Sunday, October 08, 2006

The curse

When I worked as a PA a few years ago, I'd often be the point of contact for staff members who were calling in sick. Surprisingly, most people are not (as you might expect) slackers, and there weren't that many people who took the piss. Also, during my stint as a PA in advertising, coming into work with a hangover was second-nature to most, and a matter of survival for others. Most people would respect that you had a cracking headache, smelt of booze, and didn't particularly want to interact with people until about 11am, by which time you'd had a bacon sandwich, six cups of coffee, and half a packet of fags. The calls that did used to annoy me (because it often lumbered me with that's person's work) were ones from girls claiming they were too sick to come in because of period pains. Period pains? Give me a break.


Apart from the general bloating and discomfort that accompanies the first day of 'the curse', I'd never really experienced severe menstrual pain. The wanting to murder someone and get acquitted - yes, but not really the rendered incapable of walking thing. Well today, while waiting at the finish line for Robert (who was running in the Nike North/South 10k in Hyde Park) it's as though the girls of period-pain past bandied together to punish me for my skepticism.

I was wracked with the most severe abdominal pains - something like I have never experienced before. It was like my smear test last week, but continous. I managed to grimace through it and take a couple of pictures of my lovely guy crossing the line, along with ten's of thousands of other zealots. Jesus, imagine getting up on a Sunday morning to go and run 10 kilometers around the park like a maniac? Anyway I digress - the pain was bad, very bad, and not even my copy of 'Under the Mountain' could distract me from it.

Robert made great time, but then we had to leg it home so I could have a hot bath, take some pain killers, and then lie in bed with a pillow under my stomach. The net suggested a hot-water bottle. Who the hell, in this century, still owns a hot water bottle? Aside from my grandmother that is, who believes central heating, electric blankets, and anything that actually prevents you from freezing to death in your home, are the devils work. So no water bottle - but god knows, I'm going to hunt one down on that Antique Roadshow just in case there is a repeat performance next month.

About an hour later, when I thought I was going to go out of my mind with the pain, the Ibuprofen started to kick in and eventually I fell asleep, awaking two hours later with (thank god and all the saints) no pain - just the usual bloating and black mood.

I'm sorry girls, I'm sorry I ever doubted you.

2 comments:

R said...

Boots sells hot water bottles. I have a lovely Bagpuss one that Greg got me once. The mouse sings the Bagpuss song.

The ones you'll find on Antiques Roadshow are likely to be more like bedwarmers - solid and you can't snuggle up with them. Plus they don't sing.

letters from london said...

lol. Thanks - I'll definitely check out the Boots collection the next time I go. And if it can sing to me while I'm in agony - what more can a girl ask for? :-)