Who Let The Hens Out?

Hen weekends instil in me a dread akin to that of inadvertently catching someone chowing down on a plateful of chicken livers.

The Hen that changed my opinion

So when I was invited to one earlier in the year, it was only because I dearly love the ‘hen’/bride to be that I signed up without prejudice.  And now the year had drained away in a fug of inexplicable weather fronts and other unfathomable milestones to the point where only a day stood between me and the train ride to the secret (at the time) destination. 

I’d arranged to meet one of the other 27 girls due at this Hen weekender (to end all weekends) by the statue of Paddington Bear…at Paddington Station...of course, as we were off to a manor house in the West Country.  Before long (but long enough) the free spirited beauty - one of the hen’s college days friend appeared and not before time as the train was already boarding.

The Manor House that never sleeps

Now for someone dreading the onslaught of typical hen activity, it was in fact I who busted out the first drinkies - pre-mixed G and Ts.   Not long afterwards, out came a bottle of bubbles.  Oh the hypocrisy!  Safe to say that by the time the train pulled into the little village where the others were gradually gathering, we were both suitably sloshed and very open to the following suggested itinerary:

Friday night:  Pyjama party in the house with games in the parlour and late night karaoke in the dining room

Saturday Day:  coach to Bristol city centre for lunch on a moored restaurant boat followed by a boozy quiz themed tour of Bristol harbour by unmoored boat

Saturday afternoon:  coach back to house for respite, a Chinese takeaway and ‘the big prep’ for a night on the tiles

Saturday night:  coach back to Bristol (in a cloud of powder, perfume and party) for a night at Lola Los nightclub

Looking good, feeling fine...all seeming like a great idea at the time

The obligatory dick

That little lot represents one of the best girly weekends away I’ve ever been on.  And while I was the oldest by a mile, I don’t think anyone would have guessed with the amount of rug cutting and revelry that went on at my insistence.

Meet Mr Cafe Patron...at your disservice

My over-ridding memory has to be when one of the girls, a mutual PR friend of mine and the hen’s had her credit card refused at the nightclub 3 times (like Judas).  Having left her bankcard at a bar earlier in the day, where I had been introduced to Café Patron – a moorish tequila-based coffee liquor (Yum – Capital Y!), she was struck dumb on realising that she was basically ‘poor’ for the night.  The shame of it. 

The poor one, the young one, the old one

“Help me I’m poor” came her timid Patron steeped cries as we rolled up the stairs of the manor house in the early hours with me at one point bumping her up the stairs one by one by her bra straps but not before we’d both attempted head stands against a wall. 

Well…it was a hen party afterall.