I can’t believe I am actually writing this, but I’m off on a hen weekend this afternoon. As you read this I shall be browsing through the Duty Free at Edinburgh Airport, spraying myself liberally with any perfume that takes my fancy.
Dublin is our destination – a city that a few years ago tried to put the kibosh on all the pre-wedding parties when the city centre pubs banned large single-sex groups. However, as someone recently pointed out, in the dire financial straits that the country is in at present I should think that they will be happy to see anyone spend money, whatever size of group and whether they are men, women or Martians.
Not that I expect that we shall be too rowdy – what with the average age hovering around the half century. I mean, the bride’s sister who is organising the whole shebang is actually a grandmother. Then again, she’s not like any granny that I have encountered before. We haven’t been buying up pink Stetsons and fairy wings, and I very much doubt that we’ll be sporting matching T-shirts saying “Jeffy’s Henner – Lock up Your Sons”. You know, like the sort of scary bunch of females that you see rampaging through the Grassmarket of a Saturday night.
It will be more about pacing oneself at this age. No downing pints of Guinness at lunchtime or an all-day bender in Grafton Street. Personally I have a note of directions to the art gallery and cathedral. I doubt either of those places have had many hen parties darken their doorways.
However, with the euro being what it is, I may well pop into a couple of shops, just to see what nice sensible shoes they have for sale in Ireland’s capital city.
Unlike those Sunday afternoon trains out of Edinburgh, full of people looking as though they had just taken part in the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan, I doubt anyone will bat an eyelid at us lot on the Ryanair flight home. We’re saving our energies for the wedding.