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thanks. My mother still lives in the same house, and so do the critters.
    So a non-leafy area was a definite priority when I bought my unit (which was actually advertised as a town house but as it’s not in town and it’s not a house, I call it a unit) virtually off the drawing board just over a decade ago when I became single again. It’s a two-storey clinker brick dwelling that was terribly luxurious when it was built, and is holding up pretty well – if I say so myself. It has air-conditioning, ducted vacuum and heating, spiral staircase, spa, fireplace, enclosed garden complete with mosaic fountain and cobblestoned barbecue, and every other little mod con you can think of – as well as a few you probably can’t. I own it outright and have done so since the moment I moved in. And I’m fully aware that I was very, very fortunate as far as cheated-on wives go. The thingis that my ex was a well-established dentist. And he was a well-established dentist so riddled with remorse that at the time he would have done almost anything to alleviate his guilt – anything, that is, except keep his fly zipped during working hours.
    The unit is decorated very nicely too. That’s the thing about being mortgage-less – you can spend your money on the fun things, like nice furniture and regular re-decorating splurges. My place is currently done in muted pastels throughout. The laundry, kitchen and adjoining family-cum-meals area are a sunny pale lemon, with white cupboards and trim, and the rest of the ground floor, consisting of a lounge-room, powder-room and an enormous entry foyer (lorded over by the spiral staircase), are painted a light dusky-rose colour that contrasts well with my predominantly white furniture and (formerly) pristine, pale moss-coloured carpet. Upstairs is a landing that leads to the three bedrooms – my room (cream), Bronte’s old room (sky-blue) and one (sage-green) that I’ve turned into a book-lined study, complete with a seldom-used computer.
    The unit is always immaculate – with everything in its place and a place for everything. Because I’m positively allergic to clutter – if my place gets messy or disorganised, it’s like my life is messy and disorganised.
    I switch off the kettle and pour hot water over the coffee in the plunger. The heady aroma quickly permeates the air and I take a deep breath, hoisting my towel back up and readjusting it as I let my breath out. Then I take a cup back upstairs to my bedroom, where I plump myself on my bed and grin happily at the mirror. It grins happily back.
    I lean over to put my coffee down on the bedside chest and promptly lose my towel again. Instead of readjusting it this time, I stand up and frowningly examine myself in the mirror. I turn first one way and then the other. The trouble is that inmy daughter I’ve got a constant reminder of how I used to look twenty years ago – and sometimes I’d prefer to forget.
    However, even if I say so myself, I’m not too bad for forty-one. Shoulderblade-length blonde hair, largish blue eyes, pale skin, not a bad figure, long legs, nice butt . . . nice butt? It suddenly occurs to me that, even though I’m standing front on, I can see some of my butt. And I’m pretty sure I haven’t always been able to do that. I twist around a tad to check my butt is still where it’s supposed to be, then bend over and peer between my legs. Sure enough, I can see the bottom end of my bottom end. I straighten up and check out the front view once more before deciding to ignore this visible sign of gravity at work. Perhaps I can get something done about the butt bit when I fix the boob bit. I narrow my eyes threateningly at each appendage before turning away.
    Naked, I wander into the walk-in wardrobe and look thoughtfully at the neat row of clothing suspended before me. What I need is appropriate winter wear that reflects the festive nature of this