I've been spending time in my workshop.
When I say workshop I mean kitchen, as it's the least used room in the house.
I'm sawing, hammering, and soldering.
I'm sketching designs and building prototypes in my manly man vest, with biceps, triceps and cyclops rippling, just a socially acceptable and generally considered sexy amount of sweat forming on my furrowed, yet undoubtedly wise, brow.
All by candlelight.
To create through a series of levers, loops, and pulleys, combined with a hammock, and a strategically placed hole, a bedroom based machine that preserves my energy while manoeuvring me appropriately, allowing me to carry out my husbandly duty.
A contrived conception contraption of sorts.
Why do I toil so into the bowels of the night?
It is time.
Go-goo has been washed ashore, the sign that my silky milky divers must be sent into the depths, in search of the sunken treasure released from a storm weathered and shipwrecked ovary.
It is time once again to enter the breech, for the twenty third time, armed with nothing more than a plentiful supply of blood to my groin.
It's ironic, cyclic, and more than a little stomach churning that a successful battle will stem the supply of blood to ET's groin.
The body is weary, but the will is, er, well, slightly less so.
Those of you with a God, pray for me. Everyone else, fetch ice.