'I must use my core muscles. Just two minutes more.' I tell myself repeatedly whilst upside down on our bedroom floor. For stability I've wedged myself between the radiator and the door. It's quite a challenge admittedly and actually quite a bore. The top of my head's now throbbing and my muscles they now ache I try to cycle with more gusto, but my arms begin to shake. You must think, 'What's she up to? What a palaver, for goodness sake!' But I'm desperate and this could really work. There's an awful lot at stake. I visualise the Olympics, the champions whom I've seen who've persevered and mastered the perfect gymnastics routine. Their mental strength is astounding. They forge forward toward their dream. I'm inspired, but tired and starkers. Our 'Olympic games' are a bit obscene! Back to the frantic cycling. I pump my legs whilst still on my head. My husband looks over with pity, tucked up cosily on his side of our bed. All he can see are my legs akimbo, thankfully not my face that's beetroot red. I know he thinks all this is futile, although that's not what he's actually said. So I call out to him whilst puffing "Baby, this time it might really work!" I've always tried to remain positive, but it's humiliating. I feel an utter burk. I wish we could make love more spontaneously, be free to sleep, cuddle or go berserk. But behind the intimacy of our relationship, the pressures of duty and functionality lurk. All too often my fertile, ovulation window dictates our passionate habits. The looming shadow of obligation means we have to get at it like rabbits. Bleary eyed and numb with exhaustion, stressed by work and at the end of our wits, we summon the energy to get our jig on, not to lose faith in these fruity antics. During the first few years, there were candles, a little music and some fairy lights. I used to bother to shave my hairy legs, now they're enough to cause a fright! I used to be the epitome of Aphrodite. A temptress, transforming myself at night. Now I leave my thermal socks on to keep my feet warm and legs out of sight! You would certainly think that I'm crackers if you could see my butt in the air. Each month I'm clutching at fewer straws, seven years and still not getting anywhere. Perhaps it is sadly pointless, this often forced tragicomedy affair. But one day we might hit the jackpot and it'll be gymnastics that do get us there!