December, 2011. I found myself walking into town along an unlit canal path at 11:30pm. That was not sensible; there had been at least two murders along there. My breath expanded into the darkness and disappeared. As dangerous a thing as it was to do, I appreciated the silence. And I had reasoned with myself that however silly it seemed, it was a lot less silly than the thing I had left behind in the function room of the Hilton Hotel.
I've had an odd relationship with Office Christmas Parties since then. Presumably in an attempt to mollify the famous potential for excess and HR-interventions, the company I now work for take a more grown up view, by holding theirs on a Tuesday. Yes. A real, mid-week Tuesday, with three full days to go until the weekend.
Though, as far as I know, that never quite stops entirely all the silliness. Last year, a wife turned up and emptied a glass of something (the details were sketchy) over her husband and another colleague of mine. Fill in the blanks if you feel the need. Who knows what I'll discover tomorrow.
"Ah you made eye contact, that means you have to come to the Oakford!" said Nell, smiling at me. The restaurant was emptying slowly, as sales, marketing, engineering, support and various managers stumbled towards the coatrack. Erica and Junko had long gone (home, I think), and I was there almost alone. I sipped my tea and said I'd go to the pub for 'one'.
And this is what I mean by an 'odd' relationship. I can't be around the silliness; I want to have nothing to do with it, in as much as I believe that it, has nothing at all to do with Christmas. If I'm there at all, it's only ever for 'one'.
At that infamous party in 2011, two illicit liaisons happened simultaneously in the loos, a drunken manager attempted to mount a table and broke it, someone passed out in a pool (and yes, it was a pool) of sick, and a friend of mine, whom I had greatly respected as a quiet, classy, mild-mannered gent, said something so utterly outrageous to a girl standing next to me that... well, I later wondered how he hadn't left in an ambulance with a stiletto sticking out of his forehead. The dark and dangerous canal seemed like a world of peace, just a few moments later.
Back to the present. I did go to the Oakford for 'one' - one coke in a glass of ice. Mischa (yes, him of Non-Random Secret Santa fame) taught me a card game and I instantly forgot it. That annoyed him and amused me. Then Debbie tried to sign me up as a music teacher in one of her crazy new ventures, and another colleague wobbled into the conversation with a story which I think might actually make him a criminal. I drained my coke, waved goodbye to Nell, and walked down the road to Starbucks to meet Ruth and Rory.
That was more like it. We had a great catch-up. I laughed more, felt more at home, more loved and more joyful than I had in any of the previous few hours. I don't know if that makes me sound like an ungrateful square in the face of my workmates. The unspoken truth is though, that all my colleagues, quaffing their drinks in the Oakford, maybe even still now, would probably agree that they'd prefer to be with their real friends, any day of the week, even a Tuesday.
I reflected on it on the way home. It's another secret to joy, I think, this. It can't be bottled and sold from behind a bar. It can't be manufactured by hilarious horseplay in the Hilton hotel. It can't be taken in a stolen moment of abandon in a toilet, or dined out on with funny stories of 'great nights' that no-one quite remembers. Joy comes out of relationships - it bubbles between hearts and kindness, and it soars on the thermals created by lovely people who like each other. I think if I'm going to any kind of Christmas party, I'd like to go to one like that.
I got home alright. The stars twinkled happily in the cool, crisp night, just as they had done in 2011, and I twinkled back.
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