Christmas party pratfalls

We had our work Christmas party on Tuesday night.

It was, genuinely, a lot of fun. I have the bruises to show for it.


There's always that moment, the morning after, when you think, maybe I shouldn't have entered into that conversation about party tricks and stupid shit you do when you're drunk, maybe I should have stretched before agreeing to a dare that would mean doing the splits in the middle of the dance floor if Rihanna's We Found Love was played (no connection between song and stupidity - just a random selection of factors), maybe I should have left at 10pm like I said I would.

The gallery bookshop goes disco

It's not so much the (torn, it turns out...) hamstring that niggles, it's more the quiet, panicking horror the next morning (or if you're me, as you crawl into bed at 1am) that you weren't funny and a bit kooky and hilarious like you hoped at the time, but just a plain old fucking idiot in front of your work colleagues.

And then, and then, after sauntering in the following day, over-exuding purposeful nonchalance, there is that small moment of gratitude when you discover that while you may have done something a little bit ridiculous, at least someone did something more ridiculous. At least I didn't make out with one of the cafe staff.