You see this radiant culinary display pictured above? This elegant arrangement of dips, donuts, pungent cheese and succulent cured meats? A banquet fit for a Roman emperor? Or the inebriated clamouring of a Hen party? Yes this flourishing buffet was erected for the express consumption of a Hen party. One hosted by my significant other. In our house. While I was there! A traditional gathering of over stimulated banshees, carousing in a vigorous display of booze, hysterical laughter and an assortment of penis shaped paraphernalia.

Now of course being the introverted misanthrope that I am, I had no desire to attend such a revolting affair. But as I previously stated, the event was scheduled in my home by my eager partner. So with that knowledge at hand and with nowhere else to hide for the evening, I decided to barricade myself away in our bedroom. Ensuring an agreed amnesty from the proceeding events, with the caveat that I must assist in some of the initial arrangement. A stipulation I was more than happy to comply with, provided that she honoured our earlier agreement of leaving me alone later.

Of course my generous servitude was utilised with considerable vigour. As I was dispatched to neighbouring supermarkets to retrieve serviettes and other trivial party supplements absent from our local outlet, whilst chauffeuring several guest’s to purchase other party enabling additives. Though my assistance was suitably exploited, I was satisfied knowing that my abstention from any further involvement would be honoured. A promise that was mercifully respected.

With my errands concluded and the rousing function in full swing, my services were no longer required. Affording me the fortuitous opportunity to engage in hour’s of almost uninterrupted convalescence. Gaming. Movies. A spontaneous siesta. Gorging myself with a family bucket of chicken for one. All the benefits of being barricaded in your own bedroom, like a trapped survivor in a zombie apocalypse. An experience braced by having earlier sequestered my PS5 from the living room. Neutralising the chance of interacting with the drunken menagerie that had invaded my home.

And yet, despite the invasive violation of my home, the distant cackles and incessant shouting from the banshees infatuated desire for the whipped cream smothered, slab of biceps and abs they’d hired to entertain this lecherous rabble, demanding more flesh like a pack of ravenous hyenas. Which in no way made me emasculated at all! And even though I was one chicken leg away from a cardiac arrest, I felt at peace. And if lying there on my bed, covered in the filthy remnants of discarded chocolate wrappers, empty beer bottles and deep fried coated chicken skin strewn across my lifeless carcass, just lapsed into a Kentucky Fried coma, I think I would die happy. Greasy, but happy.