You learn a lot of useless stuff at school. If I were in charge, more practical subjects would be included on the curriculum.
Such as how to alight elegantly from a rickshaw, or have fun while not sacrificing your principles at hen parties involving genitalia-shaped chocolates. Much more important than, say, algebra, it could be argued.
I will deal first with hen-party etiquette, if that's not a contradiction in terms. The bride-to-be's text message said "My sister will have stuff for you all to wear", which scared me. Not having been schooled in such things, my mind was dizzy with questions. What kind of stuff? Would I be forced to wear said stuff? If I didn't wear the stuff would everyone think I was a spoilsport?
I didn't have to worry about this kind of thing the last time I was on a hen night, because the reluctant hen didn't turn up, which was decent of her.
I knew Denise had no intention of missing her own hen, though. She was as enthusiastic a hen as you could find. She arrived at the Italian restaurant in full regalia, including veil, L-plates and a little portable sign that flashed "Warning! Hen party in progress!" (I wished I had one saying "Warning! Prude alert! This woman may not laugh at vibrating toys", but unfortunately I had left it at home.) The "stuff" we had to wear was handed out by one of the bridesmaids; I quickly surmised that donning the flashing devil horns and the pink satin sash that read "Sexy chick" was not an optional part of the proceedings.
I'm still not sure if sucking my wine from the penis-shaped straws was optional, but, in the absence of any formal schooling on the subject, that is where I drew the line.
The meal was uneventful until the after-dinner mints appeared. I don't mind admitting I'm quite partial to the odd After Eight. But this was a hen night, so chocolates fashioned in the shape of male genitalia with a minty cream filling were the order of the day. Shortly afterwards the bride was forced to do rude things to a phallic dessert. Other things happened involving squirty cream and a half-naked Italian waiter, but I have blocked those out.
On the five-minute walk to the nightclub I threw caution to the wind and took off the hen gear. I'm sure Denise understood. I couldn't have survived being spotted on Grafton Street in a saucy Rose of Tralee-style sash and flashing horns. I put them on again once ensconced in a dark nightclub corner. I even managed to enjoy myself.
And so to rickshaw etiquette. Never mind alighting elegantly, the ethical implications of hiring a rickshaw when there are plenty of taxis around should have been another lesson at school. I mean, fair enough, the rickshaw operatives want your money, otherwise they wouldn't park right outside nightclubs. And, obviously, they are in peak physical condition, enabling them to haul the rickshaw, you and two of your mates across three bridges at 4am. But do these facts alone make it an ethical mode of transport? After preliminary discussions it turned out the rickshaw operative was only a wet week in the country. He'd come here from Prague to make some money, jumping at the chance of work in an increasingly busy industry. He insisted he was well able to carry three of us, so before we knew what was happening we were taking in the sights and smells along the canals while he sweated in front of us, fielding inane questions about his background and ambitions. The fact that two-thirds of our party - not guilty, m'lud - were ogling his thighs in what they thought were low whispers but were, in fact, loudly lecherous tones just added to the wrongness of the occasion. No wonder I had slight difficulties alighting elegantly.
Moving rickshaws are all very well. You can sit there, casually chatting to your friends and pretending to be in a particularly draughty taxi. But when the thing comes to a halt it's a very different story, especially if you haven't noticed you have arrived at your next stop. Having brought us to our destination, the operative put down his vehicle with a suddenness that resulted in two-thirds of our party - guilty, m'lud - sliding off in a sort of dive on to the pavement. There we stayed on all fours for a full minute - or long enough to hear two passing men talking about us. Man 1: "Did you see that?" Man 2: "That was possibly the funniest thing I've ever seen."
I would have preferred to stay on the ground forever, but the Prague fellow wanted his money, and my scratched knees were beginning to sting through my footless tights. So now it's official. Alighting elegantly from a rickshaw and how to be a good chick are miles more useful than maths or Irish. They could even save lives.