TWO of my best friends are getting married this year – one in a pub in West Cork, one in a marquee in Somerset. But never mind the details because you know how the saying goes ... first comes love, then come ... hens!
I say 'hens', because to refer to them in their previous guise as 'hen nights' would be erroneous.
This is my first hen, but as many women already know, hens are now no longer a night out with the lay-dees in the local boozer. No, hen nights have gone all Liz Hurley (she of the week-long weddings).
And so an email pings into my inbox. It contains a lot of caps. In fact I think the chief bridesmaid might have been accidentally leaning on the caps button, or else she just wanted to emphasis that EVERYONE needed to make a SPECIAL effort because the bride DESERVES it. This is not a good start, reckless use of caps really grinds my gears.
The options for the hen are: a house by the coast, a city break or a trip to 'Shagaluf'. Now don't get me wrong; I'm very excited about the wedding, but when did I sign up to a holiday with 17 women I don't know? The chain of replies was even more alarming. Women were batting around potential dates based on babysitter availability and breastfeeding arrangements.
I was tempted to reply with a "Hey gals, I used to have this great trick where I turned my parents upside down and shook them until all their money fell out, but that stopped working years ago, so I was thinking pizza, then on to a nightclub in the country we live in."
However I stopped myself, because when it comes to weddings, women are about as rational as Northerners are about flags, and common sense is as rare as hen's teeth.