A Thousand Pounds for a Hen Party

£1,000. It felt like a small fortune, and in my bank account's current state, it pretty much was. The number sat there, stark and unapologetic, in my transaction history. A single line item for a single weekend. A weekend dedicated to celebrating someone else's impending nuptials. I had been excited, of course. Who wouldn't be? The bride, my dear friend Sarah, was getting married, and a hen party was a rite of passage. A weekend of glitz, glamour, and good times, or so the brochures and Instagram feeds promised. But as I clicked "confirm" on the final payment, a sense of dread, rather than delight, settled in my stomach.
The planning had started innocently enough. A WhatsApp group was created, its name a flurry of emojis and celebratory puns. At first, it was all suggestions and shared links to Pinterest boards. Ideas were thrown around: a spa weekend in the Cotswolds, a cottage retreat in the Lake District, a boozy weekend in Ibiza. I had voiced my concerns early on, a small, timid message in the chat about keeping costs down. My words were lost in the enthusiastic chatter. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime thing!" someone had messaged back. "We have to make it special!" And so, the budget began to spiral.
The destination was finally decided: a luxury villa in the south of France. My heart sank. I pictured myself in the sun, a glass of champagne in hand, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling that I was sinking into debt for a party. The initial breakdown of costs was eye-watering. The villa rental alone was a hefty chunk, split between the nine of us. Then there were the flights, which, with a last-minute booking, were far more expensive than I had anticipated. Add to that the cost of activities: a private chef for a celebratory dinner, a wine tasting tour, a boat trip along the coast. It was a list that read more like a celebrity's vacation itinerary than a weekend getaway for a group of friends with varying financial situations.
I tried to rationalize it. It was for Sarah. She was my friend. This was her special day. I couldn't be the one to rain on her parade, the one to complain about the cost when everyone else seemed so blissfully unconcerned. I convinced myself that I would make the money back. I would be more frugal in the coming months. I would eat beans on toast for a month if I had to. The thought was laughable, but it was a desperate attempt to justify the immense financial outlay. The truth was, I felt like a fraud. I was putting on a brave face, messaging in the group chat with excitement and exclamation marks, all while calculating how many hours I would have to work to pay this off.
The weekend itself was a blur of forced fun. The villa was stunning, a minimalist's dream with an infinity pool and breathtaking views. We were all dressed in coordinated outfits, a different theme for each day. We took endless photos, each one carefully curated to look like we were having the time of our lives. The champagne flowed, the music blared, and we danced until our feet hurt. On the surface, it was everything a hen party was supposed to be. But beneath the veneer of laughter and expensive cocktails, I felt an undercurrent of anxiety. Every time I reached for my wallet, every time another expense was split and sent to me via a payment app, my stomach clenched. I saw the money flying out of my account and I felt a pang of resentment, not toward Sarah, but toward the entire situation.
I found myself retreating, a quiet observer rather than an active participant. I would sit on a lounge chair, watching the others swim and laugh, and I would think about my empty bank account. I thought about the bills I had to pay, the groceries I needed to buy, and the little luxuries I would have to forgo for the next few months. This wasn't a celebration; it felt like a punishment. I was paying a penance for a friendship I valued, a penance that felt disproportionately heavy. The pressure to conform, to keep up, had been immense. I didn't want to be the one to say, "I can't afford this," and feel like the poor friend. So I had said nothing, and now I was paying the price, both literally and emotionally.
The flight home was long and quiet. I stared out the window, watching the clouds pass by, a mix of relief and exhaustion washing over me. We had survived the weekend. The hen party was over. But the financial hangover was just beginning. I knew I had a long road ahead of me to recover from this. The memories I had were not of unbridled joy, but of a quiet, persistent worry. The beautiful photos we had taken felt less like a celebration and more like a monument to my financial folly. I had spent £1,000 for a weekend of smiles, and the price felt far too high. I realized then that a true friendship should not come with a price tag, and that my silence had cost me far more than just money. I had to learn to speak up, to be honest about my limitations, and to value my own well-being just as much as I valued my friendships. That was the most important lesson I had learned from this expensive party.
Source@BBC