A nondescript Volvo estate rolls down the gravelled drive, the engine switched off. This is the perfect way to intrigue a whole close, cobbled-together with geriatric and naturally suspicious neighbours. The driver is short enough to appear invisible. His long-finger-nailed hands grip the steering wheel from the underside. If it weren't for a thicket of white hair, back-combed and quaffed to give him an extra inch of height, the car would appear empty. The front passenger, a deathly-pale woman with glossy raven hair, cut into a sleek bob, bends down to retrieve a lit cigarette, which she drops when her Gothic, teenage son throws a pocket dictionary at her from the back seat, because he is angry. He is eternally furious.
My take on menopause was that I was going to, maybe, get a couple of hot flashes, in my early fifties, a slight change in my body and the end of periods forever more (yeay). No more hormonal outbursts, no more cranky, I-want-to kill-someone moods and no more purchasing of sanitary products that may or may not give you cancer if you stuck them up your vagina. I would be free at last from the evil that was menstruation.