Day twenty seven in the big brother house and the house mates are climbing the feckin' walls.
Hourly emails and calls between our respective workplaces, and constant badgering, have left ET wishing I were a fingerless mute.
Good news and bad news is rampant, and the very fact you haven't seen me running screaming through your streets should tell you what the good news isn't.
No red menace, no Aunt Flo, no painters, no monthly visitor, no yokes.
This of course, is good news.
Not so good was, that following another great high temperature yesterday, we had a hefty dip in basal body temperature this morning.
Seemingly, instead of hell freezing over, Lucifer directed the cold front right up into the wife's innards.
The reproductive equivalent of knowing you don't have enough in the tank to get you to the next petrol station.
Such a big dip is bad news, and barring some reproductive anomaly, the end of this cycle is imminent.
Then again, an as eternal optimist, (read: idiot), no news is good news, right?