Look. Listen. Search for a safe place. Before you cross that line. It's not all about managing to look pretty in cerise pink taffeta. It's not just about cosying up to the dishy groomsmen. Nor is it simply a question of stocking up on waterproof mascara. No, no.

There's also the organisation of the hen party.

Or, in my case, three hen parties. Because my bride was just that popular.

The first 'celebration' was to be a weekend away with just the bridesmaids. The second, a night out with the teachers in her school (all 40 of them). And finally, there were all the other people who fit into neither of the first two categories, a merry group of 35.

"I'm thinking classy, " said the bride, her eyes shining in anticipation. "No 'L plates', no fake boobs, no cowboy hats. Classy." I quickly went off to cancel the stripper. That done, I promptly dissolved into a panicked mess. The last time I tried to organise a surprise party I wrote all the plans on a notebook under the title 'Shelly's Surprise Birthday Party', and then left the notebook in Shelly's house.

Resisting the urge to gatecrash the nearest wedding reception screaming for help, I settled instead for the ever-reliable internet. A frenzied search produced Posh Fizz (www. poshfizz. com), an Irish events management company dedicated to organising ladies-only parties. Perfect. I sent off a vaguely hysterical email to the director of Posh Fizz, Jenni Woolfson. It went something along the lines of "35 people. . . MUST be classy. . . very picky eaters. . . bound to be rowdy and insist on singing when drunk. . . please, please help".

A few hours later, Jenni replied with the sort of calm authority normally employed by zookeepers. She offered a number of different suggestions for the evening and promised to "tailor a package" around my requirements.

I relaxed. Anyone who speaks of tailoring packages clearly knows that they're doing.

Leaving Jenni to organise what had now become known as the 'Main Hen' (the third one, with a hair-tearing age-range of 25- to 60year-olds) I set about researching possibilities for the bridal weekend away. For no apparent reason, we decided to go to Westport. Another quick liaison with my beloved computer revealed that Hotel Westport (www. hotelwestport. ie) offered very reasonable rates and a beautiful spa. I called to make reservations and, when I mentioned we were a bridesmaid's party, the hotel manager immediately offered us rooms with an adjoining door.

Excellent foresight by her. Clearly she'd seen her share of blushing bridesmaids scuttling down corridors, half clad, for group consultations on whether to apply more fake tan.

As we were packing for the trip I received an email from Jenni in Posh Fizz with a proposal for the main hen. It sounded fabulous.

Two-and-a-half hours of salsa dancing lessons, followed by cocktails in a swish bar with our own reserved area, then on to a Moroccan restaurant with our own VIP room and then to a top Dublin club with free passes to skip the queue. It also included personalised invitations, personalised menus and a photo book at the end of it all.

Excited, I skipped off to tell the other bridesmaids. Their reaction wasn't quite what I hoped. It was pointed out to me that the bride's hair appointment directly coincided with the salsa lessons, that there was no WAY she'd eat Moroccan food and she didn't really like the club in question. "But the cocktails sound great, " said bridesmaid number two kindly. "Wonder could we get them cheaper?"

Much deflated, and a little apprehensive, I skulked back to Jenni with numerous apologies and asked her to try again. We wanted a different club (but still very exclusive and free), we still wanted a private room but in a different restaurant (preferably with lots of fish and vegetarian options available), oh, and would it be possible to bring our own champagne and not pay any corkage charge?

To her resounding credit, Jenni didn't once try to convince me that she'd packed it all in to become a botanist. Instead, she responded to my requests in much the same way I imagine Blair dealt with Bush: smile, nod and keep the madman happy. Leaving her to it, I turned my attentions to Hen Party No 2 . . . now known as the 'Teacher's Hen'. This was a tricky one.

Most restaurants were offering set threecourse menus for around 50, with wine as extra. I made an executive decision: a bunch of twentysomething women wouldn't be that awfully interested in dessert. Three courses, therefore, was a waste of cake. I began haggling with bewildered restaurant owners, until finally Tante Zoe's in Temple Bar agreed to give us a two-course meal plus half a bottle of wine per person (and let me bring in my own stash of M&S chocolate puds) for the sterling price of 40 a head. I was sold.

In the meantime, Jenni had emailed me a list of prospective venues for the Main Hen. With devastating ease, we managed to find something drastically wrong with every one of them. Jenni cheerfully returned to the drawing board and we set off for Westport.

The day started in the spa. The Ocean Spirit Spa. We abandoned our clothes in favour of huge fluffy white bathrobes and soft slippers.

One by one, we were called forth for our various treatments. Many hours later, pink and buffed and glowing with health, the four of us reconvened and spent a deliciously enjoyable hour chatting about who had the best pedicure.

Finally, we retired to our rooms, where two bottles of pink bubbly were waiting for us (on request). We popped open our tin of red paint and set out on the town. Hen Party No 1: riproaring success.

I congratulated myself all the way back to Dublin, and arrived home to find an excited email from Jenni. In the course of her extensive inquiries, she'd discovered a very promising package in the newly-renovated Trinity Capital Hotel on Pearse Street: one cocktail, a three-course meal, half a bottle of wine per person, an after-dinner drink and free access to a number of classy clubs in Dublin, all in our own private room. AND they were happy to tailor the menu to my very annoyingly specific needs. The total cost of the evening . . . including the Posh Fizz fee for the invitations, menus, photobook and general organisation . . . came to 85 per person. Jenni was fortunate that we were communicating by email because I could have kissed her.

Instead, I forced myself to stay calm and asked her for a sample menu. It arrived by email the next day, and my heart sank. Soup was one of the starters . . . no salad. Lasagne was one of the main courses . . . no fish. And they'd put orange in the chocolate dessert. Which baffles me. Why mess with perfection? I glumly contacted the hotel directly and told them I needed to change everything. I waited for the manager to politely tell me where to stick my 'light salad with a balsamic vinegar dressing'. But, no. She said she'd speak to the chef.

And the chef said he'd do it.

In the meantime, Jenni's personalised invitations arrived in the post to all 35 invitees, beautiful handmade cards in pink and black, informing guests that we were having a Sex and the City theme for the evening and instructing each guest to wear 'glamorous dresses only'.

We commissioned a custom-made gold chain with the name of the bride on it (like the 'Carrie' necklace). We also set to work on 'classy' games for the evening: we decided that everyone would have to refer to the groom as 'Mr Big' for the night . . . or drink a shot of alcohol (this was our one deeply unsophisticated nod to the fact that it was a hen party, afterall). We were still debating whether 'Aftershock' would be a bad idea as a choice of forfeit drink, when the night of the Teacher's Hen arrived.

This evening of debauchery began in the Morrisson Hotel for cocktails, where the manager . . . upon hearing that we had a bride-to-be among us . . . insisted on having the barman make up a special cocktail to match her dress.

A nice touch. A killer cocktail. The bride wobbled cheerfully out of the bar.

In Tante Zoe's, we got exactly what we'd asked for. Good food, great service and a tacit head-turn-the-other-way when we got a bit rowdy. The staff cleaned up around us and didn't once hint that it was time to leave. The second tin of red paint was cracked open and we descended upon Dublin city, and the rather unsuspecting Lillies Bordello. Hen Party No 2: fabulous darling.

Finally, it was time for the Main Event. I arrived to the hotel early and I was nervous.

Very nervous. So I felt a wave of appreciation when the barwoman, Anne, introduced herself to me and said that if I needed anything, "anything at all", I could come straight to her.

"A stiff drink, " I croaked. One materialised in front of me. Anne had prepared a large batch of Cosmopolitans. "I seem to have made a few too many, " she said, with a shrug and a wink.

The ladies immediately began helping themselves to seconds.

After about an hour we shepherded everyone towards the private room before announcing the arrival of the bride. She walked in. She gasped. And then she started to cry. As the tears ran in little black streams down her cheeks, ruining her make-up, my heart soared.

I'd made her cry. Must have done something right.

The room did look truly fantastic. The opulent purple decor of the hotel perfectly complemented the pristine white table cloths covering the three large tables. At each place setting there was a personalised laminated menu . . . each bearing a different picture of the bride from her childhood, through geeky adolescence, to the later years with her fiancee.

Big red helium balloons formed the centrepiece at each table and large pink Sex and the City posters adorned the walls.

The wine flowed, with the waiters making sure no one's glass depleted past the halfway mark. The food was hot, fresh and extremely tasty. And the service was excellent . . . even when I requested three toilet rolls, our waitress permitted herself just a little amused giggle before dashing off to get them.

The toilet rolls were our other . . . less than classy . . . stab at fun. We divided the group into three teams, handed each a roll of toilet paper, and gave them 10 minutes to fashion a wedding dress. Thanks to the copious amount of alcohol already consumed, everyone entered into the spirit of the competition with rather alarming gusto. As the bride chose the winner, I handed each person a special wrist band that would guarantee us access to Cafe en Seine.

People spontaneously began tying balloons to themselves for the journey to the pub. The 'keep it classy' brief was rapidly becoming but a distant memory. As we thanked everyone in the Trinity Capital Hotel, the bride accosted me, her eyes brimming with more tears. "Best night of my life, " she whispered. "I don't ever want it to end." Hen Party No 3: Over. Over at last. Mission accomplished.