There is a certain time of the month, you know the one I mean, where my skin erupts in a hormonal rage and goes on a rampage across my face, leaving a trail of angry red spots in its wake. Coincidentally, this is around the same time of the month that the Greek God(zilla) tends to give me a wider berth for fear of me bursting into tears, or unleashing a chain of 4-letter expletives on him if he so much as dares to ask me if I fancy a cup of tea. Or so he says. I do not remember it being the offer of the tea that is so offensive, rather the comment that precedes it. For there is nothing more irritating, at that time of the month, than being asked “is it that time of the month?”. Even when it is. Especially when it is. It being that ‘time of the month’ is not always the go-to explanation whenever I question why there are wet towels on the bedroom floor, or worn socks dangling on the arm of the sofa.