Party fears two...

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I'm looking at my weekdays this week as the last bit of peace I will have for the next month or so.  This week sees the start of what the husband calls 'The Silly Season', and almost every weekend between now and when we go to Las Vegas to renew our vows is filled up with various parties and functions, festivals, holidays and a hen weekend for yours truly.

Of all of these, the hen weekend is the most terrifying, and was originally thought up by daughters one and two.  Between you and me, I think that they wanted to do this as a way of getting a weekend away on the cheap, knowing full well that I wasn't going to venture any further afield than Bournemouth.  

There are rules of course...

No inflatable objects which might cause offence.  This includes inflatable men (pointless as the last one I saw didn't even have feet let alone anything more interesting) and blow up appendages (I think we all know what I am talking about here and it ain't noses).  An inflatable crocodile for the pool is acceptable as long as it comes complete with a drinks holder.

No sashes.  These proclaim 'Mother of the Bride', Bride To Be' etc etc, and fall into Tacky Town attire.  Let's face it, with so many younger girls going, there's a good chance that someone might think that a sash swap has happened.  One look at me wearing 'Bride To Be', and the curious onlooker will be trying to find the lady wearing my real sash.  One which should probably say, 'Someone in my family is getting married.  I've no idea which girl it is as I haven't seen her since Christmas 2007'.

No veil.  I have enough trouble seeing where I am going without covering my eyes up with cheap netting.

No forfeits.  Unless they include singing a rousing song (may regret saying this) or telling a bawdy joke.

And then there is the dressing up.  Apparently, the latest craze is for the hen party to all dress up as old ladies.  I quite like this idea as there is a good chance that a polyester bingo-wing concealing cardigan and some sensible shoes might be needed. This would also get me onto public transport at OAP prices and a guaranteed seat in the bar.  I might get into character a bit too much as the drink flows though, and start cupping one ear, and shouting, 'Whaddya say?' in a very loud voice whilst hoisting up my knee high surgical stockings to avoid a one inch gap between them and my tweed skirt.

It's an idea.

A terrible one, but an idea nonetheless...


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