christmas minge

At least I have never gone to the staff Christmas party, and spent the first part of the day like a true closet alcoholic, loudly commenting on how little I drink in general and especially today. By the time I'm reasonably plastered, this has changed to quiet questions to my colleagues as to whether they think I'm too drunk or not. Fully aware of my reputation as a sponge and a bit of a party girl from way back, they keep telling me, "No, not at all; have another drink." I do not disappoint.

Later, I proceed to show my undergarments to any conscious male at the bar we are now at, hoping to arouse interest, and raise more. I seem to have forgotten that I have a boyfriend of four years patiently waiting for me at his place - never mind that three short weeks later I will trade him for the one I've been having an affair with for a while now. When all my attempts to attract ANY male attention fail - the only things raised are eyebrows - I turn to my own sex, and much closer to home, in the form of a female colleague. "X, please come and sleep with me. Please, you have to sleep with me tonight. Please... I NEED to sleep with you." [ed. note: I couldn't be bothered with trying to type in manner of severe slurring. Imagine Judy Garland, pickled in vodka for a week after multiple tooth removal, and you get close.] This attempt, in full view of all remaining staff, also fails and my colleagues, feeling awkward and uncomfortable, have great trouble packing me into a taxi.

Come January, it's fairly clear I have no recollection of the events at all. Luckily for you, dear reader, every other staff member does.

At least I've never done that. And I wish I'd gone to the staff Christmas party after all.