You know how Michael stopped talking to me after that disaster of a date we had? We've kinda spoken since, but only if we've really had to, you know for work related shit.
So, oh my god!
The work's Christmas party . . .
. . . It started mid-afternoon, someone put on a bit of a buffet lunch and then Sid cracked open a bottle of vodka . . . in the office! Well, it's been a really long time since I've drunk vodka, so of course, I had one and then another and another. And someone had some whisky — I'm not much of a whisky drinker, but I won't turn down a challenge either.
We were supposed to be going out for a meal later that night and then into town, but then someone announced, "down as many shots as you can in twenty seconds," and I just knew that the night was going to be a write off.
Of course I was game, and of course, I was going to win.
The Laura piped up with the worst idea ever, "let's play spin the bottle," she said as if we were a bunch of thirteen-year-olds.
I think maybe she'd been reading too much fanfiction on Wattpad, it happens in all those One Direction stories you know, they always end up playing spin the bottle. But there was no Harry Styles or Zayn Malik amongst this bunch — you had the choice of Sid, who was overweight, old and bald, Tim, the finance director who picked his nose and on occasion ate it. Mandy who did the wages, Ray who was so tall that his trousers didn't quite reach his ankles, Neil who thought he was a real-life Action Man or Michael. Well, no thank you!
"I'm done! I'm out," I said, a sentiment that was echoed by everyone else. Laura picked up her coat and bag and flounced off.
It was almost seven by the time that I realised that everyone else was gone, and then Michael appeared next to me by the coat stand. He had a sprig of mistletoe in one hand and an unopened bottle of Smirnoff in the other. He looked stupid drunk, and I was feeling horny drunk, that's the only excuse I have for what happened next, after opening the bottle and taking a massive swig I kissed him.
Who knew that under those ugly blue shirts of Michael from accounts hid a plethora of tattoos? And a quick drunken fumble in the finance director's office would lead to the best almost-sex I'd ever had.
Can't go back to work in January, can I?