do all those other onerous jobs. Remember, you are special and your husband knows that.