The hen went off rather well, given that the boys got all the good weather last weekend. Still it gave us an excuse to get into cabs on every possible occasion and soothe our aching feet. When will we learn not to wear ridiculous heels? As Natalie said, “beauty is pain.” My missing the train (an altercation with the world’s worst estate agents in Blackheath, of which more another day!) meant that Hen and Super-organiser were one drink up before we had even started. Fortunately they only had a small beer, so getting our things onto the boat, where we were staying that night, wasn’t too much of a challenge. Walking across a very blustery Tower Bridge in summer dresses and said heels was a little more tricky (felt very smug dressed in trousers, I can tell you.) After a late lunch and a bottle of wine (and that was just the hen) we got a cab to Vinopolis, where the fun really began…
A hen booking meant we got a private Champagne tasting with the tasty Matt, who was from New Zealand and had a little trouble pronouncing the names of the Champagnes. Didn’t affect the flavour, or the atmosphere, as he later promised to introduce us to one of his more ‘accomodating’ collegues, the divine Luciano, who would, for a few extra quid, submit to being rubbed with baby oil…..
Needless to say after a few glasses of Champagne, things started to get a little ugly…we were handed our tasting vouchers and let loose on a wealth of tasting tables from wine to beer to port to whisky to absinthe. I headed straight to the Bombay sapphire bar and a chair, and never left! The hen, wearing a very discreet badge (since she had banned any tack, veils, penises and strippers….) made the most of her status and blagged free vouchers from other visitors, and free drinks from the staff. She also got her legs out on more than one occasion.
In typical fashion the rain meant cabs were harder to come by than cheap flats in Chelsea, but we finally succeeded in cramming everyone into one somewhere on Southwark Bridge, and made it to the Dover Restaurant and Jazz Bar in record time. Needless to say once music started, the food barely got a look in (although guerilla tactics were employed to keep the table supplied with bottled water after the bride gave a huge lecture “Five pounds a f@cking bottle….”)
The last chicks left long after midnight (they all appeared to have very compliant husbands happy to pick them up from central London and drive them home to Rochester and it’s environs….lucky things.) The last women standing headed back to St Katherine’s Dock and our berth for the night. Walking on wet jetties in heels is not to be recommended. Nor is trying to board a boat when you have consumed your own body weight in alcohol.
But a good time was had by all. The hen was not best pleased to be woken at 8am on Sunday morning, so I won’t include that photo. But I understand that sailing back to Rochester did wonders for her headache!
For those of you who wish to see all the pictures, they are here.
Loooks like you had an excellent time. A picture of the hen at 8am on the Sunday morning would have been a terrific idea. She need never have known.
Thanks for these Kelly – they’re really great. I had a brilliant time and hope everybody else did! xxx