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Diary of a Yummy Mummy: Dressing up gives me a dose of hen-do blues


A "save the date" thingy is swinging from the noticeboard with a cute picture of the happy couple. Cousin and Co are soon to be married and the date is fast approaching. I can't wait! There's nothing like a good knees up to get the old dancing shoes on for.

A gift has already been bought and I've a fantastic dress at the ready.

Now it is just a matter of getting this hen-do malarkey out of the way and I will be able to start looking forward to the nuptials properly. No offence to the beautiful bride (or her OCD Head Bridesmaid/Head Hen) is intended here.

I just have a major phobia of hen-dos. I see myself as more of a hen-don't type of gal. I know I am not alone, but before you judge me I will happily explain the reasons for my hen phobia.

Firstly, we have other people's friends – aka fellow "chicks".

We all know the drill here. Chances are if you have not already been introduced to the bride-to-be's girlies there is a reason.

It's either A. They live abroad/very far away and there has been no realistic opportunity to mix.

Or B. The hen knows you are unlikely to get along and therefore has not put you in the awkward situation of spending time together.

Or, of course, option C. You don't even really know the hen and you're just invited because you're 'family' and someone's mum says you have to come. Some teeth-gritting experiences in my past have taught me that being in the same bloodline sadly does not give you the same sense of humour, dress sense or mean you will have anything in common.

My second pet hate is that these things are usually 'themed'.

Call me miserable but there is nothing that appeals to me less than fancy dress. Not since I was about six if I'm honest. The only time you might (possibly) see me dressed up as a nurse/maid/bunny or any other typical hen-themed attire is on my husband's birthday in my bedroom and that's only if he's been really good – and paid for it.

As for roaming the streets in a female pack of bunnies, I would rather be road-kill. If I'm honest I think the sight of me in a thigh high skirt and stockings would not be suitable for public viewing either. Come on, I have just had a baby!

Then, of course, saving the best pet hate til last. No hen do is complete without them – the party games.

Shots if you win, shots if you lose. Basically, any excuse to drink as many different coloured liquids to ensure rainbow sick at the end of the night. Pretty. Rank.

Ten years ago I could drink more shots than a stag-do could shoot on the now traditional paint-balling day. Now just a few shots and for the next week I will be walking and feeling as though I have been hit by a lorry. Not good for the soul...or the liver.

So in the words of a wise man. Drop me out.

Ultimately, the event is social roulette and until you are there you'll have no idea what will be in store. Being a self-confessed control freak, this does not bode well for people like me. Hence my hen phobia.

With that rant out of my system this chick's off to buy the hen some L plates and pick up some fluffy ears.

Tonight, somewhere over a rainbow, I might just make some new friends. Wish me cluck!

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