As a 44 year-old woman I am constantly made aware by armies of presumably well-intentioned but frankly wearing women in later life with programmes to make and books to sell and brands that might otherwise be struggling for relevance, that my next challenge as a working woman will be an unedifying descent into a frantically sweating mood-swinging, forgetful hot mess. How long can it be I wonder, before I succumb to the death spiral, the worst thing of all that happens to women among many bad things – you guessed it, the Menopause.
The menopause has, among society’s demi-monde, now been torpedoed to totemic status of tragedy, yet another ghastly female flaw we must endure, a period of our lives which will be frightening, humiliating, and something our employers must be very, very afraid of.
