I didn't turn into a witch but my nose has erupted: I look like Walter Matthau after a night on the gin.
I offered to wear a paper bag over my head when we went out for a curry last night (the first stage in the celebration of younger son's up and coming 21st) but husband said he loved me no matter what I look like. Younger son shrugged, 'Your nose looks the same as it always does.'
We went to a different restaurant and it was quite pleasant. The staff were smiley but the lamb in our peshwari gosht was a bit tough. So tough, in fact, that, when I was trying to cut it, a bit leapt off my plate and onto the foot of the lady at the next table. She was very understanding.
And now an enormous spot is developing on my cheek. I feel like an adolescent not a middle-aged mum.