Margaret's Breakdown

Margaret had a breakdown at the church bake sale. Leslie and Amanda took her home and put her to bed with a cuppa, a couple of Bourbons and Marie Claire magazine. Then they talked outside in hushed voices thinking Margaret couldn't hear them but she could.
"She's not been the same since he left her."
"But Amanda it was three years ago! She can't still be depressed about Benedict, surely not."
"Well what else is it? What would make a 56 year old woman cry at a bake sale? It certainly wasn't my Eccles cakes, Leslie."
"Oh, I don't know. The menopause?"
Leslie, in her 60s, had been through the menopause and had made rather a big song and dance about it. She was now rather fond of attributing all of her friend's problems to it and advising them on how to manage it.
"Leslie, I think it's a bit more serious than that. She must be really lonely, with Christine in Australia and Hamish up in Edinburgh, too. You must know what it's like to have an empty nest."
"Ha! The day the last'un left was the best day of my life! Good riddance!"
"Sensitive as ever, Leslie." She sighed. "We must do something for Margaret."
"Perhaps she just needs a good hobby! You know, salsa, or quilling, or something like that. Yoga maybe. Doris swears by it."
"Maybe you're right."
"Did you see Violet's new perm? She looked like a Maltese poodle!"
And the two of them left to go and tend to their florentines and fairy cakes.

Margaret, whose cup of Barry's had long gone cold, sat thinking quietly. Her life, recently, seemed rather empty. Over half her life had passed her by, her husband had left her and her children were grown up and long gone. She had retired from her job, and had little more to do than associate with painful women like Leslie Pritchard and eat their dry, flavourless cupcakes.

But Leslie, as abhorrent as she was, had a point. She needed a hobby. She searched the internet for some local diversions. Flower arranging? Hayfever. Crochet? She didn't have patience. Ballroom dancing? She could think of few things worse than holding the clammy hand of a stranger with halitosis and shuffling round a village hall. Swinger's club? Margaret wasn't quite sure what that was, but she was certain it wasn't for her.
Then she found something a little more promising. Outdoor Swimming. She'd always liked swimming in her youth, and could probably do with the exercise, if she was honest. It was certainly guaranteed to be challenging, and would be sure to clear away the cobwebs, in any case. She phoned the number, and spoke to a nice man named Richard, who told her where she could hire a wetsuit, and how to get to the lake. They met every Sunday Morning at 8am. Oh dear, she thought, I'll have to miss church. The choir won't be pleased. Oh, what the heck, Margaret. You only live once.

Three days later, Margaret was standing at the edge of a muddy looking lake feeling rather awkward. The wetsuit didn't fit properly, and her weight gain had been rather more grave than she'd previously admitted to herself. She tugged nervously at the stretchy cloth around her stomach. But it was too late now. The other members of the club had already jumped in. She took a tentative step into the water, then another.
Soon she was submerged up to her knees. It was bloody cold. She stopped. Then she closed her eyes and launched her self gracelessly into the water.

It felt like being born.