Let's dance...
This time next week I will be having the biggest melt down known to man (or woman in the throes of menopausal hottie) as it will be the night of my 'Works Do'. I haven't been to one of these in at least five years, and the ones I was at prior to that were sporadic and rather tame.
As a woman of 50 plus a bit, my Christmas celebrations tend to veer towards smart restaurants with friends, an expensive cracker thoughtfully laid across the top of my place setting. This usually contains something silver coloured in an attempt to look expensive, together with a hat which doesn't disintegrate at the first sign of wear, and a joke which I may or may not understand.
Next week is threatening to be very different.
First of all, we are going into Oxford for our party dinner. A festive extravaganza at £15 a head, which will either be superb or inedible (by the fourth drink I will neither know nor care what I am eating). If we were stopping at this, then I might not be so worried. However, we are then going on a pub crawl around Oxford, finishing up at a club where if you stand still too long on the sticky floor, you have to be prised off with a cake slice and a bottle of turps.
I'm sort of alright with the pub crawl as I am pretty good at knowing when to start saying 'No thank you'. I say this now, but I know that the other twelve on the night out might just have something to say about this on the following Monday morning. There will be stories which will be handed down from employee to employee, finally becoming woven into the fabric of Binland, with future generations asking whether 'that story about the old lady' was actually true.
It's the club which is worrying me the most. And the reason for this? Yep, you guessed. WHAT DO I WEAR? I can get away with pretty much anything for the dinner and pub crawl, as I'll either be sitting down or wearing my coat. But in the club, this just won't cut it. I want to look fab and trendy, but choose the wrong outfit, and I'll end up looking fat and weird ( not a look I aspire to). I have a dress in mind which might do, but then there are the shoes. As you know, I am a martyr to the arthritis, and heels no longer have a place in either my life or in my wardrobe, so I shall be wearing a pair of kitten heels which can look sexy or twee, depending on what they're worn with.
There will also be dancing. The club we are down to go to has three separate dance rooms, one of which is called The Cheese Room. I had originally thought that this sounded quite nice. Although I am not a huge cheese fan, there might be crackers and grapes, and probably some chairs - all very grown up. Turns out that The Cheese Room has nothing to do with cheese whatsoever. 'Cheese' refers to the music it plays, which tends to be anything from Abba to Frankie Valli - now this is my kind of music, and after a few sherbets, I shall be found in there throwing myself around the dance floor like I have itching powder in my drawers.
Just another night in paradise where my dignity gets a bashing...
As a woman of 50 plus a bit, my Christmas celebrations tend to veer towards smart restaurants with friends, an expensive cracker thoughtfully laid across the top of my place setting. This usually contains something silver coloured in an attempt to look expensive, together with a hat which doesn't disintegrate at the first sign of wear, and a joke which I may or may not understand.
Next week is threatening to be very different.
First of all, we are going into Oxford for our party dinner. A festive extravaganza at £15 a head, which will either be superb or inedible (by the fourth drink I will neither know nor care what I am eating). If we were stopping at this, then I might not be so worried. However, we are then going on a pub crawl around Oxford, finishing up at a club where if you stand still too long on the sticky floor, you have to be prised off with a cake slice and a bottle of turps.
I'm sort of alright with the pub crawl as I am pretty good at knowing when to start saying 'No thank you'. I say this now, but I know that the other twelve on the night out might just have something to say about this on the following Monday morning. There will be stories which will be handed down from employee to employee, finally becoming woven into the fabric of Binland, with future generations asking whether 'that story about the old lady' was actually true.
It's the club which is worrying me the most. And the reason for this? Yep, you guessed. WHAT DO I WEAR? I can get away with pretty much anything for the dinner and pub crawl, as I'll either be sitting down or wearing my coat. But in the club, this just won't cut it. I want to look fab and trendy, but choose the wrong outfit, and I'll end up looking fat and weird ( not a look I aspire to). I have a dress in mind which might do, but then there are the shoes. As you know, I am a martyr to the arthritis, and heels no longer have a place in either my life or in my wardrobe, so I shall be wearing a pair of kitten heels which can look sexy or twee, depending on what they're worn with.
There will also be dancing. The club we are down to go to has three separate dance rooms, one of which is called The Cheese Room. I had originally thought that this sounded quite nice. Although I am not a huge cheese fan, there might be crackers and grapes, and probably some chairs - all very grown up. Turns out that The Cheese Room has nothing to do with cheese whatsoever. 'Cheese' refers to the music it plays, which tends to be anything from Abba to Frankie Valli - now this is my kind of music, and after a few sherbets, I shall be found in there throwing myself around the dance floor like I have itching powder in my drawers.
Just another night in paradise where my dignity gets a bashing...
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