If you boarded a plane to Europe this summer and the rear section was not populated by the chittering of hens in matching cowboy hats or the hollering of stags in custom photo T-shirts, I would be amazed. A weeklong getaway is now the norm for nearly every life event, whether you can afford it or not.

The seemingly endless merry-go-round of functions comes for us all eventually. For me, the horror began when I turned 30. It marked a pivotal shift into proper adulthood, the era where everyone seems to be getting married or gearing up for a big birthday. All of a sudden, precious weekends and meagre annual leave allowances are consumed with celebrating everyone else’s big occasions. I don’t have a single pal who has gotten through the year unscathed.

It starts with the dreaded WhatsApp group. You quickly mute it, check to see if you know any other members. Watch in terror as the two-day spa getaway turns into a seven-day Ibiza beach club crawl. Before you know it, you’re expected to fork over a £600 deposit or risk looking like a terrible friend. Then there are the flights, the accommodation, the restaurant bills, the bottles of fizz for the fridge, the boat trip, the matching outfits. It all adds up.

You might be close with the person of honour, but oftentimes you end up bunking with someone you’ve never met and can’t wait to shake as soon as the flight home lands. You might very well touch down sunburnt, in debt, and hungover with no intention of speaking to your former bestie........

© Herald Scotland