A group of women stood laughing, calling someone they knew the Enya of poetry.

 Maudlin rubbish, the blonde condescended.

 Maybe she’ll be just about clever enough to call her book Poetry For Dummies, the redhead sniggered.

 The brunette tossed her Dysoned hair. Weren’t they just hilarious?

An a Capella medley followed, like a mini Live Aid, as the women gush-gasped through a whats-the-world-coming-to-awful-in-palestine-isn’t-it-and-what-about-trump-more-ginger-tea-darling-oh-don’t-get-me-started-on-the-floods -in-Valencia.

 Serenity returned, however, when they all padded off to a group cryotherapy session in their monogrammed country club slippers and fluffy white robes.

 You’re twelve minutes late, the brunette snarkily informed the cryo-therapist, unaware that, as she spoke, an extra hagtag carved itself into her upper lip.

 I hoped the blocking issue the spa had been experiencing with the cryotherapy cabin door had been fully resolved…

 Just then, at the front desk, a pretty girl called Karma changed the playlist. turning the volume up a notch.

 Orinoco Flow.

 Somewhere in Ireland, Enya sneezed. Ka-ching!

Cesca xx