Carby Cravings

It’s the second day back at work and I’m tired and hungry (and we’ve returned to not eating dinner until past 7.30pm because of work & kids club commitments). I want a great big bowl of pasta and garlic bread. Or a pizza. Yes. A pizza with CHEESE  and garlic bread. With extra doughballs. And breaded chicken. And some mac & cheese just for good measure.


I am so sick of the gluten free “ooh it nearly tastes the same” shit. It doesn’t – especially bread. Gluten free bread tastes like it was made out of the mashed bones of jelly babies. Even hearing someone slicing through lovely fresh tiger bread makes me want to skin them and play taxidermist with breadcrumbs. I want white baguette that doesn’t taste like play dough and enough garlic to kill Nosferatu.

Fuck you gluten free FODMAP diet from hell.

Also, I might have a bit of PMT.

It’s Easy Isn’t It?

It’s very easy to get frustrated when I can’t just get up and do something myself. This gets magnified a gazillion times when you add hormones into the mix.

Just for reference the week before “that week” involves extra wobbly joints, extra joint pain, not so random CRPS flares, breasts that swell and feel like they’ve been used as speed balls, retention of enough water to solve a sub-saharan drought, and just a teensy bit of irrational anger.


It’s very easy to forget that you picked me up from work, cooked dinner, shuffled the kids to bed, and because of all that washing my stinky wrist braces was not high on your agenda.

It’s very easy to forget that we’re separate beings, so your day hasn’t been spent listening to my squeaky wheel so you did forget to oil the bearings because you haven’t heard them squeak since this morning. It’s also easy to forget that a week isn’t actually that long since I mentioned it – you’ve had other plates to spin like making sure my chair battery is charged, scanning every medical letter that arrives, planning our combined diaries, getting me to doctors appointments,  monitoring my medication, bringing me water & reminding me to eat…. and generally functioning for two when I go vague.

It’s very easy to forget that your job is important too, probably moreso and that you’ve been working on my time schedule for the last half term (the last 6 years tbh) which impacts on your work. This is a very valid reason why the Christmas cards that I bent my fingers out of shape writing at the weekend are still sat on the footstool.

It’s very easy to forget that although we were sensible and went to Amazon for all the Christmas shopping, someone needs to unpack these boxes that are invading our bedroom, wrap them & hand them out, and invariably that’ll be you.

It’s not easy to forget that I need you. I don’t want to need you, I want to want you. Needing you puts me in an uncomfortably vulnerable position, but if I have to need someone,  I’m glad it’s you.

I’m sorry I’ve been an irrational psycho this week xx


Just hand over the coffee and everyone will get put of here alive

Batten down the hatches, she’s about to blow!

It doesn’t matter how many lame jokes people make about it, or how many people try to disprove its existence, PMT (or PMS for my American people) is real and is getting louder.

I was told today by one of the kids I teach that I don’t ever get grumpy and they couldn’t imagine me being mean. Hahahaha! He was talking about the same person who could be classified as an offensive weapon.


It’s not like I’m massively tolerant of people who are intentionally stupid at the best of times (those who try are fine, those who just can’t are fine also, but those who don’t or won’t make my hackles stand on end). I embrace my PMT, I know that my fuse is short and I run with it. I embrace the all out rage and use it as fuel to get shit done (for instance, today I wrote a whole extra module for the school system and didn’t attempt homicide when I was bluntly told it wasn’t wanted after all. I see this as progress). Other times I ride it like a wave and I can see myself reacting to people (read LSH) like medusa, or Nero on a particularly bad day and consider this perfectly acceptable, nay justified on account of all the people surrounding me being total morons who deserve to be rubbed with cuttlefish.

I am aware that this is due to a sensitivity to the testosterone that my body produces (I’m allergic to myself?!) which not only gives me hairy arms, but makes me want to punch stuff and makes me swear like a fishwife. So how do men deal with this? Are they THIS angry all the time? Do they watch themselves from inside and think “You’re being an irrational arse for no real reason, but I’m ok with that. Off you go. Try not to have an embolism, there’s a good chap.”

My goal for this week is to not use the c word more than once per day, and preferably not at other drivers on the way to or from work. This also goes for gesticulation which suggests that the other driver is more interested in sexual activity with theirselves than improving their driving abilities. I will also maintain a swan-like appearance with my students (weirdly, all hormones disappear in the classroom. It’s like my hormones are no match for the teenagers battle royale of puberty hormones).
Finally, I will also refrain from voicing the actual opinions in my head – these shall be filtered for both vulgarity and content. All suggestions of where people should go to, or place items of interest will be vetoed.

Today I am more toad than frog. Don’t lick the toads, they make you go mad….