Thursday, December 22, 2011
1989: I'm not here to ill
We've all done it: made a fool of ourselves at the work Christmas party. We have, haven't we?
I'd been at the law publisher since September, and I'd made my presence felt. I was rather taken with my boss, a salt-and-pepper-haired ex-barrister who was now at the helm of this important publishing company. And she was only 33, 10 years old than me then, but seeming so business-like and sophisticated. I made it my mission to brownnose her at every opportunity and never let the chance to make her laugh and toss back her hair go by. I was firmly on her radar, and I hoped that despite both of us having discovered by this time that this job was more than likely not for me, she'd fast-track me up the ranks and I'd be involved in management-level decisions in a company I cared little for but was happy to progress in just so I could be party to high-level decision making. It was nosiness really. Becoming a journalist was always meant to be, it seems.
The Christmas party was held in a small downstairs of a wine bar in Aldgate. There was little food to be had, and unlike later Christmas parties the firm would lay on, no dancefloor or raffle either. But there was lots of wine.
So a sliver of brie and a skip of red later I was calling her a cheeky mare, talking about her naked and waking up on the floor in a lavatory stall wondering if I might still have a job. I needn't have worried. She thought I was a hoot.
When I got home I was sick in my bin. Whenever I hear this song a wave of nausea comes over me. As you were.