Sometimes having a brain is not advantageous.
The ability to perform simple arithmetic can sometimes thrust you into a depression, the depths of which would make the aftermath of being sodomised by a giraffe on your mother's kitchen table, on the hour, every hour for a fortnight seem like a lottery win.
No, I'm not having a seizure of some sort, let me explain the juicy fact I have discovered for you.
Today is CD05 or so of cycle twenty-mother-have-mercy-on-our-souls-three.
I've calculated ahead, and the next two cycles should end somewhere around the 26th January and the 24th February, give or take a day or two.
That means that the specialist appointment will fall somewhere in the middle of the 3rd cycle from now on March 11.
This, in turn, means that even should they get a rocket up their arses and do something immediately, it won't be until the 4th cycle from now.
That's the end of March, start of April, or more interestingly (to the desperate among us, at least) that's week 13 and 14 of the year.
What does that mean?
I would wait and let you have a guess, but the discovery of this fact has sparked off the formation of an ulcer which has dislodged itself and found it's way into my blood stream, making it only a matter of time before it works it's way up to my cranial cavity and settles, leaning it's big doc marten boots on my frontal lobe, resulting in my head exploding.
A closed casket perhaps, but an end to misery nonetheless. Every cloud and all that.
I digress, what that sequence of cycles and dates means is that, quite literally barring a miracle, we won't be welcoming any pesky wee baby in 2009.
2009 is hereby cancelled.