Women Tell Each Other They are Gorgeous at Moniack Mhor

It’s like we have been starved of each other,

though we have only just met

and we are keen to make up for lost time,

leaning our stripy-topped bosoms on the table,

slapping our hands on its long wooden expanse

and agreeing with each other in shrieks

(Lana laughed enough to pish her breeks).

You’re gorgeous though!

No, you’re feckin gorgeous!

We can’t talk enough

about family, sex and death,

breach labour, Nicola Sturgeon and the NHS.

It’s not every day you wait a decade or two

for a faux medieval candelabra

to shine down on your face

and make you feel like, at last,

you’ve found your rhythm,

your got-it-now place.