On Saturday I saw three separate hens night groups on Oxford street. All the brides had a few things in common.
(1). They were all very young. Probably no older than 22 or 23. Yet (2) scantily clad, so presumably not marrying young for, you know, God or something. (3) They all had Oompa Loompa tans and (4) hideous bleached hair. (5) Not a single one of them could string a sentence together.
I sat with this vision for a while, mulling over the cultural implications of it all, when suddenly something horrifying and tragic struck me:
SOMEONE woke up one morning, looked at these girls, and thought, “You know what I’d like to spend the REST OF MY LIFE DOING? Waking up to your inane blather.”
Maybe if I got an oompa loompa tan, bleached my hair and forgot half my vocabulary, I too could have a fiancee.
Or maybe it’s just because I’m a cynical bitch.
I’ll take my singular cynicism over that any day.