Tuesday, 16 September 2008

Formication And Fleas

I can’t stop itching!
I believe that the correct medical term is formication (as opposed to fornication, which is something altogether different.) I awoke the other night, convinced that the cat’s fleas had infiltrated the bed and were making a feast of my tender and not so tender parts. I was sorely tempted to use the last sachet of the cat’s Frontline on myself. However, I was relieved to find out that it is a condition I share with my best friend, who is also slowly making her itchy fat way towards the menopause. Some time ago, my friend was convinced that her itching was caused by a food allergy and decided to consult a Chinese herbalist who promptly sold her some very expensive weird looking twigs and dried leaves out of which to make a special and particularly foul herbal brew. It would have done the witches in MacBeth proud. A year or so down the line and it would appear that the real cause of the itching was the onset of the peri-menopause. One little tip I have learned though, if you pardon the pun, is that forks make very good back scratchers.

Despite all the raging symptoms of PMT, the stubborn period has still not yet arrived and I fear that I may have another empty space for September on the period chart. I wouldn’t necessarily mind, but it’s the undignified shilly-shallying, as Blackadder would say, that is so irritating. Why don’t periods just stop? One day you have them and the next they’re gone, but I suppose it’s a bit like a grandfather clock that is winding down – it’s a gradual drying up of the hormones. Sounds disgusting! There is no sudden transformation from goddess to crone, just a slow and embarrassing seepage (and I wasn’t referring to the bladder, although it is a moot point.) Not that I was ever in the goddess category mind you, but I’m sure as hell heading rapidly for crone territory. I’m still undecided as to whether to chance a crack at Botox again but what I really need, if I’m perfectly honest, is a full face life or, at the very least, a brow lift, so if anyone has a spare £3,500 to donate, I’d be eternally grateful, especially if you also happen to be a plastic surgeon.

Needless to say, the exercise bike still sits there mocking me because it knows I am not man (or woman) enough to take up the challenge. I’m sure it is in cahoots with the weighing scales, which utterly refuse to budge from the 10 stone mark and I’m rapidly getting fed up with the green tea, cayenne pepper and Helix Slim trick which, to date, appears to have yielded sod all. It’s at times like this, when HRT seems like a very tempting prospect, but I shall continue to refrain for as long as humanly possible.

Get thee behind me, Satan!

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