Dance, dance...
Well yesterday was a washout.
This was all down to my office Christmas party on Saturday night. You might remember that I had voiced my concern earlier in the week as to what to wear, not wanting to be either too mumsy or mutton dressed as mutton, but happy to walk the middle line. I eventually settled on some black trousers and a very trendy top from Religion, so left home feeling happy.
I was meeting Mrs S and Mrs H in a pub opposite the railway station (its location alone is enough to tell you what it was like). When I walked into the pub, I scanned the bar looking for my fiends. The pub was full of groups of men dressed up in Christmas jumpers, with one particularly odd lot dressed as Mexicans. Poor Mrs H was being chatted up (literally - he was about 4'8") by an elderly gentleman with a broken nose. (I'm assuming it was broken and that he wasn't an athlete in training. Looking at the way he was chucking the pints back, I am convinced that the nearest he had been to a track was to watch greyhounds running around it). Mrs H looked very relieved to see a friendly face, but not as relieved as Mrs S who materialised ten minutes later, having been sitting around the other side of the bar. There was time for one Prosecco each, before we had to catch the train into Oxford.
We got into a very wet Oxford and headed to the pub to pick up more of our group. Waiting for us were Mr W and Mr T. Mr W (my manager who is young enough to be my son) had bussed in from London, and shall henceforth be known as The Party Animal. More Prosecco, then off to the restaurant to meet all the others.
We then spent the next five hours eating, drinking, and taking photographs of each other wearing Mr B's natty hat which he had left behind. Doubt he'll ever see that again which will bloody well teach him for leaving so early...
But the highlight of the evening for me was the frenetic dancing with a group of fake Frenchmen (I knew they were fake as their onions were plastic - not much gets past me). Mrs S and I danced like no one was watching (which they weren't anyway) and kept having to go outside to cool off, the steam gently rising from us. My colleagues took some convincing that we weren't going out for a quick cigarette. Silly boys.
Son number two turned up with ELL for the last hour which was lovely, as it gave me the chance to introduce my wonderful work friends to him. It's always good to fit a face to the stories I tell at home. Unfortunately, the people he met on Saturday bore no resemblance whatsoever to those professional folk I share my weeks with.
Drink is a terrible thing, it stole my Sunday and made me eat McDonalds at 4.30.
But it was worth it...
This was all down to my office Christmas party on Saturday night. You might remember that I had voiced my concern earlier in the week as to what to wear, not wanting to be either too mumsy or mutton dressed as mutton, but happy to walk the middle line. I eventually settled on some black trousers and a very trendy top from Religion, so left home feeling happy.
I was meeting Mrs S and Mrs H in a pub opposite the railway station (its location alone is enough to tell you what it was like). When I walked into the pub, I scanned the bar looking for my fiends. The pub was full of groups of men dressed up in Christmas jumpers, with one particularly odd lot dressed as Mexicans. Poor Mrs H was being chatted up (literally - he was about 4'8") by an elderly gentleman with a broken nose. (I'm assuming it was broken and that he wasn't an athlete in training. Looking at the way he was chucking the pints back, I am convinced that the nearest he had been to a track was to watch greyhounds running around it). Mrs H looked very relieved to see a friendly face, but not as relieved as Mrs S who materialised ten minutes later, having been sitting around the other side of the bar. There was time for one Prosecco each, before we had to catch the train into Oxford.
We got into a very wet Oxford and headed to the pub to pick up more of our group. Waiting for us were Mr W and Mr T. Mr W (my manager who is young enough to be my son) had bussed in from London, and shall henceforth be known as The Party Animal. More Prosecco, then off to the restaurant to meet all the others.
We then spent the next five hours eating, drinking, and taking photographs of each other wearing Mr B's natty hat which he had left behind. Doubt he'll ever see that again which will bloody well teach him for leaving so early...
But the highlight of the evening for me was the frenetic dancing with a group of fake Frenchmen (I knew they were fake as their onions were plastic - not much gets past me). Mrs S and I danced like no one was watching (which they weren't anyway) and kept having to go outside to cool off, the steam gently rising from us. My colleagues took some convincing that we weren't going out for a quick cigarette. Silly boys.
Son number two turned up with ELL for the last hour which was lovely, as it gave me the chance to introduce my wonderful work friends to him. It's always good to fit a face to the stories I tell at home. Unfortunately, the people he met on Saturday bore no resemblance whatsoever to those professional folk I share my weeks with.
Drink is a terrible thing, it stole my Sunday and made me eat McDonalds at 4.30.
But it was worth it...
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