There was The Year of Nivea for Men, The Year of Joop and sadly, The Year of Blue Stratos (and I didn’t even own a hang glider). This last January I turned forty-five. For my previous three birthdays the twins walked to the local pharmacy and bought me some kind of fragrance gift pack. This year it was to be The Year of West Indian Lime.
“Bit of an old man’s fragrance?” said Suzanne (in jest, I hoped).
“Cheeky cow!” I replied in jest.
The two girls were piled on top of us in bed amid the torn wrapping paper.
“Ready for breakfast in bed Daddy-o?” asked Pip.