“Is this too short?”
Was the refrain of my flat last night, as my flatmate paraded out into the living room sporting different outfit options.
“Not as long as you’re wearing the sparkly tights.”
“Right. Do we think that’s too much sparkle, along with the sparkly top?”
“There’s never too much sparkle.”
Only one time of year can provoke such riveting discourse, reader. You guessed it – it’s Christmas party season.
As the man in the red suit prepares for his long voyage, the next seven days will see countless Christmas nights out flood Dundee‘s pubs, bars and restaurants (bless seasonal hospitality staff).
Our city’s streets will be decked with teachers festooned in tinsel, council workers sporting Christmas jumpers and, of course, holly jolly journalists on their festive jaunts.
As I type this, our office is packed with teams looking glammed up to go out. There’s an electric air of anticipation as the clock trundles down to 5pm, and an inordinate amount of glittery knitwear going on.
And the pantomime of it! The full glam make-up and all-out ‘going out’ outfits that are worn somewhat sheepishly from the crack 9am, their grandeur wilting slightly under the fluorescent lights.
The Mexican stand-off as finishing time approaches, of people keeping of the charade of work, determined not to look too keen, while glancing out the sides of their eyes to see who will break first and announce, with hands held up in innocence: “Pub?”
Most of all, I love how embarrassingly earnest it is, like a non-uniform day in S2, with everyone (myself included) determined to look their best while living their mundane lives.
There’s honestly few things funnier in the corporate world than a seriously glammed-out colleague eating a Muller Corner at 1pm.
I love it all.
But like everything I love, I also fear it.
I don’t have the best track record when it comes to work Christmas dos.
Last year, for example, I have shudder-inducing (and somewhat spotty) memories of slamming a row of tequila shots off a bar long after I decided I was probably merry enough to be leaving.
I definitely talked my fair share of s**** – thankfully nothing career-ending.
My flatmate (of sparkly tights fame) compares getting me home to herding one very obstinate, drunk, cat.
I swear I still have a headache from the hangover. And the best of it is, I don’t even normally drink much.
But something in the cocktail of Christmas excitement, sequinned clothing and a deep-seated anxiety that I’ll say something stupid in front of my bosses drives me to neck skinfuls of rum like there’s no tomorrow.
Except there is tomorrow. And, more often than not for journalists, there’s work tomorrow.
The news never stops, after all.
Mind you, I’m not as bad as some folk.
When I hear office party horror stories of people puking on the printer or snogging their line manager, I think my lucky stars that my Bridget Jones similarities begin and end with an undying love for Colin Firth.
Because there’s a feral abandon that seems to come over people at a work Christmas party.
Something about screaming Slade songs with Julie from HR makes people inclined to start spilling confidences.
Suddenly, grudges held behind keyboards and perceived meeting room slights become Shakespearean in gravity; office crushes become star-crossed Romeos and Juliets separated by cruel rota systems and seating plans.
The tension is palpable, bubbling over like the copious bottles of prosecco that get snaffled into coats on the way out.
And, like the prosecco, it goes flat sickeningly fast.
When the cold light of day dawns, the glitter’s on the floor and the “new work besties” you made last night are once again bound by the rules of the game, you’re left blinking at the rude white glare of your inbox and wondering: “Did I really say that?”
Merry Christmas party week, everybody. I have the fear already.
Cliches are cliche for a reason, and the reason is often that they are universally great.
Take, for example, the brooding bad boy character in a TV drama – no matter how many iterations are made, they’re always fun to watch.
Or getting a makeover after a break-up. Even though it’s the most predictable course of action, it works!
And last night, I found out that going to the top of a hill and spotting a shooting star is just as magical as it looks in the movies.
According to astronomy people, the Geminids meteor shower – one of the most prolific meteor showers – has been going on since December 4, and will keep raining light until Sunday night.
It was supposed to peak last night, so having never seen a shooting star, I decided that it was time to go meteor-spotting.
However, living in the middle of a busy city with no dark sky areas, I didn’t hold out much hope.
And after standing at the top of the Law with my neck craned and my backside freezing off for a solid 20 minutes, I decided to call it a night.
I sat back down in my car, puffing hot air into my hands when, like something out a movie, a dazzling speck of white light flew in a perfect arc across my windscreen.
It was a shooting star. And it was magical.
So magical, in fact, that I forgot to make a wish. How’s that for cliche?
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