My brother and his wife were very good to me, had me over to stay for a few weeks, and talked to me about how life had to go on and how I was still a young and attractive woman and how I could even still have children if I wanted to. All the usual bullshit, well-meaning of course, but clinch from start to finish. I was an average forty-one-year-old, of average looks and average intelligence; I had a house of my own and a part-time job. I’d never had - what shall I call it? - a full relationship with a man and that whole area of life filled me with terror. I could easily try to blame Mother for the sort of life I had led but it wouldn’t really be true. All the time, when I was younger, she used to say: “Why don’t you go out and have a good time? Meet a few boys. It isn’t healthy staying in here all the time.” No. I was the one who had held back, and I don’t really know why. I suppose deep down it was fear of failure, or rejection. Fear of appearing ridiculous. I didn’t feel that I had anything much to offer. I knew I wasn’t beautiful, or witty, or... special in any way at all. All the girls I went to school with seemed to be prettier than me, and more sporty, and more daring. I loved to listen about their boyfriends, but if it ever became personal, like why didn’t I go on a date with so-and-so, I would find a way to avoid it. I pretended to be a bit religious to fend off any catty remarks. And of course after I left school and grew a little older it simply became harder and harder.