Anger Makes You Cunning

“I’m having an affair,” admits the man, to whom twenty years earlier I had pledged my troth wearing a wedding dress that his mother had picked out for me. After this revelation, he laboriously pats down his pillow, closes his eyes and allows himself a moment of deep relaxation before the week starts. And now? At my age, says my best friend, I have no other alternative than to stay with Paul as a housewife without a job or even a degree and live from one white wash to the next colour wash. At 46 am I not in my prime or am I already only fit for the knacker’s yard? Whatever. Not everything on my bucket list has been ticked off! I take it on, point by point.