Shit on my hands

MH

One day, while making a quick dash to the loo between various dull household tasks (scraping weetbix off the kitchen wall with a spatula, anyone?) you will look down to the crotch of your knickers and notice blood. So unfamiliar are you with this experience that you have an instant flashback to being a 12-year-old in the primary school toilets lacking both a sanitary pad and the knowledge of how to get one. Next, in an entirely befuddled thought process, you may wonder if this is more post-birth bleeding – even though it has now been more than a year since junior’s arrival. Finally, you’ll say ‘Oh my god, I’ve got my period!’ and start the household search for tampons. And search, and search, and search. Bathroom drawers, old handbags, filing cabinets and all those decorative-boxes-filled-with useless-crap yield nothing. With a wad of scratchy toilet paper stuffed into your undies, you pay a visit to the local purveyor of ‘feminine hygiene’ products. So long has it been that you have menstruated that you are dumbstruck by the expanded array of ridiculously coloured and patterned lady sticks. And did a period’s worth of protection always cost the equivalent of a tank of petrol? Hovering over the loo, it will take you a good 10 minutes to figure out how to remove the damned tampon’s plastic covering (aha, so they’ve changed to a twist-and-pull method), but finally your knickers, skirt and armchairs are safe from the menstrual flow. Half-an-hour later the cramps set it in and it’s back to the chemist to purchase some medicinal relief. With all this mess and pain, you may as well be knocked up again. They say pregnancy is undignifying, but what about having to soak your Cottontails in a bucket every month?