So, my extended siblings and I organised my sister’s hen party. It was an unequivocal success, if I do say so myself. There was a champagne brunch with the grown ups in the morning, including a lovely little incriminating video of the groom answering salacious questions. And there was a swanky Jilly Cooper-esque cocktail party with obligatory sexy stuff in the evening. There was drama, bitching, tears, more bitching and silly amounts of giggling. And then later there was dancing and more cocktails and far too much champagne and a barman in riding boots and a sleeveless top. And my sister. Radiant and happy and completely and utterly smashed.
And through it all I couldn’t help disassociating for little moments. Looking in from the outside at this oddest of rituals. As we publicly humiliated one grinning bride to be. Forced her to drink glass after glass of champagne. And then later, shot after shot. Invited a-um-marital aids demonstrator-to um-demonstrate marital aids. (Ag, let’s bring in the spades; we had a fuckerware party.) And there were nipple clamps and large rotating things with animal names and anal beads and vinyl policewomen outfits and stuff.
And my sister’s face was a fabulous picture. She of the utterly vanilla relationship bought herself some handcuffs and a cockring. I swear. The demonstrator was wide eyed too; all these Constantia mink and manure set girls, in their pearls and cocktail frocks, scrabbling to purchase a nice 8inch vibrating love aid and some strawberry lube.
And then we dressed my baby sister in her riding gear: jods, a feather boa, her chaps and her high heels. Fed her another shooter and dragged her off to the night club de jour. We danced and flung our heads back and sang and stomped our feet and sent men away in droves.
And as I stumbled out of the night club at 3am, barefoot and happy and not a little dazed, I had another brief moment of prayer to whatever deity controls our funny little lives; dear god! Please don’t EVER let me be tempted to get married. Please!