Carrie Mitchell regales us with tales of crab-walking girls, men in comas, lairiness and, erm, intimate piercings. Whatever happened to behaving like a lady? I’m not claiming to be any sort of saint but laddish behaviour in women has always sat sort of uncomfortably with me. It’s possibly the reason why I’m so scared of hen nights – all those over-excited drunk women stirring each other up to new levels of rowdiness. Terrifying. At least they come with a warning though. When you sign up for one, you can psychologically prepare for the predictable array of Ann Summers merchandise, the inevitable groping of passing men, and the strong possibility that someone’s going to get their boobs out. When that kind of thing happens unexpectedly on the other hand, it’s positively traumatising.

Take the other night. I’m at my friend Jen’s house enjoying a few civilised drinks in the back garden with some of the girls, when what can only be described as a fucking mentalist joins the party. She’s a friend of a friend who is visiting for the night and before she even walks through the door I am warned that she’s a bit schizo – understatement of the century. You know those girls who are so insecure and desperate for approval that they’ll do anything for attention? Well here was possibly the most extreme example of one I’ve ever met. She was like a dog chasing its tail to get a treat from its master, only with possibly less developed social skills.

Carrie is the author of 14 articles including 'Leither in London – Issue 53' from June's Leither

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As soon as she arrived, in a whirl of fake tan and bleached blonde hair, she interrupted the conversation to tell a story about a date she’d been on where she’d caused a fight of such epic proportions that one poor guy ended up in a coma. Not getting quite the awed responses from us that she’d hoped for, she upped the ante by announcing that she’s just had her clit pierced: “Look…” she said whipping her trousers down before anyone had a chance to object or avert their gaze. “It goes through the hood and I am telling you, it make things sooooooo much better”. This time she had me, I sat there stunned, not knowing quite how to react to the spectacle of a woman I’d barely met displaying her private parts in all their Hollywood waxed baldness. Thankfully, by this time it was blessedly dark making the view a little less graphic than it might have been earlier…cue Lou: “I can’t see it,” she said, peering in for a closer look. “Here,” said Fliss, brandishing a lighter, “just as well you’re so bald down there or you could go up in smoke!”.

Morbid curiosity satisfied, we managed to convince our exhibitionist to pull her pants up, but had no such luck getting her to sit down: “Can any of you do a crab from standing?” she asked, readying herself for a demonstration. “I can!” and with that her arms shot up, and she fell backwards, smacking her head on the paving stones before righting herself . “See!” she said proudly, arms and legs akimbo, fanny pointing skyward again. “Wow, that’s ace,” Jen manages while we all struggle to stifle our laughter, “your head okay though?” “Oh yeah, it’s fine, I do that all the time,” she answers. That explains a lot, I think, only just managing to keep myself from saying it out loud. The bash to the head does seem to shut her up for a while though so I decide to take the opportunity to escape before the next act starts. As I’m walking out the front door, I hear her pipe up again: “Did you know I’m double jointed? Wanna see what I can do….” Definitely time for a sharp exit.

I’m recounting the tale a few nights later over dinner with Abs and Liv in our favourite Italian, when I suddenly worry that maybe it’s me being prudish. Abs is a writer for a  girls’ mag with the sauciest reputation around so she’s used to talking and thinking filth every day, while Liv’s known for giving hilariously graphic explanations of her sexual exploits. (Maybe flashing is less of a big deal than I think.) So I’m relieved when they both look at me dumbfounded, but there’s still a niggling thought in my mind that maybe my attitude is a little less liberal than it should be. As the night wears on and the girls get lairier and lairier with the waiting staff, this feeling doesn’t abate. The more limoncello they neck, the more outrageous their behaviour, whereas it seems no matter how much wine I knock back, there’s still a little bit of me not quite letting go. I’m too aware of what people might think, too worried that people will judge us as a bunch of hussies, too embarrassed to make a fool of myself but it’s my shameless friends that seem to be having all the fun…

Maybe it’s time I got on board with the sexual revolution. Maybe winking at men and grabbing my boobs in restaurants is the way to go. Maybe I should go the whole hog and get an intimate piercing. Actually, on second thoughts, I think I’ll stick to being a prude.