My friend Sarah persuaded me to join her at a well woman group in the local village hall, to embrace our womanhood. "I think you could use some advice on how to take proper care of yourself, now that you're in your forties", she smirked.

A trifle unnecessary, I thought. She knows that my showbiz age is 29.

Sarah suggested we stop off at the pub first; I wasn't too keen as I wanted to keep my wits about me. I had visions of meeting characters who looked like film extras from Rosemary's Baby.

We went to the pub.

After several large glasses of wine later, we couldn't put it off any longer, we were going in...I shivered as I entered the coven. Yes, the wine had diminished the nerves but induced the paranoia, and besides, the heating had gone off.

We giggled and pushed each other in to the room. It had been set up with the chairs in a circle. I spotted a cheap ghetto blaster and prayed we wouldn't have to dance naked with each other. I eyed the room for a sign of the oracle, marks on the walls where pictures had been replaced, or any bowls of home-made chocolate mousse.

Sarah was studying a pamphlet, it was upside down, and she appeared nervous and edgy. I wondered if she was one of them.

Women began to enter the room, some in twos and threes, and a few on their own, hiding behind their hair, one lady in particular; she had a beard. We noticed they began to fan themselves with their hands, asking "Is it me or is it hot in here?"

We sat down and waited for the speaker to make her grand entrance. By this point, even the young tattooed girl, who was eating a pasty from a Greggs' bag, was entering the menopause. She complained that she had joined the wrong group and was supposed to be in the Psychic meeting with Madame Hazel on Tuesdays.

Then a sparkly vision appeared, wearing pastel pink lycra trousers and a snug white tee shirt with Angel scrawled in glitter across her pushed up breasts, which appeared to support her chin.

She awkwardly switched on the ghetto blaster with her long, French-manicured fingers, every move carefully choreographed. Chaka Khan bellowed out I'm Every Woman; battered trainers tapped the floor, beardy lady almost smiled.

Katie felt the need to punctuate every statement with "As I say". Her sentences were put together very badly and were just ....wrong.

"Hello everybody, I'm Katie and I'm here for all of you this evening, together. As I say, I'm Katie". (I swear she did a quick curtsey, though her thong could have been riding up).

She went on to explain she used to be a practice nurse in Kirkcaldy and added that she had recently won ‘Slimmer of the Year' with the Calorie Counters group who meet on Thursdays. Apparently, she lost 80 stone or whatever. She paused until we broke into ‘spontaneous' applause and beardy lady looked at the floor.

Katie slowly sat down on the red bucket chair but for this evening, it was her gilt-edged throne. We were instructed to introduce ourselves and state how old we felt. I said I felt 29 and Sarah shot me one her looks.

Katie tilted her over-bleached head and stared at me, pouting her pink, glossy mouth.

I saw no sign of life. I don't think there ever was.

She came to, smiled and introduced herself again and moved on to Sarah, who got an attack of the hiccups. I thumped her back and she choked on her Breakaway.

I could sense the hostility from the sisterhood boring into my very soul.

Tattoo girl was now chomping her way through a cream horn.

Katie announced that we were all special, I glanced around the room and shifted in my wobbly bucket chair; special needs, more like. I kept that thought to myself. I could see Sarah was getting sucked in. The scary sounds of Enya filled the room, I checked behind me for men in robes.

Once again, she welcomed all 12 of us and then screamed "Let us embrace the menopause".

Whaaaaatttt???????

Apparently, I have to look forward to brittle bones, hairy moles, amnesiacky moments, weight gain, heartburn and so forth. All these symptoms were illustrated by Katie's Lowry-inspired matchstick woman drawings on a tilted flip chart that had seen better days.

She asked if we had any questions. By now I was biting my lip and my shoulders were shaking, Rachel knew she was in trouble. "I have a question" I blurted out, as I raised my hand. "Can I go shoplifting and blame it on the menopause?"

Silence

Apparently, it also makes you lose your sense of humour. Katie threw back her head and gave a Hammer House of Horror laugh, then moved on to weak bladders. Soon everyone was regaling graphic tales of childbirth, hormones, PMT and bad hair days.

Beardy lady and I almost bonded as we yawned, stretched and strained our necks to see if there was a hint of a wagon wheel on the trestle table.

Katie suddenly felt the need to jump up and demonstrate some pelvic muscle floor exercises; she lay down and arched her back as her pink lycra buttocks contracted, letting out sounds that should only be heard in a cheap motel room. I don't think that performance was anything to do with the meeting.

She invited us to feel her pelvis contracting, everyone leapt up to cop a feel, a little too eagerly, I thought. For the first time, beardy lady seemed quite excited but she remained seated and pretended to pick up fluff from her ski-pants.

Tattoo girl's shaking hand pulled back the ring on a can of diet Lilt.

Katie rose from the floor, like a glittering phoenix rising from the ashes, and looked a little flushed and breathless as she promised "Your pelvis will be your friend, if you treat her well. Especially, in the autumn of your lives' ascending years. As I say."

She proceeded to hand out various pamphlets and flyers with diagrams and pictures that no one needs to see, not even well women.

I glanced at the flyer; Ann Summers parties in your home. Yes, Katie is a Jill of all trades. Now I understood the point of her little pelvic display, only the battery operated appliance was missing from the picture.

I looked around the group and pictured these women in baby dolls and marabou handcuffs and then came over very queasy. I dragged Sarah out of the room, leaving beardy lady perspiring over the flyer.

I swore there and then, I would never, ever go to any of these evil meetings again.

I didn't even get to score HRT.

Sarah's mortified by the group as she's only 32 years old, but she's more concerned that she'll wear leggings and a fleece top when she's middle-aged.

......She wants to host an Ann Summers party.

As I say.