Never did I imagine that at 62, the start of my wrinkly-prune stage of life, I would find myself standing at my back-garden gate wearing flip-flops, a grey onesie and a pair of yellow rubber gloves, directing an immaculately coiffured Thai woman to the footpath into town.
And worse, that I’d be spotted by a troop of local yummy mummies taking their children the back way into school.
At least it wasn’t as embarrassing as that time a glamorous polo-playing Argentinian came down for breakfast horribly early, holding out a pair of my knickers between finger and thumb and handing them to
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