After singing songs in Govan, it was off to the glamour of the Wild Cabaret, a fabulous variety show with magicians, acrobats and dancing girls. Oh, and me. It’s catnip to the hen nights of Glasgow.
A Glaswegian hen do is highly inclusive. It’s generally not the done thing to have only the youngsters trip the light fantastic. Everyone’s there, from the 19-year-old in a micro-mini sporting her own bodyweight in lipstick to Great Auntie Jeannie in a sequined cardy and tights thicker than a BBC war correspondent’s kevlar jacket.
One neon cocktail too many, and the conversation flood gates are opened, particularly in the loos.
A woman my age, swaying slightly in the breeze from the hot air hand drier, explained that it was a shame her maw couldn’t join them, but she was moving into a new care home “oot by Coatbridge … naw … Hamilton, naw … Airdrie?” I jumped the gun slightly and said “Motherwell?”
She stopped swaying slightly, took a deep breath, looked me in the eye, and said, “She’s no that great, to be fair.” A slight hiccup and off she went.