Free Tales From a Hen Weekend by Olivia Ryan Page A

stomach, promising never to drink again as long as she lives.
    ‘Yeah, right,’ mutters Karen. ‘I’ll give it a couple of hours at the most…’
    Not everyone likes Guinness, but Jude tells us it’s definitely impolite to refuse the complimentary pint in the bar at the top of the Storehouse, the highest bar in Dublin. After traipsing around the building looking at how it’s made, I think the least we can do is enjoy a pint of it, and I’m gasping with thirst anyway, so it goes down a treat. Helen, however, is sipping hers reverently, with her eyes closed, like it’s a religious experience. It’s supposed to be the best Guinness you’ll ever taste in your life. I nudge her, making her swear furiously when the beer splashes onto her jeans.
    ‘Better than sex, is it?’ I tease her.
    She takes another sip, closing her eyes again, obviously considering this carefully.
    ‘It’s a close thing,’ she says eventually. ‘And it certainly lasts longer.’
    The other girls fall about laughing at this all-too-obvious crack, but I smile back at Helen, because I know her, and she doesn’t joke about things like this. I think she actually does prefer the Guinness. Maybe she’s got a point.
    We get back on the bus afterwards and finish the rest of the tour. Jude’s doing her best to encourage us to listen to the commentary but by the time we end up back at Temple Bar again, Suze isn’t the only one who’s fallen asleep.
    ‘Will you look at the lot of you – what a shower of bloody eejits!’ she says in disgust. ‘And there was I thinking you’d be up for a spot of lunch in one of these fine hostelries, with a little live music, but of course if you’d rather be back in your rooms asleep on your beds…’
    We all seem to have woken up miraculously at the mention of lunch and hostelries.
    Lisa takes it upon herself, despite complaints about the cobbles, to go back to the hotel to bring Mum and Auntie Joyce out to join us for lunch. We find a table in one of the biggest bars, where the live music consists of a lone singer, accompanying himself on the guitar.
    ‘He could do with cheering up a bit,’ I whisper to Jude. ‘Music to slit your wrists by, or what?’
    ‘Oh, he’ll liven up in a while,’ says Jude with surprising confidence. ‘Come on, let’s get something to eat, for God’s sake – it’s been hours since breakfast and me stomach feels like me throat’s been cut.’
    That’s another strange thing about Jude. For someone so slim and petite, she’s got the appetite of a horse. Where does she put it all? Why doesn’t she ever get an ounce of fat on her bones? And why am I already feeling like I’m two dress sizes bigger than yesterday, after just one night of booze and junk food? Why is life so full of unfairness and contradiction? Why am I sitting here feeling sorry for myself in the middle of a gang of riotous crazy friends whose only mission in life is to get me pissed?
    ‘Get that down you,’ says Emily, plonking a glass of white wine in front of me.
    Seems churlish to refuse, really.
    Within ten minutes we’re all back on the booze, even those who pledged only a few hours ago to give it up forever. We’ve ordered sandwiches and we’re getting stuck into packets of crisps and nuts as if we’ve never eaten before. It must be the fresh air.
    Mum’s sitting next to me, sipping delicately at her glass of wine, giving it the occasional suspicious look as if something’s going to leap out of it and bite her.
    ‘Just take it easier today and you’ll be fine,’ I tell her quietly.
    I feel a bit sorry for her, and guilty for letting her get drunk last night. Lisa and I should have kept more of an eye on her. She’s not really used to the amount of drink we were putting away.
    ‘I know. I’m not daft,’ she says tetchily. ‘You don’t have to treat me as if I’m five years old.’
    ‘I’m not! Sorry! I just thought, as you’re not used to it…’
    She gives a little laugh that