No rest for the nekkid.
It's already CD07, and in my head some buxom blonde is parading around my ring holding a big number 27 over her head.
Trying to conceive at this stage has turned into a cross between 'cluedo' and dining à la Carte.
Garçon! We shall have some Clomid - but hold the IUI, or it was Doctor Van Nederlander in the stirrups with the spunk-filled syringe?
This time, we've chosen the most traditional of dishes, with only organic produce, and I think we will be committing carnal crimes in the childhood bed. In other words, it's back to the old fashioned way, and we'll be back in Ireland for the pleasure.
We will be missionaries in the most literal sense of the term, spreading seed instead of the word of God, although I'm sure I'll be mentioning his name somewhere in the process.
I'll let you in on a little secret, don't tell anyone... we haven't got a hope in hell of conceiving this month. I know it, ET knows it, the guy painting the white lines on the car park spaces outside my office window knows it.
For some reason I don't really care, it's very freeing being useless, this is real 'expectation management'.
So, come who may, we'll give it our best squirt. Again.