Saturday, 4 February 2012


For a moment I let him think I was a pensioner, and from the corner of my eye saw him do a double take, as if realising he'd gone home with QuiteSomething and woken up with Stigmum. I got the giggles.
"How old did you think I was?" I laughed.
"My age," he said.
"And how old is that?"


No Jo, the bunting on the bedroom wall is not coming down, not yet.

Fab. I am Fab.

I am.

I am at home in my body
(Louise L Hay You Can Heal Your Life)

(We really don't like that word 'cougars', me and stigs don't, but an 'older women' title didn't sit too well with us either. I mean, who cares?)

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