Attending a wedding used to just cost you a new outfit, an overnight stay in a country pub and some John Lewis vouchers. But soon-to-be-weds are no longer happy with a generous cash gift for their honeymoon, and one of your holiday days because the converted barn is cheaper to rent on Fridays.
Taking out a second mortgage to cover a hen do abroad is no longer enough.
Now it’s the norm for hen do guests to endure seven circles of admin hell before the bash. Welcome to the world of “funmin”.
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It started simply. Someone suggested making a personalised photo book of memories for the hen to weep over, after four jugs of Aperol spritz.
That sounds nice right? I’ve done it myself. Easy. Straightforward. Wrong. Wait till your boss catches you desperately trawling through photos on Facebook.
How has it really been 10 years since you took a photo of you and your old uni flatmate? You are obviously a terrible friend.
Then there are requests for the heartfelt messages, in rhyming couplets, or perhaps a haiku? Instructions to buy gifts for the bride, something small, cheap, and funny. Something she’ll open and immediately know it’s from you.
This will be tested in front of 30 other attendees, all desperately vying to be the special pal who makes her whoop and laugh and cry.
And you’ve given her a travel shampoo, because you panicked and it was all you could find at the petrol station on the way here. Awful friend.
It’s too much pressure. Demanding. An imposition. Funmin? I’m fuming. (Don’t tell the bride.)
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