Patsy arrived at the coffee shop sweating like Charlie Sheen at a marriage counsellor.
She had spent the previous hour thundering around the bogs of Kildare as she tries to get her body in shape for her big day.
"I'm losing weight faster than a chocoholic in a cabbage field," she gasped as she leaned over the table trying to catch her breath.
In fairness, she is sticking to her guns with the exercise. Her downfall is in thinking that just because she exercises she can eat what she likes for the rest of the day. When her heartbeat had returned to normal she went off to get herself a 'snack' and arrived back armed with lasagne and chips and a slice of banoffee that was bigger than her head. Pleased as punch, she did a little twirl before she sat down. "Jose just loves my new curves," she said, simpering like an old broiler in a henhouse. "And as for my bum . . ."
Josie put up her hand. "We don't need to hear about it. Your arse is between yourself and Jose."
It is at the moment but if she keeps stuffing her gob with banoffee then it's going to need a mattress all of its own.
"To change the subject, have you got my hen night organised?" she asked Josie.
As Josie is the chief bridesmaid, it's her job to organise the hen night. Josie has form in that she also organised mine 23 years ago. When I say she organised it, I mean she booked a restaurant in Dublin to be followed by dancing the night away in a nearby club.
Things didn't exactly go to plan because we weren't five minutes in the restaurant before she fell off her chair, banged her head and knocked herself out. It may have been something to do with the five gin and tonics she downed in the pub beforehand on an empty stomach.
In those days we weren't really that health and safety conscious so, instead of bringing her to hospital we brought her home in a taxi to Patsy's house. She was a bit woozy, so we propped her up in an armchair and Patsy got out her medical dictionary. After perusing a couple of pages she decided that Josie was either suffering from concussion or liver failure.
"Do you think she looks a bit yellow?" she whispered. Josie was wearing so much make-up at the time, it was hard to tell. Luckily for her (and us) she came round.
"Well, have you organised the hen night?" I asked her.
"I've booked a restaurant in Dublin," she replied.
Oh Gawd . . .