I want to tell you all about The Hen Weekend, but I’m not going to.
Apparently, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. And I’m sure that applies to Pocklington North Yorkshire too.
I will tell you that-
the company was good
the air was fresh
there were beautiful views
there was a hot tub
lots and lots and lots of wine
Actually, possibly a bit too much wine for some of us.
And I had my very own room with my very own double bed
If there was one thing I was SUPER excited about it was the STARFISH possibilities.
Allow me to explain- I am someone who consistently shares my bed with one other grown person, and usually two smaller ones as well, so the idea of being able to sleep in whatever position I liked, taking up as much space as I chose, cocooned in ALL of the covers, snoring and drooling away to my hearts content without another person’s limbs jabbing me in the face or ribs was heavenly.
Note I said the idea. In reality, I didn’t get to bed until around 3.30am the first night and then about 4.30am on the second night. Slightly inebriated on both occasions I felt it best to adopt the recovery position, clinging slightly to the edge of the mattress, lest the world should suddenly shift and jolt me off the bed. I did not cocoon myself in the duvet, or make use of the other side of the bed at all. Sometimes what you think you want is not what you actually want at all, but it’s nice to be offered it anyway, and it’s nice to find that out.
It was such a fun weekend, with not a stripper nor “learner” sash in sight because my best friend was one classy hen
And because the maid of honour (her sister) who organised the whole thing did a bloody good job.
I had to leave a little earlier than planned on Sunday afternoon rather than Monday morning. Partly because I found out that Chris had a 10am mandatory lecture on the Monday morning and the idea of trying to navigate the M1 and M62 slightly hungover in Monday morning rush hour traffic gave me chills. And not Grease-esque chills. I’m talking blood-run-cold, I’d-rather-eat-my-own-arms-with-a-spoon chills. So Sunday evening had become the new plan and then I got a message on Saturday to say Rudy had developed a couple of suspicious looking spots, and on Sunday morning the confirmation came that he did in fact have the Chicken Pox.
Chris put on a brave text-message face, saying there was no need for me to come home early…yet. But his other messages about what-creams-to-put-where spoke volumes, so reading between the lines I sent my own “I’m coming home” message, to which he replied not with “No really, we’re fine!” but “Can you pick up some milk on your way back?!”
So Monday was back to reality with a hefty thud and here I remain, quarantined and in an over-crowded bed. But it’s ok. I had my break, I drank my wine, I laughed more than I have in aaaages, and it was sooooo good to reconnect with that carefree part of myself…but these days I’m a mother hen too…