One night in November last year, my landlady, Debby, and I bumped into our neighbour Kate Muir – the women’s health and menopause expert. As we strolled home, Kate was saying that lots of women desperately try to get along without HRT when they could really improve their lives by giving it a go, and Debby asked a crucial question: “Might a blob of oestrogen help with Nina constantly peeing herself?” and Kate said, “Yes, it’s all part of it.”
I had arrived in London, aged 60, the previous March, after 20 years in Cornwall, to have a sabbatical – from life there (and my marriage) – in the house of the writer Deborah Moggach, who wanted a friendly lodger to share the odd Charlie Bigham pie and peas in front of Succession or Happy Valley. Though Debby was a positive role model for the newly single older woman (herself freshly out of a short marriage), I can’t deny I was all at sea. The soap I’d bought myself as a moving in gift smelled strongly of pork, and that upset me more than it should. The realisation that I looked silly in a trenchcoat was a blow, and chanting, “Oh God, oh God, oh God” under my breath the whole time didn’t seem like a good sign.
