It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings! I'm not talking about no opera! I refer of course, to Aunty Flow. There ain't nothing one can do to stop her Oh, when the raging dragon swoops into town, one must humbly bow to greet it. She mows down everything in it's path. Rendering foe powerless and defeated Before she appears one lives a life that undulates twixt hope and fear. Trying to block all thoughts of woe betide despite knowing 'that' time draws near. Every cramp and ache is analysed. Every toilet break a struggle not to start to visualise that red river of monthly trouble. It's minefield of mixed emotions dealing with this wait. It's like existing in the twilight zone whilst the Gods decide your fate. This limbo land, this purgatory is like descent into Danté's hell. This two week wait should actually be the eighth circle of which he tells. Externally, I seem quite calm, but inwardly wracked with anxiety. The soundtrack to my daily life is Orff's ode to insanity. Its an old poem set to music, lamenting the despair that fortune brings, cursing the cruel deceit of fate. So dramatic when the whole choir sings. As this fortnight drags on and on, inching slowly towards its conclusion, I'm hours from knowing if it's worked. Full of hope, dread and confusion. My body now is tense and battered. Will it be worth the struggle and chagrin? Frankly, I'm a walking wreck, terrified of failure once again. Oh, the fat lady has just struck up her tune! I ain't got tickets to no opera! Right on cue, it's Aunty Flow. A cruel witch with not an ounce of mercy in her. No! The raging dragon has just swooped into town, crushing my dreams beneath it. Into dust, I crumble in her path, spent, worn out, exhausted.