Hot stuff...
Interesting times are on the horizon... I'd like to say that I am excited about this, but history tells me to rein my neck in, take a deep breath and prepare myself for the worst.
I'm not referring to the EU referendum, although it is unusual to have to prepare yourself for the worst case scenario which ever side wins. Nor am I talking about England probably getting knocked out of the next round of Euro2016. (Assuming they don't get put on the football equivalent of the 'naughty step', ie the ferry home, if the fans cause any more trouble this week).
No, it's all far more serious than that. It would appear that I have taken the first steps down the path called Menopause Street. At the ripe old age of fifty two and three quarters, my usefulness on this planet as a woman is coming to an end. I am redundant (if only that were true).
I thought that the raging heat emanating from my body was down to the kids leaving the heating on overnight. It would appear not. The husband (ever sensitive as you know) is thrilled, as it means that our heating bill will be reduced as I won't be turning it up a couple of degrees each night, preferring instead to fling open every window and door, throwing myself out onto the patio like a person who hasn't seen daylight for ten years.
And then there's the palpitations. The husband was blaming my rapid heartbeat on his animal magnetism, claiming that it was understandable that I would get a little flustered when he's in his towelling dressing gown, but as it also happens when I am making my lunch or doing the ironing, I think it's safe to say that it has nothing to do with his calves or the sheepskin slippers.
The best is yet to come though. I shall probably turn into some knife-wielding harridan, all rational behaviour gone, screaming and shouting at anyone who gets within five feet of my sweating body. There are those who might say that this is normal behaviour for me (minus the sweating). It's OK saying that now, but God help everybody when this really takes hold, as I'll probably resemble the Tasmanian Devil crossed with Lee Evans. Looking it up on the internet (never a good idea, I know) this could go on for TWELVE YEARS... I could upset a lot of people in that time. Murder might also be on the cards, or just serious maiming on a good day.
So an appointment has been made with the doctor to discuss medication....I shall be popping pills like a 1970's hippie, and will go through the next twelve years in a happy fog of confusion, denial and Joni Mitchell.
You see, it's not so bad after all - maybe I should have started taking these tablets a lot sooner...
I'm not referring to the EU referendum, although it is unusual to have to prepare yourself for the worst case scenario which ever side wins. Nor am I talking about England probably getting knocked out of the next round of Euro2016. (Assuming they don't get put on the football equivalent of the 'naughty step', ie the ferry home, if the fans cause any more trouble this week).
No, it's all far more serious than that. It would appear that I have taken the first steps down the path called Menopause Street. At the ripe old age of fifty two and three quarters, my usefulness on this planet as a woman is coming to an end. I am redundant (if only that were true).
I thought that the raging heat emanating from my body was down to the kids leaving the heating on overnight. It would appear not. The husband (ever sensitive as you know) is thrilled, as it means that our heating bill will be reduced as I won't be turning it up a couple of degrees each night, preferring instead to fling open every window and door, throwing myself out onto the patio like a person who hasn't seen daylight for ten years.
And then there's the palpitations. The husband was blaming my rapid heartbeat on his animal magnetism, claiming that it was understandable that I would get a little flustered when he's in his towelling dressing gown, but as it also happens when I am making my lunch or doing the ironing, I think it's safe to say that it has nothing to do with his calves or the sheepskin slippers.
The best is yet to come though. I shall probably turn into some knife-wielding harridan, all rational behaviour gone, screaming and shouting at anyone who gets within five feet of my sweating body. There are those who might say that this is normal behaviour for me (minus the sweating). It's OK saying that now, but God help everybody when this really takes hold, as I'll probably resemble the Tasmanian Devil crossed with Lee Evans. Looking it up on the internet (never a good idea, I know) this could go on for TWELVE YEARS... I could upset a lot of people in that time. Murder might also be on the cards, or just serious maiming on a good day.
So an appointment has been made with the doctor to discuss medication....I shall be popping pills like a 1970's hippie, and will go through the next twelve years in a happy fog of confusion, denial and Joni Mitchell.
You see, it's not so bad after all - maybe I should have started taking these tablets a lot sooner...
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