Feline literature from Guantanamo

It's been roughly eleven years and four months since the IUI.

My calendar says it's been a week, but it's defective, it must be.

My brain has seized up, and ground to a halt. The neighbour's cat is capable of more productive output than I am at the moment. In fact, the cat is writing this on my behalf.

Under optimistically normal circumstances, which let's face it -if I'm imagining a cat using a spellchecker, these are not, right now somewhere deep inside a short woman in an office building in South Holland there's a whole lot of implanting going on.

As she is sitting there, pretending to work while reading about Susan Boyle's breakdown, there could be a fertilised egg burrowing it's way into some cosy looking corner of a uterine wall. Like those kittens you find in the cupboard under the stairs, rats under the kitchen sink, or asylum seekers in the attic.

The quandary is, who's to tell? how do we know? without waiting for another thirteen years before we get to actually find out. Do early stage pregnant women act as a beacon for small woodland creatures? Does an implanted egg make a noise if you poke it from the outside? What does hCG smell like?

What our neighbour's talented cat is nervous about typing is that today we have had a significant dip in temperature. From steady rises up into the 36.80s, right down to 36.23 C.

Exactly a week after the IUI.

Go on, say it. I dare you.

We'll be over here, in the two week wait cell, that part of Guantanamo bay they were afraid to tell you about.