I am working on my next novel, “The Other Side Of Menopause” a comedy filled with my favorite characters from the Belly Dancing and Beyond series.
Here is a wee taster for you…
My legs were in the air, Steven was giving his all, and the only thing I could think of was…
All that fungal cream and still my toenails look like a hawk’s talons.
I had spent a fortune on that stuff. For what? Old piano key toenails as thick as tombstones?
Not that I am vain or anything, but I dread the thought of dying with toenails that make people’s skin crawl. Toenails that no amount of nail varnish can cover up — — and don’t get me started on skid marks.
I guess that’s what caring for old folk can do to you. It’s a memory burned in my head of a time when cleaning for Ole Rugby was what I did.
Sorting through Ole Rugby’s smalls was best done with gloves, in poor lighting, while holding my breath.
He had prunes with everything and liked to get the “most out of his underwear” with a sniff and throw test, which meant wearing his socks until they stood up on their own, then tossing in the vague direction of the laundry basket.
His sense of smell was as buggered as my toenails, you only have to open the fridge to testify to that and it was one of the few things mum and I agreed on.
And if that is not enough here is another story although it has nothing to do with Christmas.