Men go to Iceland or the Algarve, say things like "what goes on tour stays on tour" and wake up in jail.
The last Hen I was on, someone brought their baby.
In fairness it turned out to be a hoot, but that's not the point.
Men see a get-away with the boys as an extravagance, but one to which they are entitled. A rite of passage.
They decide to go, wherever it is, spend the same as their pals and worry about the bill afterwards.
If he's under the thumb, he will:
a) refer to her covertly as 'The War Office' or;
b) keep a secret bank account, so as not to be nagged ad nauseam upon return.
Studies show women worry up to twice as much about money as men.
When it comes to Hens, this translates to fretting about cost from the off.
So sympathetic brides-to-be are more likely to opt for a spa day or weekend in the UK.
Each to their own, but I want a trip to remember.
And in part, hopefully not.
As you know, I'm way behind on planning. Anything.
So my friend Zoe kindly offered to take the reigns, ably assisted by my sister Holly and pal Sal.
"So Max (the first half of my surname) what do you want to do?"
"Go to Vegas."
I knew it was never going to happen. The cost, a couple have newborns, others can't get time off work.
But she did ask.
"Ok," I conceded, "but I don't want the highlight of the weekend to be a manicure and glass of champagne."
|Hen do hell|
The group emails (there will be ten to fifteen of us) were flying, excitement mounting at our Moroccan adventure with kaftans and couscous; fezzes and fine wines.
Until, that is, Venetia pointed out drunk women are arrested and put in prison.
While this is one way of making it Stag-like, it's not ideal.
Females entering a bar are considered prostitutes.
My initial response - that this is a good thing as it will increase the single girls' pulling power, was not shared by The Team.
We are now thinking Ireland and specifically Kinsale, where the Guinness is great and food delicious, the town known as the country's culinary capital.
|Martel Maxwell's stag weekend for girls|
I envisage a rustic bar with fiddles and giggles, seafood that melts in the mouth and clubs that throw us out when the lights come up.