Of Christmas parties past...

So last year, at a Christmas party at a pub round the back of the office, I got very drunk. And I mean very very drunk. It wasn't quite my fault, though. You see these were the people I used to work with, my die hard Friday night pub colleagues, the hardcore-last-to-leave-the party drinking buddies, and I can still usually be found with them at last orders nursing my end of the evening whisky, their mascot, occasional confidant and all round always ready to go to the pub good time girl.

And the boy I'd fancied like mad, the office scoundrel, the industry rake, me blushing and stammering whenever he came near, sat beside me. And flirted, helped me with drinks, charming and charismatic. And who potentially was newly single.

And so for courage, I drank. And drank some more. And was jolly and happy, and charming and charismatic myself. And spying a bottle of my favourite of all favourite party tipples, decide to let my competitive nature come out.

Big mistake.

As I am a purist in this game, I do not like my sambuccas coffee bean'ed and on fire.
3 months in Mexico taught me to scorn the lemon and salt with tequila and although I may be partial to the odd B52 I will never enjoy the Purple Fuck. And I'll still be standing at the bar long after everyone else has said no more.

Because you see, in Vancouver, where I first honed these skills as a student I was the sambucca queen. Without fail, at the end of the evening I was propped at the bar, happily challenging all and sundry to shots at the bar. It is now, apparently, not big or clever but I was an impressionable 21 year old, I'd seen Indiana Jones one too many times and connected with good ole Marion Ravenwood.

Back then, to the party. Back to the bar. Back to the competition. Back to that bemused waitress who has run out of glasses and about half an hour later runs out of black sambucca. So we go on to white. And when that runs out we try tequila. And flavoured vodka. And schnapps. And sometime between the white sambucca and schnapps, the time passes too quickly, I've missed my last train back to Bromley and I'm stuck.

Until, with a glint in his eye, the office rake and the man whom I was unable to converse with until this night because I fancied him so much, turns to me and offers up his spare room.

What is a girl to do?

Grab her coat. Her gloves. Her bag and hat and link her arm through his.

The office rake, however, turned out to be not so much a scoundrel but a total gentleman.
Even after drunkenly professing my adoration for him. And I think, shamefully, even badgering him for a kiss which he sensibly declined. He put me in his room and slept on the sofa, and the next day, I snuck out of his house cringing, shamefaced and sheepish; in my hurry leaving behind random articles of clothing.

And as I made my way to meet Knickers outside of Rigby and Peller, painfully hungover and in the clothes from the night before I send her a text.

I've lost my scarf.

My gloves.

And my dignity.

Luckily this year, I managed to regain my dignity. Knocking back several vodkas and belting out *Do you really want to hurt me?*.

Oh yes. Indeed.