The Menopausal Pant.

It's official: I'm going through menopause. Granted I'm not even at the prime of my sexual life, I've got a good couple of years of breeding in me and ... Bham! What happens? I've hit menopause. Fan-effing-tastic.

If I'd known it was in the post, I'd have dressed for the occasion. But if I'd known, what would I have worn? What is the appropriate attire for passing on to the next phase of womanhood? A twinset and pearls? Perhaps teamed with a tweed skirt?

Okay. It must also be noted that I'm wont to jump to conclusions. Am perspiring therefore must be going through menopause. (Have headache, must be tumour. Have runny nose, must be full-blown pneumonia. Have sore back, must be osteoporosis.) But I have noticed a serious increase in the sweatage factor. Take last night (and the previous 90 nights this summer) as a prime example: I woke up so drenched in sweat that I had to towel myself dry and change faithful pyjama bottoms into skimpy knickers.

And on our 'run' this morning, again - oh, how it poured. Not as a result of sheer exertion, I might add. But because of the sexual heat that serves as an erotic aura around Black Polyshorts Guy. I was so flushed that my running shorts threatened to slip right off.

(On the subject of running, I've had to blow Hottie-Hot Pants Runner Guy off. I like healthy. I like fit - oh, do I like fit. I like ripped - a nice treat too after my previous lovers. But, seriously, exercising so often? And, "Really, another glass of wine? On a week night?". Yes, Sunshine, another glass of wine. To be chased down with two more if I'm ever going to drink you interesting. Excellent way to get into a girl's knickers, pal. Plus he dropped vowels in his texts and is a total stranger to the full stop. Off-putting.)

I'm sweating so much that I'm either pregnant or the good old ovaries are calcifying. I doubt I'm pregnant. Given my Down With Love status. But what a conversation that'd be: "Hi, sorry to interrupt your exceptionally busy day, Very Important Man. It's just that I'm pregnant and it's yours. Again, sorry to disturb. Nice chatting." I can just imagine the poor man - taking on the pasty look of a middle-aged cadaver. Oh, how I'd chuckle.

I also managed to perspire quite substantially whilst on the beach on Sunday. I love the beach. I mean, where else would it be perfectly acceptable to walk around in less than your underwear? It's a perfect first date setting - at least you get to window shop before trying on the garment. But, honestly, could so many nubile men be in one place? The one number was so hot that my can of coke opened itself as I 'nonchalantly' walked past him, sucking in my stomach while simultaneously tensing every muscle in entire body to prevent wobble. We had to retreat into the over-weight crowd at uShaka because I think my thick-tongue-screen-saver appearance was even embarrassing The Daughter.

And so (I never thought I'd say this), Winter, where the hell are you? I just need a good night's sleep, for crying out loud! I'd like to not have to change my linen daily. I'd like to have make-up on past nine o'clock. I'd like to greet three o'clock without swollen feet. I'd like a cup of effing tea.

And I need to wear my new grey mohair dress. It's so pretty, hanging there. Something that pretty sure does deserve an outing.

So, if you could pop in Mondays thru Fridays, that'd be charming. But please bugger off on the weekends. I got some beach lovin' to do.