So tonight I'm at the work Christmas party, 4000 people in a warehouse in Battersea, just taking a breather from dancing to some top 40 hit to write this on a borrowed i-pad. I am the Christmas party. (Are you sure about this Davison? To the untrained eye you look like a man sitting at home, listening to Radio 2 in your slippers).
OK, so I didn't go to the Christmas party. I didn't feel like it. I almost changed my mind as I was leaving the building: women in their droves were heading to the toilets to get changed, usually drab and slightly worried looking clerks transforming into belles of the ball. The dresses, the heals, the exotic perfumes. Downstairs in the foyer gorgeous smelling women wait for the bus.
I don't want to go though. I just tend to go to these things and drift around, hating the music, refusing to dance unless they play the Ronettes, and with nothing really to say. It's like re-visiting adolescent rejection. I don't know, I can't get into these things, I'm too old maybe. I just never get into it, the drinks flow, everything goes hazy, but it never feels like you can cut loose at these things, corporate to the last. I'm being too cynical I know, some people will have a great time. Here's to them.
People will think I was at the party anyway. I've got tomorrow off which is a sure sign of someone who drunk too much. Tomorrow they'll come in hungover and see my empty chair, and they'll say:
"He's not turned up, must have had a skinful last night. I don't remember seeing him. He must have had too many in the pub beforehand, probably wasn't allowed in. That's typical of him."
They probably won't say anything of the sort. Ah well, it's ten to ten and I don't feel I'm missing out. I've got early Christmas party plans of my own.
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