Good morning. Except it isn't. The wee bunny woke at 8:30 am. I know I know... I don't know how lucky I am. Most kids wake at an ungodly hour of six o'clock... middle of the night kinda stuff. But you see I am hungover. That means 8:30 is evil. I feel queasy, my head throbs, my mouth feels like something sucked all moisture from it before taking it's last breath and dying on my tongue. Wee bunny is on fine form. I've put on Ratatouille - not sure if it is for bunny or me. Why do I do it to myself? I think it is the insane need to prove to all around me (only one was another Mother) that although I have child - I am still FUN! I can still partay with the best of them. Maybe I just need to prove it to myself. Kid myself that nothing has changed, I may be crummy mummy but I can still hold my drink, swear like a tropper and dance like a whirling dervish. Oh yes, load me up and watch me goooooooooooo! How sad is that? I am powerless to stop myself. The urge to squeeze every tiny morsel of fun out of every precious second that I am out - free - without bairn or the husband - grips me in its clutches and I am determined to have the best time EVAH! To quote 80s one hit wonders Fairground Attraction 'it's got to be perrrrrrrrrrrrrfect.' Anyway, I digress. Normally I swear I will go out - just have 'a few' and return home a wee bit squiffy but nothing too severe. Instead, I get to the venue, have a little tipple and then WHAM! The juice is nectar from the gods. It strokes my tongue, loosens my tongue, eases the tension from my muscles and makes my head light. I want another. Then another - then shots anyone?
Well it was a hen do. At a bowling alley/kareoke venue. Winning combination eh? The more I drank the better I bowled. Every turn was completely unlike the previous attempt. There was no coherence to my performance. One throw/roll/ungainly run could result in a half strike or a complete wipe out with all 10 pins standing to attention - their army undefeated. The hen, bless her, was dressed a fetching fairy costume, decorated with glitter and the obligatory deely boppers (penis shaped and sparkly for extra mortification). She took most joy out of a special hen addition that I had never seen on a hen before. When she raised her seemingly endless net skirts she revealed a charming strap on replete with buldging veins. The henettes took great delight in fondling it and remarking on girth, length, smoothness etc. which only delighted the hen further. She proudly thrust out her groin and relished the irony of presenting her manhood at the ultimate female gathering. My favourite memory out of many (if hazy) is of the hen straddling a pool table, legs akimbo, revelling in the joy of her very own member. I wonder if this pic will feature in the wedding album?
Oh but there was more humiliation in store. Funny how your closest friends relish the opportunity to embarrass you into next year with their 'fun' games and 'in good spirit' gimmicks. The obligatory stripper arrived. At my own hen I swore that if any man started to disrobe within a mile of me I would use violence to escape and then never speak to the women ever again. They understood thank god. Last night poor hen had to endure a just-on-the-right-side of reasonable looking (he had more than a passing resemblance to Stifler from the American Pie movies - a fact I should not have known but I sadly did) toned youth strip while we chanted like a cats chorus. Yes, I led the charge. From the moment the poor boy entered I morphed into henette from hell and crowed at him to 'get your c**k out' every ten seconds. When the stripper has to tell you to calm down you know that is your cue to ease up on the liquor. Maybe the extra shot is not a good idea. But I ignored my inner alarm and guzzled down another vodka. He got his kit off but only let the hen in on his big (she told me later) secret. We got a rippling glimpse of it as he thrust against a grubby towel. Why this caused such excitement is beyond me. I found I had the microphone during this event and proceeded to compare, making sure everyone had their picture taken licking the poor boy's nipples, pretending (or in a camp male fr-hen's case not pretending at all) to grab his bits/bum/pecs. Oddly when the cheering ceased, he dressed in front of us, outdoor mac and all (to ward against the cold, bless) which detracted from the allure (?) so to speak. The mystique was completely lost when he shook hands and waved goodbye. I almost expected him to announce his name was Nigel and to ask us all to help toward his accountancy college fund. The evening then reached a kareoke crescendo - Kylie, The Pogues and a roaring rendition of Beyonce's Crazy in Love brought our own small house down. As we were forceably ejected from our sweaty little room my double gin and tonic started to taste slightly odd. One more sip and I knew I would have to make friends with the big white telephone, in true hen night style. It was time to go. I made a sharp exit. Leaving the hen still in her own wee world, singing her heart out with no accompaniment whatsoever. In one hand her trusty microphone and in the other, her new favourite toy.
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