Quiet life


By dint of babysitting, sheepish requests for a nice cup of tea instead and simply misreading my diary, I reach the end of the week as pink and white (as opposed to grey and yellow) and well rested as I entered it. And tonight I return home in triumph, gleefully relieved that I am not my housemate.

That her life is well rounded and rewarding is not in doubt but tonight, gulp, she is attending her office Christmas party. No biggie, until one skim-reads further to find that it is taking place in a footballer-and-Sloane-favoured nightclub in London’s fashionable West End. Basically, she’s been in a bad mood about it since October. But, as she has pointed out, there’s no way they’d ever let her into that club under any other circumstances, so she’d better pop along for an anthropological gawp.

I wouldn’t say she’s the most open-minded reveller they’ve ever entertained (‘Oh God, it’s going to be SHIT’) but who knows, maybe it’ll be a Saul/Paul conversion. Who’s to say that tomorrow (or more probably Sunday – she gets vomitously bad hangovers so Saturday’s already down the crapper) she won’t start extolling posh hangouts for the fun they offer. Of course the absolute platinum outcome would be that she goes full-on St Paul and starts firing off lengthy epistles to far-flung city fathers admitting that while she’s a bit shaky on the whole Jesus thing, she can certainly endorse opening a RAHHLLY RAHHLLY good nightclub. Oh! I can’t wait! Champagne all round!

Actually, I sympathise – I was in the same boat not four days ago. Thanks to freelancing and the financial downturn truncating guest lists, I hadn’t been invited to an office Christmas party for a couple of years. Incidentally, I am assuming – for the sake of raw self-esteem – that it was the global meltdown that stopped my invitations at source, and not my way with a long and pointless anecdote. This year, however, I was invited to one thrown by a posh fashion magazine. How’s that for sparking a wardrobe crisis of gargantuaproportions? Once that had been overcome (‘Ah, fuckit’) it was simply a case of attending the nationally renowned venue without looking terrified. And that, my friends, is why God invented cocktails.

Anyway, tonight I’m rather hoping he’s invented crisps and feature-length Marples. The parties start again tomorrow, but for now I need a pretty vicarage, an overbearing colonel and a nanny with A Past.


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