What a fantastic weekend of fun, laughter, grown-up partying with plenty of soul searching and heart-felt issues discussed. A hen weekend in your forties is a rare treat, to be able leave the kids at home and escape with some female friends. I don't do it often enough.
We had lunch out with no one needing a poo or saying they don't like tomatoes. We drank prosecco at lunch time and were the loudest in the restuarant. We rode horses of the ex-race-horse- kind and whooped though the woods - jumping logs as if we were on our hairy ponies 30 years before. I still get a rush of excitement mounting a new horse, hoping I stay on. I chose an orange one called Jaffa - Team Ginger all the way I say. He looked after me like a true gentleman with hay fever and horse flies bugging him along the way.
We nosed in people's gardens, pondering on the house prices of Surrey with its immaculate villages and perfect ponds. Stopping for a quick drink and struggling to get back on we cantered home, twisting, turning, ducking the branches and grinning madly at each other like pony-mad kids. It was a shame it had to end.
Horses will always be a part of all of our lives and it was so wonderful to be able to share the enthusiasm with others. These women get it. The addiction.
And on to the evening of a warm swim in the disappearing sun, a glass of champagne in hand, toasting a friend of many years and wishing her happiness with her soon husband-to-be. It was all quite emotional and held so much more meaning than the hen parties of a decade ago - although even at 40 plus we still drank through penis straws and giggled.
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