Hens party

SuperNintendo said:
Sometimes a thread comes along with so much potential you just stare at it like a deer into headlights.

Taureolt said:
What is a hens party? Is that like a mons party (lesbian orgy)?

Taureolt said:
Sounds like a pretty chilly party.

nucci said:
I'm not Italian.
Was living there for a bit but now need to change my profile. I am back in Sunny australia. And loving our glorious climate. Mmmmm.
This bachelorette party will be a pool party in summer around 40 plus degrees. So with enough cocktails it may very well end up as a lesbian orgy.

Taureolt said:
oh celcius. Sorry, I'm American. Well, serve a bunch of iced stuff. Popsicles are a must, as they are very phallic. Have the stripper be the ice cream man.

FridgeMagnet said:

Whatever you do, take pictures. I beseech you.

swingkitten said:
Definitely popsicles. Made of alcohol.

And drinks. Made of alcohol.

Oh, and male strippers are rad, just make sure they dress up really kitschy, like as German stormtroopers, or... oh OH! STEVE IRWIN! You need a bunch of skeezy Steve Irwinesque stripper-men dancing around.

nucci said:

Aussies think Steve Irwin is a knobjockey.
Vodka doesn't freeze...what other alcohol can put in the popsicles? Maybe a bit of liquid E to get the lesbian orgy up and happening!

Taureolt said:

How come I keep my voddy in the freezer and it doesn't freeze?
Vodka does freeze. It just has a lower melting point than water does. Have a calvacade of Croc Hunter strippers do a little dance, while slowly turning up the room temperture...

nucci said:

Aussies think Steve Irwin is a knobjockey.
Vodka doesn't freeze...what other alcohol can put in the popsicles? Maybe a bit of liquid E to get the lesbian orgy up and happening!

Margret was away with her friends the other weekend. It was a hen party thing. I hesitate to mention that, as English women on hen nights are quite the most repellent spectacle it's possible to encounter - if we happen across a group of hen night women when we're out together, Margret will invariably point at them and dare me to defend a culture that has incubated such an embarrassment. So, let me stress that, though it was technically a hen weekend, it wasn't the whooping, cackling, "Look! We have a huge inflatable penis and an openly desperate desire to have you think we're fearless unfettered rebels so don't let the fact that we clearly all work at a local building society and are trying way too hard!" kind of affair that you'll often see congoing through Brannigans in ill-advised skirts. It was still hen, though, there's no escaping that. I stayed here with the kids; if they asked where she was, I had planned - to avoid inflicting on them the psychological damage of knowing their mother was at a hen weekend - to say that she was simply away serving a short sentence for shoplifting.

Before she went, she asked me to record a couple of gardening programmes that were going to be on the TV. The first night she was there she rang me. She'd had a row with some bloke in a bar. He'd apparently pinched her bottom and then, when she responded, um, 'unfavourably' to this, had tried to smooth the waters by saying he couldn't resist as she was the best looking woman there - a point which Margret found really quite an insufficient reason for being pinched by somebody; she expressed this concept to him. Now, as I was a good two-hundred miles away and, in any case, had a big pile of ironing to do, there wasn't really very much I could do to support her. I did think of demonstrating that I shared her contempt for him by pointing out that the bloke was clearly also a calculating liar: 'There's no way you could have been the best looking woman there - I mean, what about Jo, just for a start?' Some tiny alarm rang deep in my head, however, and told me that not saying this would work out better for me in the long run. She continued to talk for a while, and finished by reminding me to video the gardening programmes.

The next day, right on cue, I forgot to video the gardening programmes.
I can't quite convey to you the icing I felt on my skin and the claustrophobic tightening of my chest that occurred when I idly glanced down at the clock on my taskbar and realised I'd forgotten to record them. I know you think I should have set the timer on the VCR, but I deliberately didn't. The timer on our VCR has poor self-discipline and vague life goals and will often fail to work, just for kicks. So, rather than risk giving the job to a recidivist video recorder, I decided it was far safer to do it manually. And to fill in the time until that point by going up on the computer, entering 'Fairuza Balk' in Google and, you know, just seeing where that led. It was obvious I was going to have to tell Margret what had happened and - although it was just 'one of those things', for which no one was really to blame - I knew very soon, and with a clarity of understanding that bordered on the spiritual, that the best time at which to inform her about the situation was while she was still two-hundred miles away from me. Therefore, I immediately texted her mobile - knowing she wouldn't have it switched on, because she never has it switched on, but that she'd see it before too long. Only, the second I'd sent the message, I began to worry. I'd assumed that letting her know now would give her a chance to cool down before she returned. But, equally likely, it would just give her a chance to work up a head of steam. And, if Margret's playing a, 'The trouble with Mil is...' riff, then the very worst place to ensure that it doesn't build and build is in the company of a load of exclusively female friends on a hen night. And she was in Manchester. Manchester. She was going to come back after a day and a half of, "...well, it's not for me to say, Margret, but if I were going out with Mil, then...", wired on crack, and carrying an Uzi.
That night, I slept under the children's bed.