A right do before “I do”
THERE is a particular wave of despondency reserved for finding yourself on an expensive weekend away, dolled up to the eyeballs, sitting with a plastic willy in your mouth. Hen parties, unless you are the bride or the dictatorial matron of honour, are, on balance, painful. No matter how classy the gig claims to be, they can be unanimously represented by the plastic willy straw.
You hit an age at which the domino effect of friends getting hitched means that, for a decade, summers are written off. Each weekend there’s a wedding or a hen or stag do
