Sunday, 8 November 2015

Thar She Blows...*chapter three*

Chapter three:

'Thar She Blows'

Early one Monday morning, in my 13th year, I woke up with the climatic cannon finale from Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture being acted out in my uterus!

Mind you, no complaints, my first thought was "At last!!!"

Marc Bolan: FINALLY the period pixie had decided to poke my womanly bits into action, I was so happy I threw myself at the poster on the wall and gave Marc Bolan a quick snog...a little too hard as it happens 'cos I nearly knocked my front teeth out and it was a good five minutes before I could feel my lips again!

But who cared?

No childish whimpers from me!...oh no, after all...I was no longer a child...


Once my euphoria had subsided the reality of my situation began to sink in. I needed to sort out the necessaries before setting off for school. Mum had left for work hours earlier, not that that was a problem, my being alone simply added to the liberating sense of my womanly independence.

Myself and mum had moved to a bathroom equipped house a year or so earlier and it was to that bathroom I trotted until I reached the cupboard which housed the small shrine I'd built in homage of the Dr White sanitary towel.

With an air of Tolkien's Gollum about me, I seized the pads I had yearned for for so long and clutched  'my precious' to the cotton vest I worried I'd be wearing forever ( yep, I still had two backs! ) before eventually pausing to assemble and apply the sanitary gadgetry.

That done, I waddled through to my bedroom and stood before the full length mirror so as to admire the alien paraphernalia of my maturity.

There wasn't a position I could adopt that would make this outfit look good but that was irrelevant, no one would see it but me...I just wanted to drink in this moment of my menstrual maturation and savour it.

Just as well the 'selfie' wasn't around at that time 'cos I was so chuffed with my womanliness, I can't be certain I wouldn't have posted a picture of that moment to share my bliss!


That moment of bliss didn't last very long.

With each step it took me to reach school, about a mile away from where I lived, I was becoming increasingly disenchanted with the whole notion of periods and the irritating equipment which accompanied them.

The momentum of movement was causing the pad to writhe within my knickers, despite the belt, and I didn't trust the belt as a means of security anyway, since feeling it twang earlier!

From then on, the whole school day was just one big blood letting nightmare!

Never having had a period before, I had no notion of how much blood to expect so I continually had to ask to be excused from class to go to the toilet. Some teachers were ok with this, others, such as Mr Phillips, our toupee-toting maths teacher, were not!

Mr Phillips loathed me and I loathed Mr Phillips with an intensity only surpassed by the measure of which I loathed his subject, maths. He held little control over the inmates of his classroom and thus always seemed to be searching for new ways to compensate for his lack of power over the pupil.

However, on our part, it was hard to concentrate on the properties of calculus during a lesson where the tutor's hairpiece was more animated than the tutor AND was so obviously a hairpiece, it being several shades darker than the grey, greasy strands which dangled beneath the weave and clung to the nape of his neck like a cluster of depressed worms.

In fact, Mr Phillips follicle deficiency would have been less obvious and less ridiculous looking, had he just written "TOUPEE" on a sheet of A4 card, slapped it on his head and used a chicken to keep it in place!!

Yes, I know it's cruel to mock but...c'mon...we were kids, for God's sake, and his predicament was hilarious, especially when the door would open on a windy day and the draught would make the thing flail about like the hand of a drowning man!

Anyway, when I asked him if I could be excused he took great delight in denying me the privilege and I swear his toupee smirked at me! At that moment I was so angry with him that I put all thought of personal embarrassment to one side and, whilst looking him dead straight in the eyes I quietly said...

"Shall I just change this here then?"

Instantly, I was swiftly ushered from the room with a resounding "GO!" and a chorus of barely subdued chuckles from the rest of the class, at Mr Phillips discomfort, tinkling behind me.

That was the last laugh I had that day. The rest of the day was spent slowly graduating towards a mood as dark as a politicians soul.

Yes, I didn't choose the PMT life...the PMT life had apparently, chosen ME!!...

Womb Wars had begun!

To be continued:

Next Time: Chapter Four: 'Tampax and Tantrums'

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard


  1. Dr hite's...I had forgotten about them...and one had to wear a 'sanitary belt' with thingies to attach the pads onto. Oh it was vile! Hooray for the menopause... a pause from so much more than just men...

  2. Ohhh you really really make me laugh!!! Brilliant always!! Xxx

    1. Thanks Em, always a good feeling to know someone reads your stuff....and an even better feeling to find they like it! :) xx

  3. Hilarious! These are fabulous blogs, Lynn, Relatable and very funny.

    1. That's twice in one day you've made my day!! haha! Thank you yet again, my pal xx

  4. I remember the chaffing only too well Dr. White if i had got my hands on him... for he must have been a man, a woman would never have designed such a humiliating piece of equiptment. You blog is becoming an addiction wonderfully written and hilariously funny. Thank you. Ellen 😇

    1. I completely agree...HAD to be a man! Wherever he is, whether it's of this earth or not...I hope he's having to sit on a haemorrhoid cushion!! :) Glad you're enjoying it, Ellen....and many thanks for lovely comments! :) xx

  5. Ah yes Lynn, reading this chortle-filled chapter, I readily recall the woeful world of Dr White; those plumptious pads of putridness, and bum-crackingly bothersome belts, nestled 'neath me knickers, and topped off with tan-coloured tights, plus pitiful panty-girdle. Mournful memories of miserable months of menstrual mayhem! Thanks for triggering the trauma with your terrific tale-telling.

    1. And many thanks for reading of the sickly surge that serves to soak and spray us with its splatterings of sanguine slush! :D