Show Hide image

The bugger, bugged

After a chance meeting with a former News of the World executive who told him his phone had been hacked, Hugh Grant couldn’t resist going back to him – with a hidden tape recorder – to find out if there was more to the story. . .

When I broke down in my midlife crisis car in remotest Kent just before Christmas, a battered white van pulled up on the far carriageway. To help, I thought. But when the driver got out he started taking pictures with a long-lens camera. He came closer to get better shots and I swore at him. Then he offered me a lift the last few miles to my destination. I suspected his motives and swore at him some more. (I'm not entirely sympathetic towards paparazzi.) Then I realised I couldn't get a taxi and was late. So I had to accept the lift.

He turned out to be an ex-News of the World investigative journalist and paparazzo, now running a pub in Dover. He still kept his camera in the car's glove box for just this kind of happy accident.

More than that, he was Paul McMullan, one of two ex-NoW hacks who had blown the whistle (in the Guardian and on Channel 4's Dispatches) on the full extent of phone-hacking at the paper, particularly under its former editor Andy Coulson. This was interesting, as I had been a victim - a fact he confirmed as we drove along. He also had an unusual defence of the practice: that phone-hacking was a price you had to pay for living in a free society. I asked how that worked exactly, but we ran out of time, and next thing we had arrived and he was asking me if I would pose for a photo with him, "not for publication, just for the wall of the pub".

I agreed and the picture duly appeared in the Mail on Sunday that weekend with his creative version of the encounter. He had asked me to drop into his pub some time. So when, some months later, Jemima asked me to write a piece for this paper, it occurred to me it might be interesting to take him up on his invitation.

I wanted to hear more about phone-hacking and the whole business of tabloid journalism. It occurred to me just to interview him straight, as he has, after all, been a whistleblower. But then I thought I might possibly get more, and it might be more fun, if I secretly taped him, The bugger bugged, as it were. Here are some excerpts from our conversation.

Me So, how's the whistleblowing going?
Him I'm trying to get a book published. I sent it off to a publisher who immediately accepted it and then it got legal and they said, "This is never going to get published."
Me Why? Because it accuses too many people of crime?
Him Yes, as I said to the parliamentary commission, Coulson knew all about it and regularly ordered it . . . He [Coulson] rose quickly to the top; he wanted to cover his tracks all the time. So he wouldn't just write a story about a celeb who'd done something. He'd want to make sure they could never sue, so he wanted us to hear the celeb like you on tape saying, "Hello, darling, we had lovely sex last night." So that's on tape - OK, we've got that and so we can publish . . . Historically, the way it went was, in the early days of mobiles, we all had analogue mobiles and that was an absolute joy. You know, you just . . . sat outside Buckingham Palace with a £59 scanner you bought at Argos and get Prince Charles and everything he said.
Me Is that how the Squidgy tapes [of Diana's phone conversations] came out? Which was put down to radio hams, but was in fact . . .
Him Paps in the back of a van, yes . . . I mean, politicians were dropping like flies in the Nineties because it was so easy to get stuff on them. And, obviously, less easy to justify is celebrities. But yes.
Me And . . . it wasn't just the News of the World. It was , you know - the Mail?
Him Oh absolutely, yeah. When I went freelance in 2004 the biggest payers - you'd have thought it would be the NoW, but actually it was the Daily Mail. If I take a good picture, the first person I go to is - such as in your case - the Mail on Sunday. Did you see that story? The picture of you, breaking down . . . I ought to thank you for that. I got £3,000. Whooo!
Me But would they [the Mail] buy a phone-hacked story?
Him For about four or five years they've absolutely been cleaner than clean. And before that they weren't. They were as dirty as anyone . . . They had the most money.
Me So everyone knew? I mean, would Rebekah Wade have known all this stuff was going on?
Him Good question. You're not taping, are you?
Me [slightly shrill voice] No.
Him Well, yeah. Clearly she . . . took over the job of [a journalist] who had a scanner who was trying to sell it to members of his own department. But it wasn't a big crime. [NB: Rebekah Brooks has always denied any knowledge of phone-hacking. The current police investigation is into events that took place after her editorship of the News of the World.]
It started off as fun - you know, it wasn't against the law, so why wouldn't you? And it was only because the MPs who were fiddling their expenses and being generally corrupt kept getting caught so much they changed the law in 2001 to make it illegal to buy and sell a digital scanner. So all we were left with was - you know - finding a blag to get your mobile [records] out of someone at Vodafone. Or, when someone's got it, other people swap things for it.
Me So they all knew? Wade probably knew all about it all?
Him [...] Cameron must have known - that's the bigger scandal. He had to jump into bed with Murdoch as everyone had, starting with Thatcher in the Seventies . . . Tony Blair . . . [tape is hard to hear here] Maggie openly courted Murdoch, saying, you know, "Please support me." So when Cameron, when it came his turn to go to Murdoch via Rebekah Wade . . . Cameron went horse riding regularly with Rebekah. I know, because as well as doorstepping celebrities, I've also doorstepped my ex-boss by hiding in the bushes, waiting for her to come past with Cameron on a horse . . . before the election to show that - you know - Murdoch was backing Cameron.
Me What happened to that story?
Him The Guardian paid for me to do it and I stepped in it and missed them, basically. They'd gone past - not as good as having a picture.
Me Do you think Murdoch knew about phone-hacking?
Him Errr, possibly not. He's a funny bloke given that he owns the Sun and the Screws . . . quite puritanical. Sorry to talk about Divine Brown, but when that came out . . . Murdoch was furious: "What are you putting that on our front page for? You're bringing down the tone of our papers." [Indicating himself] That's what we do over here.
Me Well, it's also because it was his film I was about to come out in.
Him Oh. I see.
Me Yeah. It was a Fox film.
[A pause here while we chat to other customers, and then - ]
Him So anyway, let me finish my story.
Me Murdoch, yes . . .
Him So I was sent to do a feature on Moulin Rouge! at Cannes, which was a great send anyway. Basically my brief was to see who Nicole Kidman was shagging - what she was doing, poking through her bins and get some stuff on her. So Murdoch's paying her five million quid to big up the French and at the same time paying me £5.50 to fuck her up . . . So all hail the master. We're just pawns in his game. How perverse is that?
Me Wow. You reckon he never knew about it?
Him [pause] I don't even think he really worried himself too much about it.
Me What's his son called?
Him James. They're all mates together. They all go horse riding. You've got Jeremy Clarkson lives here [in Oxfordshire]. Cameron lives here, and Rebekah Wade is married to Brooks's son [the former racehorse trainer Charlie Brooks]. Cameron gets dressed up as the Stig to go to Clarkson's 50th birthday party [NB: it was actually to record a video message for the party]. Is that demeaning for a prime minister? It should be the other way round, shouldn't it? So basically, Cameron is very much in debt to Rebekah Wade for helping him not quite win the election . . . So that was my submission to parliament - that Cameron's either a liar or an idiot.
Me But don't you think that all these prime ministers deliberately try to get the police to drag their feet about investigating the whole [phone-hacking] thing because they don't want to upset Murdoch?
Him Yeah. There's that . . . You also work a lot with policemen as well . . . One of the early stories was [and here he names a much-loved TV actress in her sixties] used to be a street walker - whether or not she was, but that's the tip.
Me and Chum MLTVA?!
Me I can't believe it. Oh no!
Chum Really??
Him Yeah. Well, not now . . .
Chum Oh, it'd be so much better if it was now.
Him So I asked a copper to get his hands on the phone files, but because it's only a caution it's not there any more. So that's the tip . . . it's a policeman ringing up a tabloid reporter and asking him for ten grand because this girl had been cautioned right at the start of his career. And then I ask another policemen to go and check the records . . . So that's happening regularly. So the police don't particularly want to investigate.
Me But do you think they're going to have to now?
Him I mean - 20 per cent of the Met has taken backhanders from tabloid hacks. So why would they want to open up that can of worms? . . . And what's wrong with that, anyway? It doesn't hurt anyone particularly. I mean, it could hurt someone's career - but isn't that the dance with the devil you have to play?
Me Well, I suppose the fact that they're dragging their feet while investigating a mass of phone-hacking - which is a crime - some people would think is a bit depressing about the police.
Him But then - should it be a crime? I mean, scanning never used to be a crime. Why should it be? You're transmitting your thoughts and your voice over the airwaves. How can you not expect someone to just stick up an aerial and listen in?
Me So if someone was on a landline and you had a way of tapping in . . .
Him Much harder to do.
Me But if you could, would you think that was illegal? Do you think that should be illegal?
Him I'd have to say quite possibly, yeah. I'd say that should be illegal.
Me But a mobile phone - a digital phone . . . you'd say it'd be all right to tap that?
Him I'm not sure about that. So we went from a point where anyone could listen in to anything. Like you, me, journalists could listen in to corrupt politicians, and this is why we have a reasonably fair society and a not particularly corrupt or criminal prime minister, whereas other countries have Gaddafi. Do you think it's right the only person with a decent digital scanner these days is the government? Whereas 20 years ago we all had a go? Are you comfortable that the only people who can listen in to you now are - is it MI5 or MI6?
Me I'd rather no one listened in, to be honest. And I might not be alone there. You probably wouldn't want people listening to your conversations.
Him I'm not interesting enough for anyone to want to listen in.
Me Ah . . . I think that was one of the questions asked last week at one of the parliamentary committees. They asked Yates [John Yates, acting deputy commissioner of the Metropolitan Police] if it was true that he thought that the NoW had been hacking the phones of friends and family of those girls who were murdered . . . the Soham murder and the Milly girl [Milly Dowler].
Him Yeah. Yeah. It's more than likely. Yeah . . . It was quite routine. Yeah - friends and family is something that's not as easy to justify as the other things.
Me But celebrities you would justify because they're rich?
Him Yeah. I mean, if you don't like it, you've just got to get off the stage. It'll do wonders.
Me So I should have given up acting?
Him If you live off your image, you can't really complain about someone . . .
Me I live off my acting. Which is different to living off your image.
Him Yeah, but you're still presenting yourself to the public. And if the public didn't know you -
Me They don't give a shit. I got arrested with a hooker and they still came to my films. They don't give a fuck about your public image. They just care about whether you're in an entertaining film or not.
Him That's true . . . I have terrible difficulty with him [points to pap shot of Johnny Depp]. He's really difficult. You know, I was in Venice and he was a nightmare to do because he walks around looking like Michael Jackson. And the punchline was . . . after leading everyone a merry dance the film was shot on an open balcony - I mean, it was like - he was standing there in public.
Me And you don't see the difference between the two situations?
Chum He was actually working at this time? As opposed to having his own private time?
Him You can't hide all the time.
Me So you're saying, if you're Johnny Depp or me, you don't deserve to have a private life?
Him You make so much more money. You know, most people in Dover take home about £200 and struggle.
Me So how much do you think the families of the Milly and Soham girls make?
Him OK, so there are examples that are poor and you can't justify - and that's clearly one of them.
Me I tell you the thing I still don't get - if you think it was all right to do all that stuff, why blow the whistle on it?
Him Errm . . . Right. That's interesting. I actually blew the whistle when a friend of mine at the Guardian kept hassling me for an interview. I said, "Well if you put the name of the Castle [his pub] on the front page of the Guardian, I'll do anything you like." So that's how it started.
Me So, have you been leant on by the NoW, News International, since you blew the whistle?
Him No, they've kept their distance. I mean, there's people who have much better records - my records are non-existent. There are people who actually have tapes and transcripts they did for Andy Coulson.
Me And where are these tapes and transcripts? Do you think they've been destroyed?
Him No, I'm sure they're saving them till they retire.
Me So did you personally ever listen to my voice messages?
Him No, I didn't personally ever listen to your voice messages. I did quite a lot of stories on you, though. You were a very good earner at times.

Those are the highlights. As I drove home past the white cliffs, I thought it was interesting - apart from the fact that Paul hates people like me, and I hate people like him, we got on quite well. And, absurdly, I felt a bit guilty for recording him.

And he does have a very nice pub. The Castle Inn, Dover, for the record. There are rooms available, too. He asked me if I'd like to sample the honeymoon suite some time: "I can guarantee your privacy."

-- Listen to the audio now --

This article first appeared in the 11 April 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Jemima Khan guest edit

Alexis Anne MacKenzie
Show Hide image

There Won't Be Blood: Suzanne Moore on the menopause

The female body can be a mess, so I simply decided to have it – the menopause – one cold November weekend a few years ago. But women my age won’t just melt away and we won’t become invisible.

Something in me has died. Not an actual thing. I know what that feels like. I have had a dead foetus inside me and been told to go home and wait to miscarry “naturally”. This is different. Another kind of ending. The bits that made me a woman of some description . . . they are still there, but they have no useful function. No more ovulation. No more bleeding. No more babies. No more contraception. No more wondering. No more tampon tax. The curse is lifted.

I want a medal, a paper hat, a prize; some kind of public recognition or a rite of passage at least, involving fire-eating, chanting and mescalin. Instead I find that no one wants me even to talk about it. “It” being the menopause. “My womb is a tomb” doesn’t seem to work well as a conversation starter.

“Can I have some sort of certificate?” I ask my poor GP.

“It doesn’t really work like that.”

“When can I say it’s over, that I’m done?”

She sighs. I like her and I feel if she could she would give me more than a wry smile.

No one really asks me how I am getting on with the old “change of life”. Especially not men. They probably think that would be rude and I would bite their heads off and they would probably be right. I don’t really have the mood swings that some talk about. I have just the one mood. Rage. I am enraged as soon as I wake up, enraged by the news, enraged by how the world is, enraged when I can’t sleep, and I can never sleep.

Some women cry. A lot. My friend cried because she saw a baby: “A baby at the bus stop. I cried at the bus stop.” She repeats the story several times until the bus stop is more significant to me than the baby. This is the hormonal horror that awaits. Weeping on buses. She is fully gone, I think to myself. A few years older than me, and constantly fanning herself. An evening with her is a trial, as the heating has to be switched on and off several times. Her thermostat has packed up. Her actual thermostat, the one in her house. It’s all the fiddling.

It is somehow reassuring to know most of my women friends are even more deranged than me. They talk of herbs and potions from hippie shops, black cohosh and sage tea, which is revolting. But some of the sisterhood around this time of life is what my kids would call “judgy”. There are right ways and wrong ways to do it. The natural and the unnatural. That is what being a woman is, I decide. Doing it the wrong way. I am further incensed.

“Are you having hot flushes?” my doctor asked at one point.

“I don’t know.”

“Then you are not,” she says. “You would know if you were. You are in the perimenopause.” She doesn’t have time to explain the perimenopause. I suspect it’s because she can’t. It can go on for ten years, apparently. Ten years?!

It’s just as well I am handling everything so well. I end my relationship because it’s bad and I end it badly because there is no other way. A process of shedding starts. Some hoard and hold on. This is not for me. Some intuition tells me that freedom will demand letting go.

At the time, I didn’t see these feelings as menopausal. But now I do. This deep sense of time passing, through one’s flesh, of not wanting more of the same, a sense of coming into the present and only the present, understanding that time is valuable and time has passed: these come through knowing that parts of my life are over. I can no longer create life – and I have created three – so now I must create my own. This self-creation is either selfish or absolutely necessary to survive. Yes, I can jump out of a plane, get a new “hobby”, rush around in a flurry of activities involving Zumba and watercolours . . . but why would I? The manic overachievement of the menopausal feels a lot like denial.

Read the medical books. Look at the fashion spreads. Women dry up. Youth is moist, wet, dewy. Old women are husks with coarsened skin and thinning vaginal walls and the cause of this curse is hormonal: oestrogen. We no longer produce enough of it. The ovaries stop their egg production. The average age for the menopause is 51 but it can come much earlier. Chemotherapy will bring it on. IVF treatment induces it; this is the fresh hell.

Some sail through it. I asked a brilliant 80-year-old I met smoking at a party about it. “Honey,” she said, “I was too damn busy to notice.” That generation was tougher than
mine in every way. Some of our angst is cultural. To put it into perspective, historically a lot of women just died before they got to this age. We are the lucky ones.

Having lost enough friends along the way, I know this but I can’t avoid the questions: what does it mean to be a woman who, having served her purpose – reproduction – may have another kind of life? We may not define ourselves by our reproductive organs, whether we have children or not, but we are defined by them. Whatever your opinion about your role, your sex, your gender, your identity, your biology, your destiny, something is physically happening. If one enters “womanhood” with menstruation, now you are exiting it. A predator whose bones are thinning is a woman to be feared. A woman whose ovaries no longer do what they should do is somehow ungendered and possibly disgusting.

The sanctioned discussions around the menopause are fairly limited, mostly to “ageing”. The physicality is rarely mentioned. Instead we ask: “Can we have more older women on TV?” “Can a grandmother be a president? “Can mutton be a lamb shish?” Well, yes, obviously, if these are the parameters of the debate.

Inevitably, then we see pictures of women who look good for their age. Helen Mirren, Carine Roitfeld and the other one. You know, some other one who is still desirable. I want to scream. It is their job to look good. This is not the job of most women, although we are increasingly groomed to think it is, to define ourselves purely physically. The advice comes thick and heavy as we try to stop being thick and heavy. It is relentless and relentlessly boring. Exercise and everything in moderation. Another part of me dies.

The menopause is not sexy. We get it. We don’t get it. It might be ultra-sexy, actually. Hormones are druggy and – rather like in pregnancy – some women find their libido shoots up; for others, it declines and they express relief. We are all different but the truism remains that our bodies, battle-scarred as they may be, are now somewhere we ought to feel at home. To not feel at home is the source of terror. To feel the fear of where this all might be heading.

Simone de Beauvoir could barely look at herself in the mirror, her own ageing was so horrific to her. For some, the cloak of invisibility of middle age is worn with aplomb; for others, it is a shroud. The worrying about libido, too much, too little, is real. If you want to depress yourself, google “clitoral atrophy”. Although I am not a doctor, the solution seems to be: use it or lose it.

The lack of information around the menopause is one of the things that has shocked me most. It is a mystery to many well-informed women. The perimenopause, for instance, is an all-purpose diagnosis for all kinds of ills. Many women are told they are “peri” with no idea what this means. Erratic bleeding, insomnia, itching, vaginal dryness, memory lapse and vasomotor disturbance are just a few of the symptoms that could make you “peri”. You are post-menopausal when you haven’t had a period for over a year.

The lack of definition bothered me. The female body can be a mess, so I simply decided to have it – the menopause – one cold November weekend a few years ago. I took to my bed, decided that my time was over and nested in a cloud of self-pity. By the Monday I was bored and went out and saw a great gig. These are a good menopausal activity, as they occur in dark spaces and no one cares if you perspire.

But I am not surprised so many women end up utterly depressed. If the menopause is seen as basically a disease, as lack, then women’s bodily chemistry must be rebalanced with hormone replacement therapy or antidepressants. Lately I am seeing that a lot. Middle-aged women are now on selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs) for what are basically the symptoms of menopause. The encroaching darkness must be kept at bay. Having seen women go from crawling around on all fours to functioning well on HRT, I know it can help. But why is there so little discussion about long-term medicating of the female body?

Despite my melodrama, in truth, I hardly suffered at all. Why would I? I never had terrible periods: indeed, I used to see PMT in others as a form of attention-seeking. But when menopausal insomnia hit me I felt unable to function.

“Can you not fall asleep, or do you keep waking?” the doctor asked.

“Both.”

More blood tests. Too much cortisol. “It’s the stress hormone. Your body is somehow trying to kick-start your ovaries. It will try anything.”

“I hate my ovaries,” I wailed. The doctor prescribed me tricyclics, the old-fashioned kind of antidepressants, just to use at night. Immediately I trebled the dose. When Michael Jackson died, my first thought was to wonder what sleeping medication he was on. Can I get that? That is what insomnia does.

***

As the drugs didn’t work, I was offered the sleep clinic. Off I trotted weekly to cognitive behavioural therapy, the NHS’s new bargain-basement cure-all. The first thing I was told by a shrink was that I must stop referring to our therapy as “The Insomniac Club” or, indeed, referring to myself as an insomniac. My thinking needed reframing.

Again, no one wanted me to use the word “menopause” but they pushed me to learn something called “sleep hygiene”. When I described physical feelings of insomnia that were decidedly menopausal, that I could actually feel descending on me, they talked about turning off my laptop. This did not help. Mostly I didn’t understand why I was having group therapy with a perfectly nice but unemployed man who couldn’t sleep at night because he slept all day; a wired and scratchy young woman who was always shivering; a very angry man who claimed not to have slept for ten years; and a shy emo who did sleep, but was troubled by the idea of seasonal affective disorder.

But the reason I was there summed up for me what is wrong with our attitudes to the menopause. A psychiatrist had assessed me over the phone.

One of the questions he asked was: “Do you have dark thoughts?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of thing?”

“I just think about how I will die and everyone I know will die and how dying is when everything you hold dear is taken away from you bit by bit.”

“Do you have those thoughts often?”

“Yes, often. I always have had. But now a lot.”

To me, this is normal. The NHS clearly does not have a tick box labelled “existentialism”. Somehow over the phone I had been assessed as mildly suicidal. Nothing happened. I just got a letter telling me as much, which is . . . cheerful, first thing in the morning. The thing is, I’m not in the least suicidal – but menopause is something to do with death and yet no one wants you to say this out loud. No one at all.

To deny the connection to death is a lie. Your body is not returning to a previous state. The death may be metaphorical, as you are not dying, unless your body was only ever there for childbearing. Are women who have not had children lesser women? Are we only defined by motherhood and fuckability? No, of course not. We are more than that. That’s what we tell ourselves. But what is this more? How do we reproduce ourselves for ourselves? If you have a moment. If you are not looking after children and parents. If you can be bothered.

Maybe that’s why so much cheery advice on looking younger (it’s not happening) or getting a pet or internet dating can be grating. And inane. A further denial of loss. I’ve never met a woman who misses having periods, but I know many who felt a form of mourning in middle age. The mourning is unvoiced and unsure because one of the things women learn very young is that ­putting yourself at the centre of things is unbecoming. The flood of feelings about life, death, ageing, sex and the whole damn shebang is easier to push away, to belittle, than to confront.

This may also explain the constant uplift of some of the blogs on the subject. At least women do exchange information online, and because most of us are so clueless this is useful. I knew far more as a teenager about what menstruation was than I knew about the menopause as a fiftysomething. While information is scant, the drive to be happy is so manic that it is near hysteria.

My favourite advice was on the value for menopausal symptoms of a nice, hot bath with Taoist oils (no idea). There was a picture of an antique bathtub and an inspirational quote – “There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them”, from Sylvia Plath. The Sylvia Plath. That well-known life coach.

Is a jaunty sense of humour a response to fear? Germaine Greer may have been right when she said that what women “are afraid of losing is not femininity, which can always be faked and probably is always fake, but femaleness”. If by femaleness she means the ability to reproduce – certainly not a defining part of every woman’s life – then the return to the individual that existed before menstruation raises interesting questions. Her view may be seen as unfashionable essentialism, or rather we may begin to see the menopause as a form of transitioning. For it is a time of transition. Undoubtedly. Is a woman who is free of her “sexual and reproductive destiny” less of a woman? If so, someone needs to explain what a woman is exactly and why she may not now become more of herself.

In the early 1990s the menopause and what it meant were explored by feminists such as Greer and Gail Sheehy, who stood at opposite ends of the spectrum. For Sheehy, the menopause was something that women as health consumers would lobby around, breaking the last great taboo. HRT would stop osteoporosis and heart attacks, and women could embrace a second adulthood in ways men couldn’t. Some medics described women low in oestrogen as “the walking dead” and Sheey’s 1991 book The Silent Passage is a call to arms to demand intervention.

Since then, debates about HRT and breast cancer have raged and the standard dosage of HRT has come down.

The theory is that sexless cronehood can thus be swerved. The practice turns out to be different. The sexed-up older woman, the “cougar”, honed and toned, botoxed and HRTed up to the nines, is still a figure of fun, for men and for other women. We do not like the bodies of older women even when they are our own. And every pleasure-giving thing from sunlight to gin is said to age us faster. The menopausal woman must decide whether she will go with thinning bones or a higher risk of breast cancer – and for many it is no choice at all, as they feel so terrible. We still have to function.

The production (and politics) of oestrogen is incredibly complicated both within our bodies and without. Too much of it is bad for us. Too little of it is bad for us. This was brought home to me when I was in a hospital with yet another friend with a tumour in her breast. “It’s because I smoked, isn’t it?” she said to the consultant.

“No. We see every type of breast cancer here and the only things that all the women have in common is that they have breasts and produce oestrogen.”

Not all cancers are related to oestrogen but some are. It is produced in the female body, mainly through the ovaries, but also the liver and the adrenal glands. A few of the things that make us produce too much of it and are therefore dangerous are excess fat, too many carbohydrates, alcohol, meat and perfume – basically what I would call the finer things in life. Then there’s all the excess oestrogen in the environment from plastics, pesticides and from women who are leaking it out all over the shop because they are on the Pill.

At this point, if you are sensible, you may make an informed choice about a healthy diet and exercise to get through menopausal symptoms. Cortisol – the likely cause of my insomnia – is related to insulin production, so I can vouch that if you cut out all sugar and alcohol your mood will level out, your cravings will stop and your night sweats will ease. After three weeks of this, however, I felt such a life wasn’t really worth living.

Upping your calcium is a good idea. Women swap hard-won tips such as “tahini is a great source of calcium” but it’s all a bit reminiscent of that time when you’ve just had a baby and you go out and people assume that all you want to talk about is babies, when it’s the last thing you want to do. Except this time it’s even worse, because you’re talking about seeds. Still, you are now in the zone of bone scans and mammograms, with bowel cancer tests to look forward to.

I was called in for a smear. While the cold metal was still inside, the nurse said casually: “Well, you won’t be needing these so often. Cervical cancer is a young woman’s disease.” As I was putting my knickers back on she pulled back the curtain to hand me a leaflet on pelvic floor exercises.

This was one of the better days.

***

As always, for the rich, there is something better and more “natural”. The common or garden kind of HRT is made from hormones extracted from the urine of pregnant horses. Private doctors prescribe BHRT instead: bio-identical hormone replacement therapy. Bio-identicals are said to be natural. They are made not from horse piss but from Mexican yams, which, let’s face it, sounds a lot nicer. And somehow more feminine.

Bio-identicals are prescribed in carpeted offices and individual doses after a series of tests. Those who take them swear by them. As so often, though, a lot of sense goes out of the window when people start talking about drugs versus naturally occurring chemicals, Big Pharma versus . . . private “BHRT” medication.

It’s a minefield of wishful thinking. This is an argument about giving women synthetic hormones rather than the naturally occurring versions that some of their advocates insist are not drugs. This is patently rubbish: if something is stopping your hot flushes and depression and keeping your skin smooth and all the things that BHRT claims, then it’s a drug. Perhaps BHRT is a better drug and the way it is prescribed is better than the random handing-out of normal HRT by stressed-out GPs. Perhaps it is a better way, but to argue for access to these better drugs, or more information, we would have to think politically about the menopause and it is hard to be political about things that embarrass us.

Indeed, we may begin to question why this stage of life must be dealt with by chemicals at all. Are women to spend most of their lives ingesting hormones to stop them getting pregnant, and then the rest of it ingesting others to mimic the effects of oestrogen? For this is what we are doing.

Is the answer to every woman struggling with aches, pains and questions about her very being simply HRT or SSRIs? It can certainly feel like that. At one stage I dabbled with HRT. I can’t remember why. It was a locum and I think he wanted to get me and my dark thoughts out of his surgery. For nine days I took the pills, waiting to feel something. But there was nothing. On the tenth day I woke in the night with what I can only describe as labour pains and with puddles of blood everywhere. My “femaleness” had returned with a vengeance and it was so horrible, I had to stop myself dialling 999 and telling them I was Carrie.

HRT may be a godsend for some, but there is something very odd in tricking the female body into thinking it is still capable of reproduction when it is not, just in order to remain lubricated and shiny. Those with partners now have no excuse for twin beds or relief from “conjugal duties”. With Viagra and HRT and the ideology that sex is compulsory for health and happiness, we can all go on for ever and ever. The time when women could call it a day or no longer need to scratch that itch is gone. For some, there is joy in no longer fearing pregnancy; for others, sex is one less chore they have to perform. Or it may be that many older women renounce sex because men have renounced them for a younger model and it’s easier to pretend it’s a choice.

Lubrication is important in so many ways. Use lube for sure. But know that you no longer have to be it. All those years when femininity was enacted as social lubrication have gone. You don’t have enough time left to go round making everyone else feel comfortable. Let them sort themselves out. What does return – or never left but I can only now admit to – is what I can only describe as the delightful cockiness of adolescence.

Alongside this is the rage. The rage I felt so intensely is so obviously a rage against the dying of the light that I am suspicious of New Age stuff that seeks to pacify it. Holding on to this rage and not caring what people think of it is powerful.

What helps is paying attention to yourself – and I don’t mean exfoliation regimes, I mean attention to your interior self, because the outside is going to decline whatever you do. Listen to your psyche beginning to grasp what it does not want to let itself know: that it is not immortal. Listen and learn, for this is the place creative thought comes from. Creation is always to imagine something living beyond yourself out there in the world. This urge surely is not reducible to femaleness or reproduction. So this time of loss may be a time of gain if you allow it.

Pleasure is still possible because at this time, thankfully, most of us start needing glasses. We can no longer see all the flaws that young girls with luminous skins search for on themselves with eyes like microscopes. The light may indeed be dying but we all need a dimmer switch at hand.

As we start to exit “womanhood” we need again to redefine it. The curse. The change. These old words come up as some seek a power grab in the realm of the spiritual, too often the substitute for real power. Serenity can’t possibly be a bad goal, though I don’t see so many middle-aged men seeking it. Instead, I prefer Angela Davis’s take on the serenity prayer: “I’m no longer accepting the things I cannot change. I’m changing the things I cannot accept.”

Menopause makes us impatient. This is good. Women my age won’t just melt away and we won’t become invisible. It’s a fight for sure, but then it always is. Womanhood and femaleness, born or made, is nomadic. That place we call home shifts so much over the course of a lifetime. In this movement lies some knowledge that may scare us as much as it may set us free.

“The change” can be medicated, but what the menopause does is tell us explicitly that although parts of us are now “done”, there is more to do and it’s now or never. Accepting this can feel bloody awful sometimes and whatever gets you through the night may indeed be worth having. Unquestioningly dulling all these feelings associated with menopause exacts another price, too. Natural is not better than unnatural yet surely by 50 or so women should be able to make informed choices that can only happen when we discuss exactly what those choices are. Too few do. Doctors who are trained to prescribe HRT do not know quite how and when to take women off it. There is withdrawal, and there is no soft landing for so many. HRT is not a cure for menopause but a ploy to delay it and the devastating symptoms often return. Except now you are in your sixties, not your fifties. Many seem unclear about this.

For me, some clarity comes after and even during the heat daze. It just does. One day I am in an office and a guy says to me: “You’re on fire lately, Suzanne.”

“Wow!” I think. “What a sensitive sort of man is this man, knowing about my fluctuating hormones. How does he know that I’m currently what one of my friends describes as ‘sweaty and mental’?”

Normally when women are given a compliment we demur. But there’s no need any longer.

“You are right!” I say. “I am actually on fire!”

He looks slightly worried. He backs away. He clearly thinks I am mad, so I decide to leave the building and go to the revolving door.

It whirls round as I push the door harder, as I am now on the way to the next place. Everything changes. Inside and outside. All the time. How did I ever think life was anything but this?

This. Now.

I am “in the moment”, as they say.

The door jams. I have pushed it too hard. We are all stuck. Now a young woman trying to come into the building starts tutting that I am making her late. I burst out laughing to myself and I don’t care who sees me cackling.

Then the door starts moving again and through I go. 

Suzanne Moore is a writer for the Guardian and the New Statesman. She writes the weekly “Telling Tales” column in the NS.

This article first appeared in the 13 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Battle for Calais