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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