When I turned 44, I learnt that it was the age women start their mid-life crisis.  Having discovered this interesting fact, I needed to know what exactly I should do with this news. 

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It made for unedifying reading: In short, welcome to greater levels of anxiety, depression and south-bound boobage. Worse, I was now to be struck by a sudden and spontaneous urge to take up knitting or cross-words or other such passivity from a rocking chair I don't own.  Sleeplessness and boredom loomed large.  My conversations were likely to be rheumatoid in nature.  My marbles were to self-propel themselves elsewhere.  

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And I was inclined to make rash decisions. 

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So I bought Fierce Fanny. On a whim.  I couldn't afford the Ferrari.  

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