As days come, the next seven are bloody big ones.
One week from today we'll have our pasty white arses back in front of the specialist. I mean we'll be sitting on them in front of her of course, we haven't decided to visit a proctologist looking for alternative routes or anything.
Back in December she promised we could talk about intervention this time. She even told us to think about whether we wanted medication, with an IUI or not .
I might bring a turkey baster to use as inspiration for her, or as a weapon to bludgeon her to within an inch of her life with, should she pull their favoured 'Who are you and what are you doing here' trick.
I'm determined that we are not leaving there without a plan. This is going to be the time it all starts happening, I know it, I'm oozing positivity.
(Is positivity normally yellowish green with a slight odour?)
In those seven days, we'll also have partied through Ov-fest XXV, which promises it's usual dosage of peace and free love, pillows and propage, plastic and peeing. The highlight of the event, all going well, will be the appearance of eggy pop.
All that ovulation induced free love won't actually be free though, as it will be taking place in a posh hotel in central London. By 'posh' I mean it won't be a brothel. Once bitten, and all that.
We are out of here tomorrow evening, and away until Sunday. We must visit Big Ben, get spat on by Amy Winehouse, cause an evacuation of parliament, and eat proper sausages. We have a lot of 'just relaxing' crammed into our schedule.
Wouldn't it be irritatingly ironic if we got knocked up this time, on a weekend away, and when the doctors finally agree to try some procedures?
I'd happily take that ironic irritation with a big shit-eating grin on my face though.
Here's to an interesting next seven.