AS I am past the first flush of youth – and because I have a pathological fear of nightclubs, having spent my 20s falling out of them at 4am – I decided not to have a traditional hen night.

No L-plates for me, I said.

No fake veils.

And definitely no embarrassing dressing up and parading me about the place, for the laugh.

Something tasteful, I said.

At home.

A party.


And drink. Champagne. Naturally.

Some music.

Conversation. That’s what’s missing modern Ireland, conversation.

“Right you are,” my sister said, making a note of what I’d said with a roll of her eyes and then promptly ignoring most of it.

I could have it at home, she said.

There would of course be food and drink. Champagne. Naturally.

And music.

But there would be L-plates.

Pink ones.

And games. Involving pegs. And asking Yer Man questions about himself and seeing how much I know about him. (Not a huge amount as it turns out!)

As for embarrassing dressing me up and parading me about the place? Well I think the pictures speak for themselves, hmmm?

It was one of the best nights of my life.

My sisters made a huge effort with the food and refreshments, they created a framed collage of my life in pictures, they thought up a myriad of games for the night and generally kept the party going until the wee hours.

My friends jumped right into the party atmosphere with both feet and from the word go, the room rang with genuine laughter and the sound of people having a fine ol’ time.

It was a hen night and a half.


As I lay in bed, post clean up, head buzzing, I started to feel a little sad. My hen was over. I’d never have another one and we’re really in the final countdown to the wedding.

Soon this exhilarating, fun, nerve-wracking, sometimes frustrating rollercoaster of a wedding-planning journey will be over.

And I’m not too sure what I’m going to do with myself.