I
’m on the phone to my sister Caz talking about hen nights — and how terribly wrong they can go. This is not an uncommon occurrence. Like any women in their forties, we’ve been to a fair few, and my sister seems to have an unfortunate knack of being involved in some terrible ones. Often in a pivotal, albeit reluctant, organisational role.
“Yeah, there was that one where the bride was obsessed with the Brontës, and she wanted me to lay treasure-trail clues over several separate and distant locations across Yorkshire, one of which ‘had’ to be a canal barge,” Caz remembers, sighing. “And the ‘prize’ at the end was the groom, who would ‘surprise’ the bride, even though it was totally the bride’s idea.
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