Home to Roost...

When it comes to hen parties I’m a total chicken. I couldn’t bear to be in a gaggle of girls teetering about London late at night, festooned with cowboy hats, L-plates and determined enthusiasm. And hens abroad can be woefully/prohibitively expensive. So why fly the coop? When the round robin emails begin about where to go and what to do, I always chirp up with something a little more domestic - which need not mean dull.

I know I’m not the only one - my friend Samantha had hers at home this year.  It started with champagne and canapés served by a Butler in the Buff. Yes, folks - totally naked but for a tiny black pinny. What made it amusing (and adorable) was that while his physique was slightly flabby, his intellect wasn’t. He was a trainee doctor making some extra cash. With just the right combination of cheek (ahem) and skill, he set the tone for the evening of festivities.

So when I tentatively suggested to my sister that I throw her a hen party chez moi, I was relieved when she readily agreed. I called in some experts of my own – who happen to be both pert and professional. William ‘Archie’ Deal of ‘Archie’s at Home’ (www.archiesathome.com) remains fully clothed but cooks up a storm. His private dining service caters to every demand - we discussed my sister’s favourite foods, and he designed a seasonal tailor-made menu and ordered the appropriate wines.

William arrived at my home and swept into my kitchen, emerging perfectly on cue with drinks and canapés when the girls arrived. Luciana, my Brazilian beauty therapist, pampered us with manicures and the hen-pecking games began. After entertaining and embarrassing my sister in equal measure, we soon settled down to dinner at an impeccably laid table (courtesy of Will, not me.) We started with an espresso cup of cauliflower soup with truffle oil; then garlic prawns with herb risotto; seabass baked in salt bread and finally crème brulee followed by cheese…followed by a chorus of satisfied murmurings.

For a little light exercise I walked from the table to the kitchen, where I expected to see all the debris from William’s culinary extravaganza. Nothing. Not a spot. No evidence whatsoever. The dishwasher was already on, and William was polishing the champagne glasses.

I know his tactics, so I wasn’t too surprised, but I admit I was a little disappointed. For the clean up and grand finale, I’d been hoping he might wear the SW personalised apron I’d had made for my sister – The Gorgeous Mrs Gerlinger – which would be the first time she’d see her new name officially in print (albeit across a man’s chest). But with great humour and aplomb, he whisked off his ‘Archie’s’ apron, tied on my sister’s and presented her with a plate of after dinner truffles.

She gasped with delight! And with cooking/Milk Tray man duties completed, Archie’s at Home melted off into the night, leaving us chicks alone. Well fed and over refreshed, we told saucy tales and danced and laughed until the cock crowed

Scarlett Willow