Enjoying an irregular patch of British sunshine, happenstance found me down at the Victorian Embankment strolling by the tannish Thames. It was a late Saturday afternoon and I passed several groups of hen’s parties, all in various states of “celebration”. One group favoured matching, sparkly tiaras with the bride wearing one that announced ‘BRIDE’ in gold, which is how I knew. Another clutch preferred white, satinesque sashes with ‘TEAM BRIDE’ emblazoned proudly across a significant amount of bare chestage.
Although May and still chilly, the dress code was minimalist, matched with Amazon-forest style lashes, gelatinous make-up and platform shoes easily as tall as toilet rolls. Do youngsters not feel the cold? As I pondered one goose-bumped bottom, jiggling away in cut-away denims that were a tad less revealing than a G-string and certainly as drafty.
In amusement, I walked behind this wobbly group of six, one of whom fell off her platform shoes repeatedly. Rather than concede defeat, in that her shoes were impossible to drive whilst drunk, TEAM BRIDE suggested they all ride the public bikes available nearby.
“Yesh!” The gals agreed.
“BrilliaLIANT, Kyleee!”
“F—K yeeeeeesh!”
The young ladies teetered towards the cycles, and my conscience started to prick. Alcohol, traffic – what could go wrong? Should I say something? Intervene? As I pondered this moral conundrum, fate took the matter in hand. Kyleee, attempting an ambitious manoeuvre, considering her condition and her inability to see through her lustrous lashes, managed to get first one platform shoe and then her hair extension, caught in the cycle’s crankset. Much, shrieking and choice language ensued, with the group falling over each other and the bikes going the same way, like green dominoes. Last I looked, the gals were sprawled street-side, cackling hysterically; unfortunately, it was all too much for the Maid of Honour, who gleefully watered the kerbside grass in an ever-widening puddle. 🙂
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