The Kicking the Bucket List. Cathy Hopkins

      Rose turned to her. ‘Why is that funny?’

      ‘I’ve just realized the inference. Why she’s done it. Mum was saying we’re full of shit.’

      Fair point, I thought.

      ‘In that case, our mother might have been eighty-seven but she was surprisingly immature,’ said Rose. ‘I suppose she thought it was funny too.’

      ‘She probably did,’ I said.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ said Fleur. ‘I’ve had colonics. They’re not so bad. Your skin will glow and your eyes will sparkle. Doesn’t hurt. Might even do us some good.’

      ‘And this is supposed to bring us together how?’ asked Rose.

      ‘I can see the sense of it, sort of,’ I said. ‘A clear-out is always a good thing. Like clearing the leaves out of drains, get rid of the rubbish and you get to the clear water underneath.’

      Rose raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Typical of you to say something like that. Did you hear it at one of your New Age workshops down in Cornwall?’

      ‘No, but I do tell my art students that when they feel that their work isn’t going well. In any creative venture, you always have to clear the gunk first. Don’t you tell your writers that?’

      ‘No. I tell them to rewrite.’

      ‘Same thing, sort of.’

      But I’d lost Rose’s attention. As far as she was concerned, she was the only one whose opinion mattered when it came to being creative. She glanced at her watch. ‘There are so many other things I could be doing with this weekend. I’m going to my room. I’ll see you for the first session at eleven.’

      With that, she turned and walked off.

      Fleur sighed and took the paper from me. ‘Ah. Happy days,’ she said as she glanced at it, then left the room and took off in the direction of the bar.