Yule Blog - part one

Some lessons are never learned. Like a demented goldfish, I've already begun to repeat the same mistakes that I've made every Christmas previously. This was the first one.

The work's Christmas party
Having reached an age where getting pissed as a fart is no longer a top priority, I thought that this year's party would be, for me, a short and fairly sober affair.

The party was held in a flash new bar near work. We had an area reserved for us in the downstairs bar. 57 of us were penned into a space normally used to accommodate a table and four chairs. Loud, anonymous house music pumped out of numerous speakers above our heads, making conversation (despite our proximity to each other)almost impossible. To add to the discomfort, the smoking contingent of the bar's clientele trod a constant path through our area in order to reach the outside courtyard.
An hour into the party I was not enjoying myself, I felt tired and irritable and so decided that I would sneak off home - after one more drink.

However after the fifth, or maybe sixth, rum and coke something magical happened - suddenly I was having the best night of my life. My workmates were all charming and funny; the DJ was playing some great tunes and I was dancing with the grace and style of a professional.

Next thing I knew the bar was closing and it was time to leave. Out we went into the night - and heavy snow. A group of us stumbled our way to Bank station. We made our way down the stairs but were stopped by a London Transport employee. There were no more tubes. Why? It was 1 a.m. Back up on the street we tried to hail some cabs but every one that passed had it's light off and a quartet of smug passengers in the back. We wandered the streets of the City battling against the blizzard. It was mid-winter and things were looking bleak, there was more chance of getting a suntan than getting a cab. Our little group split - the northsiders and the southsiders went their separate ways.

Myself and two blokes from the office headed along Cannon Street, guided by a shining light - not the star of Bethlehem but the golden arches of MacDonalds. A quarter pounder meal later we headed back out into the snow and over London Bridge to the station where we joined the long queue at the taxi rank. It was no longer the best night of my life.

I eventually got home at 3.30am and just about managed to take my clothes off before passing out in bed. Three hours later my alarm woke me up. I'm not sure how I got to the bathroom but once there I was unable to do anything but sit on the toilet with my head in my hands. I slid along the hall wall back to my bedroom and having laid down again, with one eye closed to help me focus, text my boss to say I would be taking the day as holiday.

At about 2.30 in the afternoon I was finally able to lift my head from my pillow, albeit gingerly. As I sipped a glass of water and waited for the pain killers to take effect, snippets of the previous night replayed in my head. Was that me throwing my arms around my boss in a warm embrace, twice? Did I really get twirled around the dancefloor by a man the size of a Munchkin? Unfortunately, yes.

Later that evening, when I let a phone call whose number I didn't recognise go to voicemail, I discovered that I'd also given my mobile number to a bouncer at the bar - presumably with the promise of a date by the gist of his message. The following two days were spent ignoring his calls and texts until he gave up.

What happened to my plans to leave the party at a reasonable hour and be in bed by midnight? Those same plans that every year somehow go awry, leading to embarrassing behaviour, not to mention mental and physical deterioration.

As I said at the start, we never learn.

The Unusual Suspects

Friday night saw me in West London having dinner with 3 friends. For reasons which will soon become clear, I shall give them aliases and refer them as Irene, Pam and Linda.

We had a very pleasant evening dining in a restaurant affilliated to a certain football club. At the end of the meal we asked for our bill and, slightly fuddled by the wine we'd drunk, divided the bill in four. Pam and Linda chose to pay by credit card whilst Irene and I paid by cash. We put our cash on the table and waited for someone to come and take the card payments.

It took some time but a waiter arrived and asked how much we wanted to pay on each card. Pam and Linda paid their share and the waiter went away. Our cash stayed where it was. I went to the toilet and came back to the table. The cash was still there. We put on our coats - by now the waiting staff had changed out of their uniforms and were donning their coats too. No-one came back to our table.

We exchanged glances, had they forgotten to pick up our money? It seemed so. Coats on and handbags over arms, we hovered by our table and looked around. The few remaining staff were busying about resetting tables. What should we do?

We did what any right-minded people would do - we grabbed the cash and headed for the door. Pam and Linda scuttled off ahead, I was left bringing up the rear with Irene who, at 82 and in heels, was struggling to keep up and leaning on my shoulder for support.

We made our way up the road to the tube station, checking over our shoulders to see if we were being followed and laughing hysterically at our derring-do. At the tube station we split our booty, £17.50 each. Pam, Linda and I said goodbye to Irene and still laughing went down to the tube platform.

As we sat waiting for the tube Pam's mobile rang. It was the restaurant! We'd forgotten that she'd phoned to make the reservation so they would have her details. Linda and I had to look away as Pam did her best confused middle-aged woman act and spoke to the restaurant manager. She said that she was sure we'd left the cash on the table. No said the manager, all that was there was £3.50 in change. Pam said she couldn't understand it, we'd definitely put £70 down on the table. She would ring her other friend who'd gone home to see if she knew anything and ring him back.

On the tube back to Wimbledon, in between crying with laughter, we frantically thought of what to say. There was only one thing for it - blame Irene.

At Wimbledon station Pam called back the restaurant manager. There had been a mistake on our part. The elderly lady that was with us had inadvertently picked up the cash thinking it was her change. When Pam had called her, she'd checked in her handbag and there was £70 in there.

The manager was very understanding, these things happen. As Pam read out her credit card details, Linda and I sheepishly took out the £17.50 from our purses and gave it back to her.

How the restaurant manager fell for that story I don't know. Fair enough if you'd never met Irene - you could be forgiven for picturing her as frail, bent, hard of hearing and possibly slightly demented. In reality though Irene is straight as a pole, sharp-witted, elegant and glamourous beyond description. She looks how would imagine Joanna Lumley or Helen Mirren at 82.

Still, all said and done she is an octagenarian and, teamed with three ladies of a certain age, who would suspect her of anything underhand?

Moral of the story - if you want to pull a fast one take a granny with you, but don't book in advance.