the
limo
I am on a hen night.
'IT'S NOT A HEN NIGHT!'
yells bride-to-be Donna, breathing warm champagne fumes into my
face. Plastic handcuffs dangle from her left wrist. Her nun's habit
is hiked up to show a good two inches of Agent Provocateur lace-topped
stocking.
'IT'S A BATCHELORETTE PARTAAAAY!!!!!'
Leila slings an arm round Donna's neck and shrieks
out of the limo window:
"'BIG UP THE URBAN FOXES!'
Seven other girls scream, cheer, and bounce inflated
condoms off the ceiling. Ripped Durex packets litter the floor like
pervy confetti. A man about to cross the road looks like he's on
the verge of an embolism when he sees us.
That's us, you see. The Urban Foxes. Feral; untamed;
cute; deadly. We've got badges and everything!
This is the uncoolest night of my entire life.
I am crammed next to Donna's fat sister who is shoving
me against the car door by thigh power alone. A bottle of Freixenet
Cordon Negro is being waved in my face. Sally is jamming a pair
of deeley boppers on my head. A box of mint chocolate nipples is
being passed from lap to lap. Donna's sister slips two chocolates
inside her sheer bra, yanks down her top, and rubs her 'nipples'
like a tabledancer, giggling so much she nearly slips off her seat.
Yes, it's that kind of night. It is a hen night.
I am in hell!
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