A Beginner's Guide To Christmas

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CHRISTMAS EVE EVE:

The Unofficial Office Party

We'd already had our official Christmas party three weeks ago, but this felt like the real thing, the chance to let our hair down and get pissed before Santa dropped down the chimney. It helped that the party was 'impromptu' (though I don't know how you can label a party that happens at the same time every year as impromptu) so partners weren't invited. The workers of H Wood Vehicles all downed tools at five on the dot on the day before Christmas Eve and gathered in the rotting cave that was The Bonnie Dundee, a grimy pub on the outskirts of the business park where we worked. The plan was to get hammered and the wisest amongst us had booked Christmas Eve off long ago so our reckless drinking would have little consequence. 

'Is that all you're drinking?' My friend - and also the receptionist at H. Woods - was drinking what appeared to be orange juice. At a party! And she wasn't even pregnant. 

'Alex booked the day off before me so I have to cover reception all day.' Quinn pulled a face as she took a sip of the child's drink. 

Rookie mistake. I'd fallen for that the first year I'd worked at H. Woods, before I knew of the infamous Unofficial Office Party. As a long-suffering member of H. Woods, Quinn should have known better. 

'Make sure you book Christmas Eve off for next year. Do it as soon as you're back in after Christmas.' That's what I did. That way Kelvin Shuttleworth, my pain in the arse boss, would have no excuse not to authorise the holiday. 

Lesson 1: Book Christmas Eve off on 2nd January. Do it quick, before you've even removed your jacket. 

'Ladies!' Phil Gunner, Production Manager and owner of the tightest jeans known to man, approached us, bellowing over Wizzard's 'I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday'. 'Can I get you a drink?'  

'I'm ok, thank you.' He was clearly talking to Quinn - and trying to have an ogle down her top, filthy beggar - but I answered anyway. 

'Quinn?' Phil leant in towards her, sloshing his pint over her shoes. Quinn stepped back, shaking her foot and examining the damage. 

Lessons 2 & 3: Pace yourself and never wear your best shoes to office Christmas parties. If beer doesn't ruin them, vomit probably will. 

'I'm alright, Phil. But thanks anyway.' Quinn flashed a tight smile before stomping off towards the ladies to try and salvage her suede boots. I was about to follow - not necessarily because I wanted to help but more to get away from Phil and his skin-tight jeans - when the sight of an approaching slutty Mrs Claus stopped me in my tracks. Angelina Littleman tottered towards Phil in what I guessed was a child's costume, her gusset practically on view above the white fur trim of the so-called skirt. She whispered in Phil's ear and he responded by grabbing her arse - in full view of the entire pub - while Angelina giggled and bit her glossy red lip. They disappeared out of the pub together, Phil's jeans now even tighter at the front. 

Lesson 4: Don't let your partner go to a Christmas office party alone if Angelina Littleman will be there. Yes, Mrs Gunner, I'm talking to you. 

Alone now, I fought my way to the bar before going in search of my best friend, Erin. I'd last seen her flirting with the guys from the IT department for sport, but they were now sat in a corner, probably discussing hard drives and video games, without her. I may be stereotyping here but I'm only speaking from experience, having lived with a couple of IT guys for years. 

Pushing my way through the crowds, I passed the buffet table and grabbed a couple of sausage rolls and a handful of crisps - well, it was Christmas so why not? - before continuing my search. I checked the ladies but Erin wasn't there. 

'Have you seen the state of these?' Quinn thrust her boot, which was in her hand and not still on her foot, in my face before resuming her attempt to scrub off the alcohol. I left her to it and pushed my way back out into the pub, checking the bar, the buffet again (goodbye, pork pie) before finally finding Erin tucked away in a dark recess, snogging the face off Stuart from Accounts. Honestly, she was my was best friend and everything but Erin was as bad as Angelina at times. Still, at least Stuart from Accounts wasn't married. 

I left them to it - they hadn't noticed me gawping at them anyway - and returned to the buffet. I'd just stuffed half an egg and cress sandwich into my gob when, typically, my phone started to vibrate in my handbag. Chomping quickly, I rummaged in my bag and grabbed it, spotting 'Mum - mobile' on the display. I assumed she'd be checking what time I'd be arriving at her house the following day. If only. 

'Ruthie, can you hear me?' 

'Just a minute, Mum. I'm in the pub. I'll go outside.' 

I fought my way through the pack, phone held up in the air as though the sight of it would part the crowds, and eventually made it to the doors. A wall of freezing cold air hit me as soon as I stepped outside and I fought the urge to hop back inside and tell Mum I'd phone her back later. 

'Right, I'm outside. What is it?' I turned away as I spotted Angelina and Phil Gunner going at it against some poor sod's car, Angelina's Santa hat jingling with each thrust. 

Lesson 5: Don't eat too many sausage rolls at your office Christmas party. You'll probably end up seeing them again later. 

'I'm at the hospital, love.' 

I'd been hunched over in the cold but I stood up straighter. 'Are you ok? Of course you're not ok. You're at the hospital. Or is it Dad?' 

Mum barked out a laugh. 'It should be your bloody father. It's his fault I'm in here.' Cripes, what had he done? 'You know he's been converting the loft into a bedroom?' Yes, I'd heard about it many times. Mum never shut up about it, griping as though Dad was being a complete bastard by converting the dusty old loft into a useful space. 'The daft sod left his tool box in the hall, right outside the bathroom door. I only went flying over it after my bath.' 

I tried not to laugh. It wasn't funny. Not at all. 

'Luckily my wrist's not broken. I've had it x-rayed and everything. It's just a bad sprain and I've got a great big graze on my shin.' 

'That's good then.' Well, compared with broken bones. 

'Yes, I suppose so. The thing is, I won't be able to cook Christmas lunch this year. I'm all bandaged up and will be for a few days at least. So you'll have to do it.' 

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