You think you’re safe. You think the one thing that age and decrepitude brings is a certain amount of protection from particular horrors. And then, just when your defences are beginning to come down – bang! Someone hits you with an invitation to a hen do.

A hen do! At my age! A hen do, in fact, at any age past…well, 33, I would suggest. 35 as an absolute maximum cutoff point. And that’s when it’s your first – and you and your peers still believe only – wedding and the full measure of generosity of spirit and youthful energy can be applied. After that – stop.

The one I have been invited to is for a second marriage and is the full three-day event. A long drive (or expensive train journey), a hotel, a big celebratory meal one night, spa treatments the next day (book your own – the bride isn’t stumping up for any of this), and everything interspersed with hen games and activities. Then a long drive (or expensive train journey) back; knackered, hungover and ballasted with resentment of the time wasted, to find your home and kids in a state of devastation because three days without the family CEO is, in the twisted chronology of these things, at........

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