Last night I was invited to a good friend’s hens night.
I really should have deduced from her personality / character that it was going to be a sophisticated and classy evening of indulgence, unwinding and relaxation in the company of good friends.
Instead, I automatically assumed a night of unruly female debauchery, outrageously hot strippers, brainless intoxication and needing to sneak into my house at 4am. So I got dressed up – faux fur coat, fishnets, heels, bling… only to discover that everyone else turned up in jeans! OOPS. Next time I should read the invite.
Anyway, it was a lovely night. Perfect actually.
Perfect for her – as the poor girl’s stressed about the whole wedding debacle. Perfect for the group – we giggled over girly secrets. And perfect for me – in the midst of my own cabin-fever craziness.
It was not, however, perfect for fishnets.