Wise Owl comments

“Woo hoo, Thursday today, Nora,” Wilma reminded her.

“Hmm, hairdo’s at pensioner prices. What could be more satisfying?”

“Don’t say that, you know Dotty hates being classified a ‘pensioner’,” mocked Wilma.

Nora smiled to herself, “And the Hawthorne Chronicle is out today. We’ll be able to check on the Wise Owl’s agony column. It’s your turn to drive and Dotty’s turn to pay for lunch.”

Wilma pulled up outside Dotty’s cottage and tooted her horn. Nora looked at her wristwatch to see how long they’d have to wait. Surprise, surprise, Dotty came rushing out on a heartbeat. As she slid into the back seat her broad smile made both her friends nervous.

Nora turned around to look at her. “Have you something to say? You look pleased with yourself.”

Dotty brushed imaginary fluff of her dark slacks. “I did three chapters on my autobiography yesterday.”

Wilma eyed her through the rear-view mirror. “Are you coming to the juicy bits, then?”

“Oh heaven’s no. I did that in the second chapter.”

Nora and Wilma eyed each other.

Dotty rubbed her hands together, “The Wise Owl reports today. I’m dying to see what Mrs Frizby has to advise.”

“Strange you mention it, Nora and I were discussing it earlier.

When the trio arrive at the Blue Bells Restaurant, they grabbed their copy of the chronicle. The waiter acknowledged them with a nod and went to place their order.

As they sat at their usual table, Wilma licked her finger and flicked through the pages.  “Oh dear, Wise Owl must be losing popularity – it’s been relegated to page five.”

Dotty peered over to peek at Wilma’s copy, then turned to page five.

Wilma read aloud.

“Dear Wise Owl,

I am in dire straits. My husband is in the navy and has been out to sea for fourteen months. I’ve discovered I’m three months pregnant. How would you suggest I handle my predicament?

Bumble Bee.

Dear Bumble Bee:

Naughty, naughty. Tell him you’ve had an immaculate conception. Make sure to call the baby either Joseph or Mary.

Wise Owl.

“That’s blasphemy. Surely, Mrs. Frizby should know better. I bet there will be a few complaints about this,” Nora was shocked.

“Bollocks, there’s nothing blasphemous about it. We all know Mary had an immaculate conception,” defended Dotty.

“Yes I know, but Bumble Bee is not Mary,” Nora argued.

“Listen to this next one,” Wilma said.

Dear Wise Owl,

The morning I turned sixty years old was the worst day of my life. I discovered a few wrinkles. HELP!

Heaven Forbid

Dear Heaven Forbid:

I know the feeling honey – get yourself a tube of anusol cream. If it can shrink piles, it can get rid of wrinkles.

Wise Owl.”

Dotty laughed. “Mrs. Frizby should adhere to her own advice. She looks a dried prune.”

Nora and Wilma eyed Dotty with suspicion. “Do you remember, before we went on that disastrous holiday to Brazzina, and you ruined my epidermis in the sun bed you borrowed?”

Dotty’s face went red. Somehow she knew what Wilma was coming to.

“And when I was worried about my wrinkles – you suggested I use anusol cream.”

“That’s ridiculous. Of course I didn’t. We all know what anusol cream is for. It’s your imagination.”

The waiter served their lunch. Dotty quickly folded the chronicle and put in on the empty chair beside her. Wilma and Nora continued reading.

Dear Wise Owl,

I am fifty-four years old and still a virgin. I cannot seem to find Mr. Right. Am I being too picky?

Virgin Dilemmas.

Dear Virgin Dilemmas:

At your age, you should conclude Mr. Right doesn’t exist. Change your tactic honey, and find yourself a young stud to break you in. Trust me, it will be orgasmic.

Wise Owl.”

Wilma slapped the paper with the back of her hand. “This is bloody ridiculous. The Wise Owl column should be banned or the Chronicle classified X rated. Do you know how many children read this crap – how the Wise Owl is polluting their innocent minds?”

“I agree with you Wilma. We should go and complain to Mrs. Frizby.” Nora turned and faced Dotty, “Are you coming with us?”

Dotty rubbed the side of her nose, “Oh, Mrs. Frizby is away. Mervyn from No. 56 mentioned she’ll be gone for six weeks.”

Nora frowned, she’s certain she saw Mrs. Frizby in the supermarket the other day.

Dotty quickly changed the subject. “Why haven’t you enquired about Purdy?”

“I was about to, but this garbage here,” Wilma pointed to the Chronicle, “side-tracked me.”

“Okay, do tell us. When are you going on your amazing date?” Nora asked in a bored tone.

Dotty smiled, “A week tomorrow. I’m so excited.”

Wilma winked at Nora, “Hmm, gives you time to get a bikini wax.”

“Yea that reminds me, you never showed us his photograph.” Nora said.

“Forget the photograph, wait until I introduce you to him. He’ll knock your socks off.”

“More like your knickers, Dotty.” Wilma giggled.



Dotty has been cagey the last few days which concerns Nora and Wilma. Her behavioural problems were worrisome. It was time to visit her.

Dotty peered out of her spare bedroom cum office window and saw her two friends approach with a decided force in their step. She quickly powered down her computer and rushed to the front door to greet them.

“Good morning Nora and Wilma. Did I invite you for tea?” She asked with a frown.

“Yes you did. Oh no, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” Wilma winked at Nora.

Dotty put her hand to her temple. She couldn’t remember. “Come in and I’ll put the kettle on.”

They followed her into the bright kitchen. Wilma studied Dotty’s face. Something was… well, different.

“What have you done to your face? Have you had Botox? Your wrinkles have sort of disappeared.”

Dotty laughed. “I’m glad you’ve noticed. I’ve discovered this amazing cream. “

“You have!” Nora and Wilma asked in unison.

Dotty rushed to the bedroom and fetched her latest wonder. “Look at this – a miracle cream of note.”

Nora grabbed the tube from her and read aloud, “Rejuvenating Care.” She turned the tube over  to read the instructions. “This print is too small for my eyes, you read it Wilma.”

Wilma studied the tube at arm’s length. “Dotty lend me your glasses please, I can’t read this either. It amazes me how these cosmetic firms come up with highfalutin ideas for the elderly and the bloody print is so small we can’t read it.”

“It’s obvious why, isn’t it?” Nora asked.

Dotty shook her head and pursed her lips. Miss Negativeness at it again. She grabbed the tube from Wilma’s hand. “It’s simple. You dab a bit on your face and within five minutes the wrinkles disappear. Look at me, I’m a testament of a great product. Why are the instructions so important?”

“Because it might have super-glue elements or other poisonous ingredients,” Nora chimed.

“Bollocks Nora. This lasts for twelve hours. Super-glue lasts forever.” Dotty retorted.

They sat in silence  and drank their tea, each one with their own thoughts. Finally, Nora spoke. “We’re worried about you. We think you ought to pay a visit to Dr. Hinderskop. Depression is curable you know.”

Dotty put her head back and cackled. “Depression. What makes you think I am depressed? On the contrary, I’ve never been so happy and excited in my life.”

“Aw shucks, this is serious,” Wilma mumbled. It’s that damn autobiography she writing.

Dotty blurted, “I’m going on a blind date.”

What!” Nora and Wilma screeched, saucer eyed.

“Don’t be surprised. It’s normal at our age. I’ve joined an internet dating site. There are some sexy looking men that will even get your hormones doing the tango. And do you know,  I’ve had so many ‘hits’, they’re fighting over me.”

“This is preposterous. You cannot be serious. Have you any idea what type of dirty old men lurk cyber space? It’s far too dangerous,” Wilma slapped the arm of the chair. “You will get yourself murdered and your body thrown into Southampton harbour.”

Nora, absolutely gobsmacked, shook her head in disbelief. Poor Dotty really needs help.

Dotty, agitated, stood and collected the tea tray. She knew she shouldn’t have mentioned her plan. When she returned to the sitting room Wilma asked, “Who is your date?”

“Purdy… Purdy McFuddell. A lovely Scot. Come into my office and see his photograph. You’ll love him.”

Purdy, who names their child that?” Nora asked.

“It’s a nick name silly. His real name is Erskine Patrick – Purdy for short,” Dotty said, proudly.

Nora noticed an old passport photograph of Dotty lying on her desk. “Is this the photograph you sent him?”

“As a matter of fact it’s my profile picture.”

“That was taken twenty years ago,” Nora screeched.

“No-Ra, is this a photograph of me or not?” Dotty shoved it toward her.

“Well yes it is you, but…”

“Then what is your problem?”

Wilma rolled her eyes. She asked Dotty how she got onto this ‘dating website’ and how it worked. Dotty explained she paid a nominal membership fee to join: uploaded her photograph and detailed her interests. “It’s so easy, and I strongly recommend you two join as well. It’s such fun and you meet so many men.”

Nora screwed her nose, “Not for me, thanks. It’s too dangerous.”

“Well yes, I understand that coming from you Nora. Your ambition is Mr. Harris at No. 52, with his wrinkled knees.” Dotty sarcastically replied.

“I suppose you are going to tell me Purdy doesn’t have wrinkled knees. How old is he anyway?” Nora asked.

Wilma giggled, “Probably some young stud in his thirties, knowing Dotty.”

“As a matter of fact Wilma,” Dotty placed her hand on her hips, “He is fifty-four. He is well established: has never been married and owns a business. Are you satisfied now?”

“Humph, he probably pimps grannies,” Nora replied.

Dotty ignored her comment. Her two friends were so boring that they’re prime candidates for a shrink.

Wilma scratched her temple, a frown on her face. “The rejuvenating cream you bought – you have taken into consideration it only lasts for twelve hours before your wrinkles reappear. What time is your date?”

“Yes, I know all that –what’s that got to do with timing?” She asked impatiently.

“What happens if you really like this man. And then, you know, you decide to invite him home – which I am sure you will.” Wilma tried to choose her word wisely without offending Dotty.  “And then, when he wakes up with you beside him the following morning, won’t he get a fright when he realises he’s been conned by a prune?”

“What a stupid question Wilma,” Nora stated. “She’ll set the alarm clock and push him out the house before that happens.”

“Yea, like Cinderella, except she left her glass slipper behind.”

Dotty was not amused.

Dumb Bells

Nora and Wilma sat in Blue Bells restaurant. They’d invited Dotty but she declined due to the amount of research she wanted to do.

“Wilma, something is amiss,” Nora said, worriedly.

“Why do you say that?” Wilma frowned.

“Dotty isn’t square in the head. Since the Wise Owl issue, she’s glued to her computer. If she does write her autobiography, it will make Lady Chatterley’s Lover middle grade reading. I have a feeling her lift isn’t going to the top floor.”

Wilma laughed. “You’re so dramatic. Of course, she’s fine. She’s going through a sexagenarian crisis.”

“I’ve heard of a mid-life crisis, not a sexagenarian one. Which is more serious?”

“Definitely sexagenarian – not enough sex. You see Nora, I know I’m referred as the blonde bimbo but actually I’m not.”

“Of course you aren’t. You’re not naturally blonde; you’re grey but with all the peroxide, I doubt if it will change colour. It’ll fall out first.”

Wilma automatically patted her hair to make certain each strand was still in place. She plied it with so much hair spray; a golf ball travelling 150 mph could bounce off without leaving an indentation.

“Wilma, I’ve just twigged. If Dotty’s going through this sex crisis, how come we aren’t?”

“Excuse me, speak for yourself.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise you’re going through one. Strange, because you act normal.”

“I think we should order, I’m starving.”

Wilma caught the waiter’s attention – he acknowledged her and gave thumbs up. He knew what they wanted to eat.

Nora ran her finger around the rim of her glass: it started to ring. “Nora, penny for them.”

She blushed.

“Ah, I know – it’s Mr. Harris at No. 52. He has the hots for you. You should test drive him Nora.”

Nora wiggled her bum further into the chair. “I do like him but don’t tell Dotty. She’ll try and be cupid.” Nora fiddled with the place mat then added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already test driven him.”

“No way, Nora! She said his knees are too knobbly. In any event, one session with her will find him in the cardiac unit at the general hospital.”

“I never thought of that. So, if we see an ambulance outside his cottage we’ll know why.”

Wilma stretched her neck to look over Nora’s shoulder. Nora half turned to follow her gaze. They noticed Dotty talking to Woodridge – the editor of Hawthorne Heights Chronicle. She wagged her finger at him, while he nodded his head.

“I thought she’s researching. Why is she talking to him, unless it’s to complain?”

Wilma chuckled. “She’s too late; I’ve already emailed a complaint about the Wise Owl.”

Dotty pushed open the glass spring door with gusto. With a purposeful step, she approached their table: a huge smile of satisfaction slid across her face. As she plonked herself on the chair she announced, “That’s sorted. “

Nora and Wilma glanced at each other: Dotty turned to get the waiter’s attention. He only managed a faint smile.

Wilma finally asked, “What is sorted? You were talking to Woodbridge. Has he agreed to print your autobiography in chapters or volumes – gawd help us all!”

Dotty cupped her hands under her chin; her mischievous blues eyes danced in victory. “Actually, it wasn’t about my autobiography – it’s about Wise Owl. I complimented him on a brilliant column.”

Wilma interjected, “I emailed…”

Dotty put her hand up, “He knows you complained. You’re the only one.” She gave a satisfied grin.

Nora shook her head. “People are so fickle, I don’t understand it.”

“Yes I know Nora. You never understand or think.” Dotty took a sip of her gin and tonic, and then asked, “What have you two been up to lately?”

“Nora had sex-a-marathon with her knob throb and I went to visit an old flame,” Wilma replied, nonchalantly.

Dotty retaliated. “Now I know who bought the entire Spanish fly stock from the chemist – you Nora.” She raised her brows.

“Don’t be ridiculous Dotty. Why would I waste money on a Spanish fly? They buzz around my kitchen for nothing.”

Dotty rolled her eyes: Nora’s ‘dumb’ bells ring again.

Oh What a Beautiful Morning!

Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day
I have a beautiful feeling; everything’s going my way…

Dotty sang off key, on top of her voice. The decibel of high notes were enough to cause perceptible pain and suffering to a passer-by.

She glanced at the clock. “Bollocks, I’m late again,” she cursed as she grabbed her handbag, locked the front door and rushed to the gate. Nora had tooted her arrival five minutes before.

“Morning Dotty,” Nora and Wilma greeted.

“Sorry, I’m a bit late. So much to do and so little time to do it.”

Wilma rolled her eyes. So typical, always late. Fortunately, she’d made the hairdressing appointments for half an hour later. She leant forward in the back seat and tapped Dotty on the shoulder. “How is your autobiography coming along?”

“Extremely well, considering I had to exclude you two.”

A relieved Nora eyed Wilma in her rear view mirror and winked, “I’m pleased to hear that Dotty. Is fifty years of friendship really worth the despicable seeds of your wild imagination?”

“I ditto that,” replied Wilma.

“Humph, it would’ve been interesting but I reckon I still have a best seller.”

After the hairdos and manicures, they headed to the Blue Bells restaurant. They each grabbed a copy of the Hawthorne Heights Chronicle, eager to read what the Wise Owl had to say.

“The usual ladies?” the waiter asked.

Dotty glared at him, “Young man, we’ve been coming here for years: we order the same every time. What don’t you understand?”

He scowled, turned on his heels and walked toward the kitchen.

“Chill Dotty. What’s eating you? You’re bloody rude and now he’ll probably spit in your food,” Wilma chided her.

Dotty flicked a manicured hand, “I apologize. I don’t know what got to me.”

“Sexual deprivation if you ask me,” Nora laughed.

Wilma giggled as she scoured her eyes over the chronicle. “Look, page three. The Wise Owl,” she pointed out. Dotty and Nora quickly opened the page.

“Oh my gawd, this is ridiculous. Listen to this,” Wilma read aloud.

“Dear Wise Owl,
My problem is embarrassing. My husband of 30 years wants a penile enlargement. I’m worried he’ll become dysfunctional. How can I dissuade him?
Small Dick.
Dear Small Dick:
While I sympathise with you, check his mobile phone, text messages and emails. He has a young girlfriend.
Wise Owl.”

Nora and Wilma burst out laughing. “This is bloody ridiculous. How does this idiotic Wise Owl know he has a girlfriend?” Dotty was pan faced.

“Listen to this one,” Nora said in excitement.

“Dear Wise Owl,
My husband is due to retire next year. What can you suggest to occupy his time without driving me to dementia?
Dreaded Thought.
Dear Dreaded Thought:
Buy him an apron, rubber gloves and a collection of recipe books. In the meantime, take up bridge and mah-jong lessons.
Wise Owl.”

“That’s ludicrous. What good is an apron and recipe books to a man?” Nora asked.
Dotty peered at the question. “I think it’s reasonable. She plays bridge and mah-jong: he does the cleaning and cooking to occupy himself.”

“Oh, I never thought of it in that vein.”

“Nora, you’re renowned not to think,” Dotty pointed out.

“Listen up, this takes the cake.” Wilma read it out.

“Dear Wise Owl,
What would you advise if you discovered your husband wants a sex change?
Dear Cherry-Pie:
A difficult question to answer without knowing the full history. My psychic abilities tell me you are the person wanting this and me to sanction it. Get Real man!
Wise Owl.”

“Phew that’s harsh. Imagine a sex change,”  commented Nora.

“This is bizarre. The Wise Owl is a fraud. I’m going to write to the editor and complain. There’s not an iota of psychological advice and it’s obvious her psychic abilities are hogwash!” Wilma said.

Dotty, about to take a mouthful of her shepherd’s pie asked, “How can you make a derogatory statement like that? Mrs. Frizby won’t be pleased.”

Wilma eyed her. “You surprise me. Normally, you’d disagree with the balderdash printed. Moreover, you haven’t contributed a single comment. I know ‘its’ psychic abilities are rubbish because I emailed that question and I am female!” Wilma slapped the chronicle with the back of her hand. “To add further, I’m certain it’s not Mrs. Frizby because she’s far more intelligent than this baloney.”

Dotty choked on her food.

Food for Thought

Since the announcement of the Wise Owl column, Dotty had become unusually reticent. Concerned, Nora and Wilma decided on a surprise visit and found her sat at the computer, her fingers furiously tapping the keyboard. Flustered with the intrusion, Dotty gave the duo her faux bonhomme smile and quickly minimized the screen.

“I did call out but you didn’t answer.” Wilma approached her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’re anxious about you. Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m fine. Just extremely busy.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her weary eyes.

Nora stared at Dotty, her lips pursed she shook her head. “This sudden mission of yours has given you periorbital puffiness,” she commented.

Dotty pushed her chair away from the desk and rubbed the back of her neck. “Let’s have a cuppa. I need a break.” They followed her to the kitchen and helped lay the tea tray.

Nora, her arms folded across her ample bosom, leant against the cupboard with her legs crossed at the ankles. “Are you going to explain why you’re so busy or is it a deep, dark secret? Maybe a lover in your cupboard!”

Dotty gave her a sideward glance and continued pouring the boiled water into the teapot. She lifted the tray and carried it to the sitting room. “Damn, I’ve forgotten the cake platter,” she said, not addressing anyone in particular. She returned to the kitchen to collect it.

Nora took the opportunity and whispered to Wilma who poured the tea, “She’s up to no good – guilty as heck.”

Wilma put a finger to her lips, “Shush, she can hear a pin drop. By the second cup, she’ll reveal all. You know she can’t keep  secrets.”

Nora finished her tea and placed the teacup on the side table and blurted, “Are you going to tell us what you’re up to?”
An impish grin crossed Dotty’s face. “How do you want it? In chapters or books?”

“Holy Moses, your brain cells have mutated. Is this going to take long?” Wilma asked.

“I, my dears…  am writing our autobiography,” Dotty stated with defiance.

Nora leapt up and screeched, “Writing our autobiography! You’ve had a stroke.” She swung to face Wilma. “It’s time to phone the loony bin.”

“Nora, they don’t put stroke patients in a loony bin. Show some compassion.” Wilma scolded, wagging a finger at her.

Dotty fell back in her chair in laughter. “Visualize a sexy cover adorning our terrific bods: each page inscribes the juicy bits of our lives. “ Tears rolled down her cheeks.

The other two went ashen.  Wilma swallowed dryly. “You can’t do that, it’s a travesty of justice. With your wild imagination and wishful thoughts, readers will think we’re sluts. Be appropriate and fantasies about yourself which, no doubt will be volumes.” She turned to Nora, “You’re right – she’s needs to be admitted in the loony bin – the fantasy ward. Make sure it’s close to the male psychopaths so she can entertain them with her autobiography.”

Dotty retrieved a tissue, wiped her eyes and blew her nose; pleased she’d evoked ’ food for thought’.

Hawthorne Heights Chronicle

Thursday morning is ‘pensioner’s discount’ at Hawthorne Heights Hairdressers. Although Dotty abhors been referred as a pensioner, she has no qualms accepting ‘pensioner’ offerings.  Today is her turn to drive Nora and Wilma to the village for their hair appointments, although she’s flummoxed why Wilma’s going; she had her hair done yesterday. But Wilma treats her crowning glory like gold dust. Her peroxide blonde curls are never out of place except on rare occasions and then she’s unbearable. How can someone have such a ridiculous fetish, Dotty wondered? “One day she’ll wake up bald,” Dotty said aloud and chuckled. Nora on the other hand, was easy going with her grey haired bob which is easily tied into a pony tail on bad hair days. Dotty’s long, silver hair is worn in a French twist – so much more manageable.

Dotty arrived at Wilma’s cottage and noticed her at the gate tapping her wrist watch for emphasis. “Morning Dotty, late again!” She raised her brow.

“Bollocks, ” she glanced at her wrist watch,  “I’m timed to the BBC.”

Wilma grabbed her right wrist and checked the time. “You need your eyes re-tested – it’s the same time as mine.” She buckled her seat belt as Dotty did a wheelie from the curb, giving Wilma whiplash.

“One day the residents are going to complain about your wheelies.”

“Bollocks, these vehicles are made for them.”

“Not when old granny is behind the wheel.”

Dotty came to an abrupt halt at Nora’s gate and pitched Wilma forward before her seat belt locked.
Nora rushed out and climbed in the back of the sleek Mercedes.  “Is it a good day or do I sense atmospheric pressure?” she asked.

“Oh for sure it’s a good day, Nora. It’s your turn to pay for lunch. Hope you haven’t forgotten,” Dotty answered.

“My turn again. Are you sure?” she frowned and whinged. “I paid last time.”

“Noo Nora, I paid. When Dotty drives it’s your turn. When I drive, Dotty pays and when you drive, I pay,” Wilma clarified. Nora never got it right.

They arrived at the hairdresser fifteen minutes late. Wilma dashed in, apologetic. Nellie, who styles her hair, gave a knowing look.

Hairdos and manicures done, they walked two blocks to Blue Bells Restaurant. Just inside the door the Hawthorne Heights monthly chronicle was displayed on the news stand. They took one each and headed for the table next to the window.  The waiter took their order – which he knew off by heart. The three were so predictable. Shepherd’s pie for Dotty; beef and ale pie for Wilma and Cornish pasty and salad for Nora. (Nora is always on diet but never loses weight – so her thighs tell her!). And three gin and tonics.

Nora glimpsed through the chronicle and burst into laughter. She told the other two to go to page three and pointed out The Wise Owl advert.


New! New! Starting in the next  edition.  The Wise    Owl Columnist will advise you on the following:
   Ø  Marital Problems
   Ø  Love Life
   Ø  Financial Matters
   Ø  Ageing
   Ø  Health and Sex Issues
   Ø  Any Other Problems
The Wise Owl is a psychic and psychologist with years of experience. Don’t be shy – ask your question and have your problem solved.

“Well I am damned. I wonder who the Wise Owl is,” Wilma puckered her brow. Dotty silently read the advert. Her impish face contained her smile.

“Dotty, what do you say? Who do you think it is? Hawthorne Heights isn’t a big village; it must be someone we know.” Nora pyramided her brows. “Who would publicise their sex problems or love life in a chronicle?”

“I think it’s a wonderful idea. The community requires a column like this and about time too. Everyone needs sound advice once in a while,” Dotty blasé, replied.

Wilma stared at her. “It’s you!” she accused. “This is typical of you. You always had a penchant for Ann Landers. ”

“Me!” Dotty squealed. “That’s absurd Wilma,” she protested. “Eat before your lunch gets cold.”

Nora, in a high pitched voice pointed to Dotty, “It is you.” Then she re-read the advert  and shook her head. “No it can’t be. You’re not a psychologist and your psychic abilities are crap. It’s got us into humungous trouble in the past.” She shuffled in her chair and blurted, “I know, it’s Mrs. Frizby – she lives at No. 21. A nosy old bag who delves into everyone’s business.”

“That solves the mystery now you’ve ascertained it’s not me,” Dotty grinned.

“I know, let’s email and ask a question,” suggested Wilma, tapping her fingers on the table.

Dotty chuckled, “Dear Wise Owl, I peroxide my hair once a month. Do you think I’ll go bald?”

“Funny ha, ha.” Wilma wasn’t amused.

Nora and Wilma ordered a second gin and tonic. Much to Dotty’s disdain, she had to suffice with a glass of water  because she was driving.

Welcome to “Capers of the Glamour Grans”

On the completion of my first novel: “BEFORE THE DAISIES GROW, Capers of the Glamour Grans”, I was prompted to write this blog on the anecdotes of Dotty, Nora and Wilma. I’ll be writing about their humor, trials and tribulations before start pushing up the daisies, something Dotty doesn’t want to think about! Unfortunately, age is not an umbrella that goes up and comes down. However, Dotty will ensure the glamour grans live life to the full on her roller-coaster and you enjoy the ride!!!

I will also be posting on the progress of the sequel to BEFORE THE DAISIES GROW and their travels.