My husband has 2 days before his life's in danger.

There is an ominous pain in my womb. A griping, tightening, snarling and insistent pain.

I'm rather bad at keeping to a calendar, but I suspect this means my husband has around 2 days to find cover before my PMT hits. And boy, since I gave birth to Alexander 7 months ago, does my PMT hit.

I've tried to remind myself in more rational moments that my deep and unshakable hatred for my husband, one week a month, is purely hormonal.

I have no doubt that his myriad of irritating habits and irresponsibility have much to do with it (you see, I'm already in the grip of it - I'm starting to sound like that harpy Liz Jones - a clear indicator of insanity) but as I can usually deal with his leaving his pants on the bathroom floor, not paying any bills and flicking fag butts on my doorstep (Okay, okay - forget the last one. I never forgive the last one) I'm beginning to realise that the Wicked Week in Which I Wish to Wrangle his Wotsits may in fact not be truly justified.

Despite this, I know this is my last chance to discuss my monthly phenomena. In a few hours, I'll start to shed my humane skin and become the were-woman of horror films. Trust me, I'm not a sparkly vampire.

This is it, ladies and gentlemen. The transformation into rabid, snapping she-devil starts here.

We'll reconvene in a week, when I've begun the painful, guilt ridden reformation into normal, understanding homemaker, mother and wife. But for now, watch it.

I bite.