Oscar Wilde, I believe said that you should try everything once, except incest and Morris Dancing and I’ve made my own addition to that eminently sensible rule with my five decade avoidance of anything with the word ‘hen’ in it.

Eggs obviously are completely fine, but parties, weekends and trips have always been things to be completely avoided at all costs. I even managed to avoid going on my sister’s hen weekend - by promising not to wear head to toe black, sunglasses and a heavy veil to the wedding if I was let off the hook.

So, it was with a sense of real trepidation that we headed off to Tenby last weekend for my first ever hen weekend.

“Do I really have to go?” I asked the housemate as we packed the car. “I really don’t know the bride that well!”

“She’s been your best friend for 25 years. You’re making a speech at the wedding…of course you have to go,” she replied. “Besides which I’m really looking forward to it,” she added in the tone of voice which offered no chance of an argument.

Stopping off en-route to pick up another hen-party-er I looked in amazement at the boot of my car which was packed within an inch of it’s life.

“A few months ago five of us went to France for three weeks and we didn’t take as much luggage as three of us have taken for two nights in Tenby,” I pointed out as we squeezed the last bag in.

“We didn’t take all our own food and booze with us to France and you have to pack for all eventualities,” replied the housemate as she moved yet another clinking carrier bag.

As we arrived at the Tenby cottage which was to be our home for the next two days I watched as our stock of gin, Prosecco and Rosé was added to the already groaning kitchen unit.

“What does everyone want to drink?” asked the ‘hen’ as we sat down after our first night fish and chip supper.

“I’d really love a nice up of tea,” replied the housemate glancing at the clock which was moving dangerously close to her 10pm bedtime.

Expecting ridicule from the other six party guests I sank back into my chair only to find a chorus of assent with various murmurs about the negative reaction between alcohol and HRT patches and the dangers of late night drinks increasing the need  to get up to wee!

Discussion of the next day’s plans were similarly comforting to a boring fifty-something year old as thoughts of nightclubs and wine cars were sidelined in favour of crazy golf, late lunches and a games night at home so no-one had to drive in the dark.

“I think I quite like hen weekends,” I said to the housemate as we retired to our wing of the cottage.

“We’ve met some great people, eaten lots of cheesecake and the only drugs we’ve shared have been Rennies!”