I’m off on a hen weekend. It’s only the second I’ve been on and if I’m honest I’m nervous.
Hen parties aren’t my thing, especially ones where huge quantities of alcohol are consumed and the poor bride-to-be is draped in various accessories, some depicting male genitalia. That’s my idea of hell.
I don’t really drink and having to get up at 4.30am for work during the week means staying up past 9.30pm is pushing it.
I’m desperately hoping this weekend will be a classier, more laid back affair. We’re doing an assault course, learning Michael Jackson’s Thriller dance, and going for dinner. This sounds fine, but the bit that worries me most is that we’re staying in a Hen House. Let’s just hope it’s not too near the pig sty.