Mr IssyMum's mid-life crisis:
Mr IM (last night in bed): Do you think I'd look good with a beard?
Me: No, you'd look like a twat.
Mr IM: What about a small moustache?
Me: You'd look like a facist twat.
Mr IM: Handle-bar moustache?
Me: Twat with confused sexuality.
End of Mr IM's mid-life crisis.
Meanwhile I weep at my computer, see the words 'Is This It?' writ large in the sky, start writing a novel and stop after the first page, find the fact that on the balance of probabilities God doesn't exist almost unbearable, endure rampant envy of my more successful university contemporaries and weep some more when I look down at my cleavage and realise that it's getting a little ahem crepey.
It's in the blood. My father hit his mid-forties, bought a very large grand piano, took up a post in Germany for two years and had an affair and then married a woman fifteen years younger than him. Although, to his credit, no inappropriate snogging was ever witnessed.