The Great Hen’s Party of the 21st Century
(Chanelling the 17th Century)
Recently I went to a Hens party held in Sydney’s Kings Cross. The invitation didn’t say much, only details of the location and a sly quip scrawled down the bottom in pink glitter pen “Ladies come prepared, this is Hens Party with a difference”. Of course I ignored the obvious signs; the way the invitation was folded into the shape of a white china teacup, the fact that my 60 year old mother had too received one, and yes, I made perhaps the biggest faux paus in female social etiquette and failed to consult with any of the other attendees on what they were to be wearing (the eternal heels or comfier alternative debate, cocktail dress or to dressy? You know the drill) on the night.
And so it came to be that on the evening of my work acquaintance’s Hen’s party, I showed up to Kings Cross Station wearing bunny ears, black spandex and excessive lipstick, not really looking forward to the messy shots on the bar and the early morning bar hopping – but expecting it. It was there that I was met by about 20 women from all three generations, grandma’s, mother-in-laws, children and nieces. I had told my mother that ‘she was just being polite, of course she doesn’t really expect you too turn up’. They looked me up and down and I swear I even saw a jaw drop. Let me just say their attire was less flamboyant than mine, pencil skirts, floral dresses, cardigans and broaches. One or two in a cocktail dress, but not an inch of cleavage or knee cap in sight.

It seems I missed the memo. Literally. “Didn’t you get the email!?” someone asked. “The one with the dress code?” No I did not get the email, a technical glitch perhaps? It wasn’t really important why I didn’t get it, what was important was the fact that I was now going to be turning up to the Observatory Hotel for High Tea in spandex.
It seems that Spandex has been replaced by Scotch Bread and Rowdiness by Royal Doulton amongst my group of friends, and I don’t think that they are the unique ones. Either we have, as a sex, grown tired of the late nights, the hangovers, the matching t-shirts and the gaudy accessories, or they have grown tired of us. More and more venues are closing their doors to Hen and Buck parties, realising that the money making potential in drinks could just as easily become furniture damages and a pending law suit. Are we really that bad? It’s rare that girls get the chance to let their hair down and have a little fun. I mean, finding the time to watch Sex and the City is hard enough, let alone having the kind of social life of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda.
Needless to say, even though I left bright red lipstick marks on all of the china cups I touched my lips to that fateful Hens night; I had a lot of fun. It seems as much as we enjoy donning our dancing shoes and up-ing the bar tab, there is a certain joy that can be found in reverting back to the classical behavior of those glamorously refined ladies we now see only in movies and Jane Eyre novels. The other benefit is that mums can bring their children and children can bring their mums. This saves a lot of uncomfortable conversation when it comes to answering those calls from the mother-in-law wondering why she wasn’t invited to your hen’s WILD NIGHT OF RACHY FUN. After all, the too young issue is easy- if you’re under 18 your not going to get through the front door buster – but who are we to say when someone is too old to take part in that wild and raunchy fun. I know I wouldn’t like to be telling my mother-in-law that!

 
The Great Hen’s Party of the 21st Century
(Chanelling the 17th Century)
Recently I went to a Hens party held in Sydney’s Kings Cross. The invitation didn’t say much, only details of the location and a sly quip scrawled down the bottom in pink glitter pen “Ladies come prepared, this is Hens Party with a difference”. Of course I ignored the obvious signs; the way the invitation was folded into the shape of a white china teacup, the fact that my 60 year old mother had too received one, and yes, I made perhaps the biggest faux paus in female social etiquette and failed to consult with any of the other attendees on what they were to be wearing (the eternal heels or comfier alternative debate, cocktail dress or to dressy? You know the drill) on the night.
And so it came to be that on the evening of my work acquaintance’s Hen’s party, I showed up to Kings Cross Station wearing bunny ears, black spandex and excessive lipstick, not really looking forward to the messy shots on the bar and the early morning bar hopping – but expecting it. It was there that I was met by about 20 women from all three generations, grandma’s, mother-in-laws, children and nieces. I had told my mother that ‘she was just being polite, of course she doesn’t really expect you too turn up’. They looked me up and down and I swear I even saw a jaw drop. Let me just say their attire was less flamboyant than mine, pencil skirts, floral dresses, cardigans and broaches. One or two in a cocktail dress, but not an inch of cleavage or knee cap in sight.

It seems I missed the memo. Literally. “Didn’t you get the email!?” someone asked. “The one with the dress code?” No I did not get the email, a technical glitch perhaps? It wasn’t really important why I didn’t get it, what was important was the fact that I was now going to be turning up to the Observatory Hotel for High Tea in spandex.
It seems that Spandex has been replaced by Scotch Bread and Rowdiness by Royal Doulton amongst my group of friends, and I don’t think that they are the unique ones. Either we have, as a sex, grown tired of the late nights, the hangovers, the matching t-shirts and the gaudy accessories, or they have grown tired of us. More and more venues are closing their doors to Hen and Buck parties, realising that the money making potential in drinks could just as easily become furniture damages and a pending law suit. Are we really that bad? It’s rare that girls get the chance to let their hair down and have a little fun. I mean, finding the time to watch Sex and the City is hard enough, let alone having the kind of social life of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda.
Needless to say, even though I left bright red lipstick marks on all of the china cups I touched my lips to that fateful Hens night; I had a lot of fun. It seems as much as we enjoy donning our dancing shoes and up-ing the bar tab, there is a certain joy that can be found in reverting back to the classical behavior of those glamorously refined ladies we now see only in movies and Jane Eyre novels. The other benefit is that mums can bring their children and children can bring their mums. This saves a lot of uncomfortable conversation when it comes to answering those calls from the mother-in-law wondering why she wasn’t invited to your hen’s WILD NIGHT OF RACHY FUN. After all, the too young issue is easy- if you’re under 18 your not going to get through the front door buster – but who are we to say when someone is too old to take part in that wild and raunchy fun. I know I wouldn’t like to be telling my mother-in-law that!