Cast your minds back, if you will, to last Monday when I uttered the immortal words:
"Oooh, I'm off to Kracow on a fabulous Hen Do this weekend, so I'm sure I'll have some stories from there. If you've ever been and recommend anywhere then please comment below."
This, my friends, is what is referred to as tempting fate.
On Friday afternoon I arrived in beautiful Kracow with a group of lovely girls for my oldest friend's hen do. We checked into our apartments and got ourselves ready for the night ahead.
It was all going so well, the "Mr & Mrs Quiz" we put together turned out to provide an excellent excuse to make the hen drink several shots of Vodka before heading out to a cute restaurant for dinner.
After that we headed over to the main town square for an organised pub crawl that we had booked to join, primarily because the first stop on the tour was dubbed the all-you-can-drink "Power Hour". We bumped into a stag party from Cardiff who we met on the plane - although at this early stage we were surprised to notice that the stag, Tony The Tiger (so-called because he had to spend the entire weekend dressed in either a fleece tiger suit or a Borat Mankini), was nowhere to be seen.
"Ahh, yeah he's back at the hotel in bed!" We were informed. Boys, eh?
The first port of call was not dissimilar to (in fact, it probably was) a small cellar. We spent a lot of time mesmerised (in much the same way my Dad was bemused by the cup holders in the seats at the O2 Arena - "Haha. I can't get over THAT!") at the fact that smoking inside is still legal, and reminiscing at days gone by, in only the way that a group of people hurtling towards thirty can. Yes, yes, all very amazing until the next day, when it smelled like someone had smoked a ham in my hair.
It turned out that in the aforementioned Power Hour, the only thing you could have to drink was vodka. Shots of.
Being the sensible girls that we are, we were sufficiently horrified at this but of course, we had paid our money so what other option did we have during this awful recession but to knock back as much of the stuff as we could handle in 60 minutes?
The next stop was a slightly roomier cellar. The Cardiff Stags were still standing, and amazingly, so were we. We located a small dance floor and in between taking gazillions of photos from arm's reach, strutted around to a bit of Polish Techno-Pop. Oh, we were having the time of our lives!
I gestured to the others making a "T" shape with my hands, which as we all know, is the Universal Night-Out sign for "I'm popping to the toilet".
One of the other hens came with me and after a mandatory re-application of inch thick lip gloss and this conversation:
"Are you having a good time? I'm having a GREAT TIME!"
"Yeah, I'm having a GREAT TIME Are you having a good time?"
"Yessss! I'm having a BRILLIANT TIME! Are you?!"
"Yessss! I'm having a BRILLIANT TIME! Are you?!"
I had a quick look in the mirror and thought "Geddon bird, you're doing alright. It's midnight and you're still going strong. You're looking FIERCE!". With that, I teetered off down the stairs, feeling slightly proud of myself for making it all the way down in my high heels without twisting an ankle.
Sipping on my drink, I trotted smugly towards the dancefloor to find the others, congratulating myself for scrubbing up ok for a rare night ou...
BAM!!!!
Next thing I knew I was sprawled out on the floor dripping with Vodka & Red Bull. Two Polish girls yanked me to my feet and said what I presumed to be "Oh my GOD! Are you ok?" but could just have easily been "Hahaha what an amazing face-plant you stupid bloody Brit". I have absolutely no idea what I answered but I managed to stumble back up the two came-out-of-nowhere steps I had just dived off and found some of our party in the bar.
"I just fell over!" I announced. I think the general consensus was that I had just taken an embarrassing drunken tumble until they saw my face, which apparently was drained of any colour, save for an inch of bright pink lip gloss that was now smudged down my chin. They ushered me to a seat.
"You're ripped your tights!" exclaimed one hen.
"I think I've broken my elbow!" I mumbled through chattering teeth.
"Yes, but you've ripped your tights!" The hen pointed out. "Have a little sit down for a minute" the offered.
By all accounts at this point I suddenly pronounced that I "had to get my shoes off and go outside". A couple of lovely hens followed me and my bulging elbow to the entrance where a doorman agreed that I should probably go to the hospital.
"Should I get an ambulance?!" I asked.
"In Poland, ambulance is only for emergency" he informed us.
Sorry - was this not an emergency? My arm was hanging off! Ok... not quite. No, it was not an emergency, so we crept off to find a taxi, scaring revellers on the streets along the way with the sight of my eggy elbow, leaving the other hens blissfully unaware and techno-popping the night away.
Believe it or not, there is still a lot more of this story to come but I have to go to the doctors now for them to check over my injuries, so I'll have to give you the next instalment later...
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