Never make me your maid of honour, obviously

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the amount of preparation time ahead of a big night is inversely proportional to the amount of fun you will have on that night.

There are, of course, exceptions.

One of these is a hen's night. Despite having a fair amount of planning behind them it is still possible to have a great time, whether you're speeding through the Swan Valley or boozing at The Brisbane, clad only in a bedsheet doubling as a toga.

Mulling over this, while at a hen's night this weekend, got me thinking about hen's nights in general.

I think they're all being done wrong.

Brides-to-be (BTB) shouldn't be reminded of the fun it is possible to have out on the town with a bunch of very drunk girls just before they prepare to chain themselves to someone else for the forseeable future. Not that getting married means no more nights out (so I'm told) but this kind of dangerous behaviour gives BTB a false idea of what her life would be like, if she were single and available for huge boozy nights out every weekend.

In later years, as she's preparing to pop out Sprog #1 or watching her husband eat crisps off his belly while watching the cricket, BTB will misremember the past as some kind of glorious utopia, in which every night out was like an episode of Sex in the City.

How much better off will she be, long term, if she is instead given a reminder, just before the wedding, of how shit single life can be?

She starts the night being forced to wear a pair of black pants that give her an arse like a garbage bag filled wih mashed potato. One friend cries off straight away, saying she's having dinner with her boyfriend's parents.

To get to the pub or wherever the BTB gets no special treatment and as to wait half an hour for a taxi.

When she makes it to the pub she is greeted with a table full of coupled up friends, most of whom are indulging in PDA's when they are not talking about their new relationship/wedding/moving out/house buying plans.

Apart from the 60-year-old who pinches her arse while on her way to the bar the closest she gets to action is when a hottie comes over to hit on her (coupled up) friend and she gets lumbered with his creepy wingman who has two lazy eyes in BO.

The music is lame, the drinks pricey and the friends practically edging out the door to hop into bed with their boys.

The night culminates with some projectile voming in the garden/toilet/sink and the BTB goes to bed alone.

Now, seriously: after a night like that to put the worst of (single) times fresh into her mind how can the BTB not commit herself wholeheartedly to marriage?