A lot of people think purple is my favourite colour. It’s actually red. Except when it’s not. Then all hell breaks loose, literally. I suppose our bodies were designed to house children, which explains why they get so angry every time it doesn’t happen.

I wanted to write something really clever today. Something deep and philosophical, or at the very least, a well-researched piece on the universal function of PMS and why the world will fall apart without it. Maybe Denmark can help me out.

Instead, I have over-indulged in ice cream and Coldstone cocktails. I’ve been there so often in the past week that they know me by name and are now offering me free stuff. Like fridge magnets, pens, and a free Fudge-Banana-Love-It-Chocolate-Waffle.

Meanwhile, my workmates are providing commentaries on my expensive habits and trying to calculate how much I earn spend on dairy products. One even asked if I have standing order for Woodvale Grove, or whether I just left them my ATM card.

Today was actually pretty cold. It rained twice. But I still spent my lunch hour at the river nibbling on Coldstone. Yes, we have a river. Google says it’s Mathare, but we’re pretty far from there … and it’s more of a stream. It’s pretty clean though, and it has crabs and lobsters. They probably escaped from the neighbour’s cooking pot.

I’m almost done with therapy, and have learned a lot of useful skills when it comes to handling depression. They’re pretty helpful with PMS as well. So much so that they offer free entertainment for my office deskie. You see, my favourite method involves mind-mapping in multi-coloured ink. Turns out my deskie savours the uncensored…

Yesterday, I did a mind map on why I shouldn’t have another ice cream cocktail. Then I went and bought an ice cream cocktail, and balanced it out by spending two hours on my exercise bike. It’s a pretty basic bike, so even with two hours clocked, I barely broke a sweat. It made me feel a lot less guilty though, so that’s pretty cool.

This morning I came into the office with mud on my shoes. It has never occurred to me to wipe them off, but after some less than subtle comments by my boss and HR, I went to the reception and scrubbed the mud off the carpet. Then I got ice cream. And yes, I’m blaming it all on my uterus. If only nature had a less messy way to say this …