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.”
“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.