Kayt Turner: 'Mr Turner assures me his stag night was a civilised affair. And, of course, I believe him'

I POPPED out to get some lunch last week. It was such a beautiful day I thought I would walk up the Royal Mile and get a sandwich. Easier said than done. I kept having to dodge into the road to avoid large groups of half-cut and inappropriately dressed women. Nothing new there. Our nation's capital isn't exactly renowned for its sobriety or fashion sense, but there did seem to be more than usual. Then I remembered. It's June.

Like many cities, Edinburgh has its seasonal visitors. January brings the Hogmanay revellers. July and August has the arty Festival types and June brings weddings. June brides are all very well, but it also means June hens – flocks and flocks of them.

Long before Dublin took the admirable step of banning stags and hens from rampaging around Temple Bar, Edinburgh was established as the desirable destination for the final fling. I'm not sure I see the point of the city-break hen weekend myself. Although I suppose if I was going to have to dress up in glittery fairy wings and a Day-Glo tutu, it might make sense to do it in a different city. If not a different country. But it does mean the good citizens of Edinburgh have to navigate their way through hordes of little devils, entire warrens of Playboy bunnies and far too many winged angels to count – most of them taking the cherubic look way too literally.

I admit, the lengths that some groups go can be entertaining – one lot in the Canongate the other week were dressed as Madonna Through the Ages. Even stags have gone all themed now. Gone are the days of the groom being stripped naked and tied to a lamppost. Or, as happened to a friend of mine, stripped and imprisoned in a phone box. His only way of escape was to dial 999 (well, it's not as if he had any money on him). The boys in blue very kindly sent two girls in blue to free him. The pictures went down a treat at the wedding.

Mr Turner assures me that his own stag night was a civilised affair. Apparently they all sat around in velvet smoking jackets, sipping on a fine cognac and discussing the political situation in the Balkans before retiring at a decent hour. And, of course, I believe him. Now a stag do involves dressing up as pirates or Milky Bar Kids. I can't work out if they are giving their inner child one last hurrah, or building it up to be properly unleashed once the ring is on their finger.

My hen night took place some time ago and it certainly didn't involve matching t-shirts, themes or fancy dress. Actually, I had to have a couple of hen nights, both of them confined to within a mile radius of the house, though. Why waste perfectly good drinking money on exotic foreign travel? Or taxis, come to that.

My first attempt was terribly traditional. A Chinese meal with my future mother- and-sisters-in-law, Mother and a couple of aunts. What larks we had. Two bottles of wine between us, three pots of tea and home in bed by 10.30pm. No wonder I insisted on having another stab at it. The main problem with me having a hen night was that most of my friends are blokes. They were more than happy to go with the drinking until you fall over aspect of the night, but they weren't going to wear glittery pink Stetsons. No siree. Well... not until after a couple of Campari 'n' sodas.