Let's stick together...

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I've had many embarrassing things happen to me over the years.  Some involving careless comments, others concerning fire escapes and pints of milk (this can wait for another day when I have nothing to write about) or waiting outside a doctor's surgery while his door was open (most educational - who'd have known...)

The evening with daughters one and two at the dead posh health spa will go down in my red-faced historical memoirs, but first, I need to go back a couple of weeks.

I'm sitting in the doctor's surgery having a good old moan.

'I'm fed up with eating, crying and sweating', I said to the very sympathetic (middle-aged lady) doctor.  

You see, after two years or so of desperately trying to keep the menopause at bay, I'd given in.  Having spent over 50% of my disposable income at the local health shop (you know the kind, the ones which have an all pervading whiff of stale marigold and menthol) I had finally realised that the effects of the Red Clover (my treatment of choice) were no longer cutting the mustard.  The doctor recommended HRT and after a long discussion (far more than my allotted seven minutes, I'm sure) I wandered out of the surgery clutching a small packet of patches.

I've been on them for about ten days so far, and there hasn't been any noticeable difference but I have high hopes.

Anyway, back to the embarrassing incident...

I have been putting the patches on my leg, but as I was going to be wearing my swimming costume at the health spa, had decided that slapping one on my left buttock might be preferable as it wouldn't be on full display.  What I hadn't allowed for was that my swimsuit was now not wide enough to cover my post Christmas derriere, and the patch was peeking out from beneath the stretched-to-the-limit material.  

Yanking the material over my buttock, revealing slightly more of the other one as a result, I made my excuses and headed to the loo to remove the patch.  Here's where the trouble started...

The girls had plied me with a couple of glasses of Prosecco, and in my rush to peel off the patch, it somehow got stuck somewhere about my person.  Brushing down my dressing gown, I couldn't find it, nor was it on the floor or stuck to my costume.  After a good ten minutes of searching, I gave up and trotted back out to the pool where the girls were waiting for me.  As I was chatting with them and quaffing yet more fizz, I suddenly noticed the patch, lying on the floor in full sticky splendour.  Several people passed by it narrowly missing it in their stride, but it was the elderly gentleman who managed to pick it up and he carried on, completely oblivious of his unwanted sticky hitch hiker.

I just hope that he was thrilled with the pair of 36DD's he woke up with the following morning...


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