Monday, March 26, 2012
hen survival tactics
A marvellously summery and social weekend. If not a bit yacky, from mass cocktail consumption.
'Twas She Who Loves Tweed's hen do on Saturday. All went as one would expect - drinks, references to cock, talk of more prosecco, and even a strong attempt at pacing oneself.
When you are faced with a whole day's worth of drinking and drunken banter, you can't just launch in. Caveat, you can. If you're 24.
Mine is not the marriage generation of the early-to mid-20s. Hell, mine is not really the generation of marriage in the 20s at all.
(Well, I solely refer to me and at least one other person: Dove. And Poen to be fair. Given she just got married and she's 30.)
The point I'm trying to make is that we are attending hen's parties later in life. And therefore getting through an entire day's drinking takes some careful and scrupulous planning, if you are not to pass out in a puddle of your own vomit before 4:00pm.
Vomiting at 24? Acceptable.
Vomiting at 31? Totally undignified; should be banished to an island.
You'll be pleased to know that we all planned this very well. I only wanted to yack once I got home. And I had zero memory loss.**
I was very dignifyingly lying horizontal with stickers all over my face when the Brit had put the bucket next to the bed to be safe.
We paced ourselves like true professionals. It was a superb day. I didn't even yack.There weren't any male strippers, weirdly enough just one female one. (She did have a nice rack. To be fair.)
On the way home, so before I was safely in bed with a bucket within arms-reach, I got lost.
The place in which we were dancing wasn't far from home, so I could stumble home. But ended up trying to take a drunken short cut and ended up in the middle of a council estate. Gangstas and black cars with drop suspension everywhere.
Getting lost in the ghetto at midnight can be one of two things:
2) hilare (if you're on drugs that make you think it's hilare)
Council housing estates are rabbit warrens of ill intent. They wrap around, every house looks the same, and you cannot get out. (Alive?)
And if the estate is a bad one, run by a gang, you might unexpectedly walk onto someone's 'turf.'
Luckily I live in Battersea, not Croydon, and no one bothered to stab me or sell me methamphetamine. But where I used to live - only a few blocks away - it was properly dodgy.
What adventures for a Saturday. And all done at a sunny, temperate 20 degrees.
**Memory loss = not a joke anymore. As a I get older, I remember less. And worry more. Dementia much?