Kate’s sister is busily planning the hen party.
And, God Save the Future King, Harry is planning William’s stag.
One imagines that, while absolutely ANYTHING involving booze, naked women, padlocks and railings could happen at his, hers will be a sedate affair; nothing that will rock the Royal boat before she’s officially signed up as a crew member.
It’s rumoured Kate and the gals are to have a sleep-over at “one of the palaces”. I can see them now, all cosy in their heart-printed jim-jams and cashmere socks, whisking up a few Duchy of Cornwall-organic egg-whites into face packs, cramming cup-cakes (no modern girl hates cupcakes) into their perfect little mouths like there’s no diet tomorrow, spiffingly spitting crumbs as they enunciate perfectly-vowelled little oos and ahs while taking it in turns to try on THE princess tiara. Which is so very, very different to the one most henfriends find in the sale at Accessorise.
It should be jolly, though. Imagine the endless supply of top-grade champers from the palace cellars; the Fortnum and Mason nibblies to be dipped into a chocolate fountain to end all chocolate fountains. Picture them, tootsies soaking in their BaByliss Foot Spas (the deluxe model) over a few rounds of Gin-Rummy.
My hen party almost three years ago was in similar vein, though minus the champers. We rented a house in the Cotswolds and went horse-riding and did a pottery-throwing class. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And, just as Kate’s enforced decorum is down to her position, so was mine. It didn’t seem seemly for a menopausal second-time-a-rounder knocking on for 50 to be oiling up a couple of male strippers roughly the same age as her son.
Or to be tramping the streets of Sheffield in little more than a veil, angel wings and a necklace made of condoms. Not that I did that the first time-around, at the tender age of 22, either. True, I was as scantily-clad as these modern young things you see shivering their way down Division street, rubbing their blue-mottled legs til their fake tan goes patchy. I wore a T-shirt dress so ridiculously skimpy I now feel embarrassed in it on the beach (yes, readers, it’s still in the wardrobe).
But in those days, tarting up the bride like a drag queen in the employ of Ann Summers was not the order of the day. It was much more innocent. And cheaper; hen nights were just that - one night.
We went to the best joints in town; the San Remo pizzeria, where we traded innuendos with the waiters about the size of their peppermills and then headed for Josephine’s. The highlight of my night was being called to the stage to have a burly bouncer slither a garter up my leg (it only got so far; even at 22, I had inner thigh-hang).
Girls today? They head off for a week abroad, are sozzled long before they board the budget airline and that’s the way they stay til they touch back down again 600 quid lighter, half a stone heavier and raving about what a great time they must have had because they can’t remember two thirds of it.