Last Saturday, I found myself – not for the first time and definitely not for the last – at a hen party. The minute you turn 30, hen parties start coming at you like express trains and, just as a rabbit in the headlights, you find yourself with no option other than to twitch nervously until the brutality is over.
This one was different. The bride-to-be was one of my closest friends and her sister had organised what is called a “low-key hen”, which in layman’s terms means that it monopolised only one evening (rather than an entire weekend) and involved delicious food, without any cruel jokes or embarrassing surprises.
