Out on the town, we become intertwined with a group of celebrating produce providers. Fruit and veg, that sort of thing. "What kind of company are you?" inquires the MD, sitting alongside for a little flirt. I demur. "We're not a company. We're the Menopausal Posse from northwest London." His eyes fire up. "That's great!" he bellows. "We can't get any of you pregnant!" News spreads like wildfire. Our table in a Spitalfields tapas bar takes on a peculiarly festive air. Produce providers creep up and posit themselves among us. One elderly man keeps kissing my hand. "Don't take this the wrong way," he says, "But I used to fantasise about you when I was a kid." Bloody hell, I think. If he's younger than me, what do I look like? Nonplussed, I turn to the boss. "Give this man a rise," I say, "He's just made my night." The boss gives me a nudge and winks. "I think you've given him quite a few rises already." At eleven, the posse is decanted into the cold night air. Six go home. Six set out in search of a dancefloor. The streets are heaving. Young people queueing round the block at club entrances. "I feel old and my feet hurt," says the glass-half-empty Possette. "Oh do shut up," we all shout. We end up in the old Trumans Brewery. Zoned out to trance music. It's not ideal... Back in the people carrier, we consume a box of Celebrations. And get lost for an hour. Trying to drop one of our group at her car. "I wish I could remember where I parked," she wails. She's a lawyer. "I hope your memory's better on the smallprint," I say.