Well it turns out to be a red herring and not the menopause at all, just yet. However, my downstairs is like a washing machine on the spin cycle so I suspect it won't be long before I'm a dry husk, held together with bitterness, memories and cheap gin.
In the meantime I harvest the souls of young men and watch the Bridget Jones films, to pass the time. Not so much Miss Havisham as Miss Havingsome. Arf. As was pointed out in the Independent, Miss Jones, if she were real, would now be in her fifties.