A 30-something Gin Palace Drinking Morality Tale (NB Daily Mail subs, cut and paste here)
I went out Friday night before last to a summer party, determined to enjoy my non TCC status to the limit, and promptly got very merry on pink champagne. I know, all class. Sadly, though, because I barely touch a drop for weeks on end, this had a similar medical effect as the Sauvignon Blanc treatment thoughtfully posted earlier, and I became convinced that I was the second coming of Arlene Phillips as DB's equally tipsy friend and I cavorted on the dancefloor to the Michael Jackson 'tribute' medley. The floor cleared (I thought in admiration, I now realise out of self-preservation). Some moments later, my gold platforms and I were skidding hilariously across the room in up to three different directions at once as I crashed to the floor like a giggling mighty oak in a maxi dress.
Cut to Sunday afternoon, A&E at an Anonymous London Teaching Hospital. Cold turkey-ing headcases, sheepish-posh-bloke cricketers, and me, in a makeshift sling constructed from silk scarf, convinced I've broken my blackened and swollen wrist - possibly the most stupid thing I could do, since I need it for work. Which is, incidentally, not what you're thinking, but something more along the lines of idealcamel's profession.
Cut again to the Fig bedchamber on Wednesday night, the beginning of the green zone I am technically ignoring. Close up on my face as DB confesses he can't bear the thought of doing it 'in my condition', ie, with a Tubigrip on and unable to put any weight on my right arm. Apparently it feels too much like taking advantage of a be-crippled woman. Can't help wondering if in fact his reluctance is due to flashbacks of my dancing.
"House"-style zoom inside my body as another egg squeezes itself out of my cobwebbed ovaries and waves goodbye to its friends clinging on as if to the Titanic debris, before vanishing from sight.
Lesson: Lushes, only get drunk and injured AFTER you've ovulated.
Lesson 2 Deciding to 'forget' about TCC is easier said than done, even after 18 depressing months.