by Lisa Young
WAKING WITH A start, Lottie realised that she must have drifted off, but for how long? She panicked as she grappled with the contents of her bag to retrieve her phone in order to see the time. As she rummaged endlessly feeling for the comforting shape of her phone, she was somewhat confused by the dimness which surrounded her. Adjusting her sleep-laden eyes, she searched outside for a familiar landmark, but all she saw was her own panicked reflection in the darkness.
With a rising sense of foreboding, she located the phone, it reported back to her efficiently.
“Oh hell!” she said aloud, shocked to realise she had now been on the train for nearly three hours. The emotions evoked by the hetero-shopping experience had clearly taken a significant toll on her mentally, and she’d fallen into a deep slumber.
Glancing around, she noticed the only other occupant of the carriage was a fraught mother with her three small offspring. Abandoning her bags, Lottie lurched along the rocking train until she reached them. Clearing her throat to get her fellow passenger’s attention, she politely enquired of her. “Excuse me, please could you tell me where we are?”
The woman briefly halted her tirade of wrath towards her sullen elder son to look Lottie up and down with barely disguised derision. “Too much pop at lunchtime, love? We’re nearly at Newcastle!”
Lottie fell into the nearest seat noting the lilt of her Newcastle accent. “Newcastle?” she repeated pointlessly.
Not bothering to reaffirm the information, the mother hoisted the youngest of her three children onto her lap and attended to the gloop of snot that trailed from his nose across his flushed right cheek.
Lottie looked around. How on earth had she managed to fall asleep for three hours and end up in bloody Newcastle? Staggering her way towards the front of the train she frantically searched for the conductor. She happened upon him in the final carriage, alone and horizontal, clearly capitalising on the opportunity for a mid-shift snooze.
He snorted loudly, as if sensing her presence and bolted into an upright position. “Yes, pet, yes, just checking the springs in this here seat. There’ve been complaints. Now you’re awake, I’ll get your ticket please!”
Assuming an authoritative tone, he thrust his stubby hand towards her demanding she produce her ticket. Fumbling in her pocket for her ticket she feebly produced it.
After close examination, his brow furrowed. “Pet, you’re on the wrong train!”
Lottie gritted her teeth. No shit, Sherlock, she fumed inwardly.
Fearing an immediate ejection from the train at a station unknown, she did the only thing she knew how. A pathetic mewling cry escaped her lips, mustering all the misery she could find proved not to be that difficult and a solitary tear slipped seamlessly from her lashes and trailed pitifully down her cheek.
“I know!” she stated the obvious and threw herself on his mercy.
Stirred by the sight of this feeble female, the conductor’s tone became less official and he patted her arm anxiously, keen to avoid having a full-blown episode of a crying female on his hands. Despite the absence of an audience, he concluded that they simply did not pay him enough to deal with a traveller who couldn’t get on the right train.
After a short and perfunctory discussion, Lottie elicited the facts thus far. She had got on the wrong train in her hurry to reply to Alice’s text, she was now a mere twenty minutes from her unintended destination of Newcastle, and she was to be evicted at that station. The placating conductor was keen to assure her, however, that this was in fact the end of the line in any event. A few more tears and the use of the chest clutching feminine wiles elicited that there was in fact a connecting train which would return her to her starting point in precisely three hours and twenty minutes. Resigning herself to the cost of a taxi from the station at the other end, she thanked him profusely and returned to her abandoned bags, silently cursing the waste of her Saturday.
Settling back into her seat, she distracted herself with Facebook, determined not to fall back to sleep. Soon the train pulled into Newcastle Station and the less ruffled and more alert conductor officiously informed her that she could remain in her seat once she had paid, as this was the service she required on her return journey. Begrudgingly, she fished out her emergency credit card and paid the eighty-nine pounds required to secure her trip home.
When the conductor passed by, he was shoved into the empty seats across from her as a brood of loud, brash middle-aged women descended upon the carriage. Turning with renewed interest, she observed the mayhem that accompanied the noise, but she was soon horrified to discover that a hen party had boarded. Oblivious to anyone blocking their way, they elbowed relentlessly forward and passed Lottie diving onto the four seats and a table at the front of the carriage that they had obviously identified as theirs from the platform. Lottie unconsciously clenched her jaw as she rummaged around frantically for her headphones, intent on blocking out what she knew would be the inevitable shrill tones of the rambunctious women.
The train pulled out of the station, headed in the correct direction this time. The noise reached an intolerable level as the women swayed precariously, attempting to readjust their tight clothing before rustling through countless carrier bags to produce a cheap bottle of red wine. She noticed that between two of the smaller women was a blow-up male doll with an oversized appendage.
Noting her interest, a large woman wearing a hen sash chuckled. “Meet Geoff, love, or as we prefer to call him Geoff Big Bollocks,” Grabbling the neck of the doll she created a mock bow before the group descended into raucous laughter.
Smiling weakly, Lottie swiftly retreated behind the headrest as her cheeks flamed red. She was mortified to be caught observing their outing, but could not curb her curiosity about the group, who were clearly hell-bent on creating an authentic heterosexual hen do.
Good God! Why on earth is that considered fun?
Gradually, as they headed out into the dark countryside, the train picked up considerable momentum, thankfully headed for home and the respite of the Highlands. Lottie was painfully aware though that the return leg of her journey was likely to be less peaceful than her journey south had been. Turning her thoughts towards her own hen do, only a week away, she decided that evasive action was required in order to reverse the obvious decline of the event into a heterosexual hen do nightmare, much like the one she was now having to share a carriage with.
Deciding it was time for decisive action, she fired a text message to her only hope, Virginia.
HELP ME. I need you to manage the nightmare my hen do is becoming, Linda Lovely has gone berserk, she’s on a heterosexual rampage and is planning all manner of dire party games! Strippers, V, she mentioned bloody strippers. HELP ME!
Satisfied that she could depend on her trusty friend to reverse the nightmare, she slipped her phone back into her bag and settled back into her seat.
Without warning a high-pitched cackle broke her train of thought. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, pet, why did ya buy the cheap stuff? Vodka comes in all shapes and sizes, bit like ya men!”
Before she could help herself, Lottie was once again peering around the corner of the seat in front, curiosity overriding her instinct to studiously avoid any eye contact with the party of hens. Oblivious to her interest, the four were beside themselves with hysteria, as the ringleader waggled her bottle of inferior beverage at the offending member of her group. Another hen, dressed in a fuchsia pink tutu, at least one size too small with her breasts threatening to escape, wrestled with an equally offensive pink rucksack to reveal an illicit stash of alcohol which she ceremoniously plonked onto the table. The table roared with approval as they crowded round the offensive bag frantically scavenging inside to reveal the contents.
Satisfied with the additional refreshments, they ceremoniously raised their pink-tinted plastic champagne glasses chanting loudly. “Up yours, and he will be!” they called, before taking a generous slug of the lukewarm liquid.
Out of the cor
ner of her eye, Lottie spotted the conductor reluctantly making his way towards them, and he requested their tickets sheepishly.
A unanimous roar sent him bowling backward as the sniggering brood grappled with his money belt. “You’ve got a big one! What ya got in there then, big boy?”
They howled with laughter as his face coloured puce with embarrassment. Muttering his excuses, he skilfully evaded the wandering hands, nodding stiffly at Lottie before he swiftly exited the carriage.
Lottie slumped miserably back into her seat. Her mind raced with the endless possibilities of her own hen do if this is what women considered to be a good night out. Checking her phone for something to do, she noticed a reply from Virginia, hitting the open button she was met with a solitary emoji, a smiley winking face.
Bugger! Clearly Virginia was not planning to be her saviour after all.
“Nearly-Weds Quiz! Fucking amazing, come on girls, let’s play!” For a moment the group fell blissfully silent as they concentrated on sharing out the pack of cards that had appeared from the gaudy rucksack.
Taking on the role of hen do officiant, the slightest of the group greedily grabbed back the cards from the others. “No cheating, you fuckers!” More laughter ensued, and Lottie cringed with embarrassment.
Clearing her throat, she addressed her first question to the hen. “Right, pet, these were all asked of your Damon before we came out tonight! If ya get three right we’ll let you have a quick fumble with old Geoff Big Bollocks.”
The hen giggled making lewd gestures with Geoff Big Bullocks’ oversized appendage while the others cackled in encouragement.
“Question one,” she announced, calling them to order. “Did he say you had any sex toys you like to use together?”
Before the hen could answer, her seat companion piped up. “Aye, pet, he did, but the last time they plugged it in it made so much noise the neighbours thought they’d bought a cement mixer!”
The group fell about, clearly finding that answer more entertaining that anything the hen was likely to say. Unable to speak as spittle flew from her mouth, the hen waved her hands in protest.
Lottie pressed her fingers into her ears before more unwelcome information filtered into her brain which would, she knew, conjure up images that she would struggle to forget.
Despite pressing hard, she could still vaguely make out the chesty wheezing of the company. “Question two. Where is the weirdest place you and he have got jiggy with it?”
At the mention of sex, the group simultaneously raised their fleshy hips imitating a grotesque rhythmic grinding before the motion of the train threw them sideways, collapsing in a heap on one another’s laps.
More laughter and the hen shyly volunteered an answer. “Well, we’re both proud members of the mile-high club.”
Winking salaciously, the others cooed with approval.
“Gotta do summat, pet, when you’re on a long haul.” Winking, she sat once again to a round of applause from her coven.
“Arggghh!” Lottie thought. Never again would she think of British Airways in the same way!
She could take no more, and, rummaging beneath the seat, she grasped the handles of her bags and dashed towards a carriage farther back. Catching her swift exit, the voices of the group drifted towards her as she hammered at the exit button.
“Hey, just because she did it, don’t mean you can’t, pet!” As the carriage door whooshed shut, the laughter erupted once again.
As she settled into her hiding place, she fought the bile that rose in her throat. The thought of enduring such an awful night as she had just witnessed was simply out of the question! Locating her phone, she dialled Mel, but it rang with no answer. She sent a desperate text.
Mel, mate, you’re the only one that can help me. I can’t face the idea of this bloody hen do and I have no idea how I’m going to get out of it. You’ve got to help me, please!
Rubbing her forehead, she took several deep breaths before she was overcome with a steely determination, and logging into Facebook she boldly announced:
Hen do—revised arrangements. It will take place at ours, BBQ and NO party games thank you.
Feeling relieved that she had finally grasped her own destiny, Lottie settled into her seat to endure the rest of the very long journey home.
The Non-Hen Do
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, secure in the knowledge that the sombreros were safely tucked under the bed, Lottie went down to greet Alice, who was already up and making coffee in the kitchen.
Smiling, Alice slid her a mug of steaming coffee across the work surface. “So, you had an eventful evening, then.”
Lottie shrugged, sipping gingerly on her hot brew.
Pulling two chairs to the side of the table, she guided Lottie into the nearest of the two and held her hand firmly.
“Now, Lots, let’s get this in perspective. I know you don’t like being centre of attention, but your friends have really embraced the idea of this hen do and you don’t want to disappoint them do you?”
Realising that Alice required a response, Lottie shrugged half-heartedly before replying. “It’s easy for you to say, babe. You have normal friends!”
Alice chuckled, it was true that her two best friends were remarkably normal in comparison with Lottie’s colourful group of misfits. Choosing not to take her up on this comparison of the attributes of her friends, she steered the conversation in a more purposeful direction.
“The thing is, Lottie, your friends are going to have a do for us, regardless of your need to micromanage every angle of it! Why not just relax and let them get on with it? How bad can it possibly be?”
Lottie looked at Alice with suspicion. It was true that she didn’t like the idea of her friends having sole control concerning their pre-wedding celebrations.
“Just relax?” she repeated slowly, as if saying it out loud would make it a more accessible concept. “Just relax,” Alice repeated firmly.
Handing Lottie her phone, already logged into Facebook, she had typed a post which was awaiting Lottie’s approval to post:
Dear friends, after my hen do meltdown, Alice and I would like to invite you all to join us at the Rainbow Bar in Aberdeen on Saturday at nine for dancing, laughter and fun! No penis favours allowed! Thank you.
Reluctantly Lottie’s index finger hovered above the send button. With a deep resigned sigh, she posted the message, and silently finished her coffee.
THE REST OF the week passed in a blur. Despite her promise to Alice that she would just relax, Lottie pursued her mission to ensure that the evening would be tasteful and blow-up doll free.
During coffee in the break room on Friday afternoon, Lottie coerced Virginia into a firm agreement that she would police the not-so-secret arrangements that Linda Lovely had thrown herself into so wholeheartedly. Virginia remained perplexed as to why Lottie had developed such a hang-up about the goings-on of a hetero hen do.
“Surely you must have had a hen do at your first wedding, Lottie?” she enquired tentatively.
Lottie scowled in response. “If you class a night in a pizza joint where I had to make a pastry willy which ended up with the chef’s floury handprint emblazoned on my arse, then yes, I had a hen do,” she muttered mutinously.
“Oh!” replied Virginia, for once unable to offer any assurance.
“Oh! Indeed!” repeated Lottie not sure how she could convey to Virginia in one short coffee break how utterly mortified she had been on that particular occasion.
Virginia smiled at the thought of Lottie making a mighty pastry erection, and a tiny chuckle escaped her.
Lottie slapped her arm. “For God’s sake, V, get that Lovely woman under control. She’s becoming a total Bridezilla!”
“Of course, leave it with me and I’ll have a word,” Virginia said solemnly
And as if summoned by their mutual telepathy, a breathless Linda appeared behind them.
Lottie clenched her teeth before
turning to give her a forced smile.
“Linda, I didn’t think you were due a break yet. Actually, V was just about to come and find you.”
Linda’s face furrowed into a frown, and Lottie couldn’t help but notice that she clutched the ever-present wedding-arrangers accessory, the heart covered notebook, close to her chest.
Lottie nodded meaningfully at Virginia, who was refusing to make eye contact with her—although Lottie didn’t miss the supressed grin.
“Yes, that’s right, Linda. Come and take a seat. Just a few things to go through for the hen do!”
Linda perched anxiously on the hard arm of Virginia’s chair, and V patted the seat beside her.
Why did the damn woman always have to invade people’s personal space? Lottie knew that she had unleashed a demon the day she had accidentally appointed Linda as her wedding planner and now she was going to be left to tactfully mop up the carnage. Lottie patted Virginia on the shoulder in a no messing around manner, and swiftly exited the canteen, for once looking forward to the mundane task of In Memoriam adverts.
Lottie was finishing up an entry for a lonely-hearts advert, popular in Saturday’s edition, when Linda appeared at her side. Whatever Virginia had said had clearly had the desired effect as Linda radiated contentment.
Instantly warming to her, Lottie gave her a grateful smile. “I know we’ve put a lot on you, Linda, and it really is so sweet of you to spend your time organising our evening. I promise there’s at least one sex-on-the-beach cocktail in it for you!”
Linda beamed in receipt of the praise and winked back at her before moving in for a smothering hug, which left Lottie wondering which enormous breast had been crushed against her left cheek.
Almost breathless with joy, Linda gushed forth a torrent of gratitude. “Oh, it’s suuccch a pleasure!” she purred. “I promise, not a willy in sight and Willy Hoopla is soo last year anyway! Tasteful is the word, I promise, T-A-S-T-E-F-U-L!” She spelled it out, as if for emphasis as she squeezed the secret notebook to her ample bosom.
