“The older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune”.

I received this message from a friend on Twitter recently, when I announced that I had competed in the Danish Masters Over 50’s Squash Championships, winning a Gold Medal.  It’s a lovely message, sort of a gentle insult wrapped up in a delightful compliment.

Such words remind me of why I started this blog in the first place. I needed a platform to showcase my essays about my life, in preparation for my upcoming memoir. And, at the tender age of 50, I finally realized that being authentic was far better than pretending to be someone I wasn’t. No More Pretending was a tag-line I often used. It’s not that I feigned being someone else; I just always found a way to assimilate into whatever environment I was in. I was a pleaser. Constantly.

Humour was my super-hero cape, which I wore more often than not. I continue to wear it these days. Without it, I feel naked. Not a pretty sight mind you, now that the Covid kilos have settled in nicely and refuse to leave. Kind of like a bad tenant you just can’t get rid of. My kilos have become squatters I’m afraid. And it doesn’t matter how many squats I do to counteract them; they are here to stay.

But it’s all connected to the beautiful phase of life that is ‘Peri-Menopause’. For those of you who don’t know, this is the phase just before Menopause, which can actually last upwards of ten years. Until recently, it hasn’t been talked about much and 90% of the population were under the assumption that all these mood swings, hot flushes, and outbursts were in fact, attributed to the Menopause. Not true.

I can’t wait for my menopause.  It’s when all this craziness stops. I’ve been having 3 or 4 hot flushes an hour lately. Yes, you read that correctly. If you tell me your pet budgie has a sore throat and can’t sing anymore, I’m likely to burst into tears. If you even SHOW me a pint of Heineken, the chances are I’ll gain a kilo just from the smell of it. This, my friends, is the PERI.

One does not enter actual menopause, until one has successfully completed a full 12 months free of Aunt Flo. (Aunt Flo? Well, it was either that, or ‘having the painters in’, ‘the blob’ or ‘shark week’. Google really is quite adept in its searches these days. I’m sticking with Aunt Flo).

Hence, the ‘pause’ part of the ‘Meno’.  A year ago, I went 11 full months without a sign of it. YES! I thought. I’m on the home stretch! But no, my little clock decided that this game was too much fun to end. One of my attractive ovaries with her big girl blouse, opened a window and allowed a nasty little ovum to pop her head out with a beaming smile. “We’re BAAAACK!” she said, running excitedly down Fallopian Way, landing softly onto Uterus Gap, and splurging on a whole week of leakiness in my underpants. THANK YOU VERY MUCH. “It’s still the peri for you Big O!” Aunt Flo guffawed.

And so, I had to start ALL OVER AGAIN.

It was around this time that I was catching a flight from Prague to Stanstead on my way to a wedding in the Cotswolds, when I was abruptly stopped at security. I always have to go around the metal detector due to my loop recorder which is inserted in my chest. It keeps an eye on my ticker, in case of any unusual beats. (If only there was such a thing for my brain, although that could prove very dangerous!) They did their usual pat down, then swabbed my hands and waist with one of those very important looking wands. A tiny piece of white material was attached to the end of important-looking-wand, and upon placing it into the machine, it beeped. Rather loudly I might add. In fact, the entire screen lit up and flashed a bright red. I was pulled aside and told I’d tested positive for ‘explosive’ materials. I knew it, I thought to myself. It’s the glisten on my skin from the hot flush I’ve just had. I continued thinking aloud, promptly telling them that the only thing explosive about me was my personality. There’s that super-hero cloak again…

After another very thorough check of my shoes and belt and ears (yes, my ears – what could possibly be in there?), I was let go. I seized this opportunity as a good story and decided that the peri-menopause CAN in fact be detected at an airport. I must write about that.

So, in case you’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to, I’m busy trying to assimilate myself BACK into Peri-menopause, working hard to evict the squatters out of my tummy, hips and boobs. They simply don’t belong there.

I’ve also been writing non-stop and entering short story competitions. I submitted a comedy script to the Funny Women Awards, and co-wrote another script with my pal Val, which we also entered into the same category. Coincidentally, our script is about the dreaded Peri.

When I’m not entering short-story competitions, I’m entering old lady squash tournaments. And when I’m not entering those, I’m entering a semi-mad phase of my life. It isn’t all that bad. I’m alive and well and feel blessed to be able to pick up a pen and write. I’m grateful to be able to chase after a little black rubber ball around a squash court.

It’s all about perspective. I must say, I do like being an old fiddle. I shall carry on plucking away to the tune of the Merry Peri.