But, I will produce the potted version of the office Christmas party when I've woken up, pulled my brain together and had some coffee and chocolate.

I ought to see if there's any work what needs doing first.

It was an interesting night: particularly the last couple of hours.  They are deserving of wider dissemination.  And, God knows what the bill at the bar was.

xxx

OK.  I'm into the second cup of coffee, my boss looks like death warmed up, the Head of Department (who demonstrated a mean lead on the dance floor which really impressed me, even if it was like dancing with a pillow, since he's a little on the very rotund side) is far too chipper given how much he drank - shots, strange layered drinks, beer, spirits, you name it, and I'm supposed to be producing some documentation.

So, if we could all hold our horses just a wee while longer (oh look!  If you put a phone set to vibrate on a red-and-black spiral-bound which is propped half on your laptop, and half off it, when a text message arrives, the phone will slide gracefully down the slope, and then disturb the whole office by dancing across the desk), while I consider vitamin pills and chocolate, I will write (note use of 'will' for emphasis).

The contractor who sits opposite me, and who suffered the mega loss of data yesterday, made one of the most incredibly enormous, blatent, thank-God-most-people-had-gone-home-and-didn't-notice passes at me.  To make matters worse, he is now sleeping all the alcohol off on my sofa bed (idiot that I am, I left the front door keys in the sitting room overnight, which meant I had to battle the warped door of that room to get them this morning.  He didn't stir).  The guy was seeing double, and couldn't walk in a straight line.  He also attempted to get into an unlicenced mini-cab.  Idiot.

This is going to make today somewhat interesting (if he ever stirs; it's about 10.30, and Jo says there's been no sign of movement yet, and she needs her laptop, so I've suggested she simply march in and out of the sitting room).  His last conscious action was to strip down to his underwear in front of me, and leap into bed; this was somewhat perturbing as a. I was attempting to make up the bed b. I was still in my coat and scarf c. I had pointed him in the direction of the bathroom for ablutions and so forth and d. It was 2 o'clock in the morning, and I simply wasn't prepared for short Spanish guys getting undressed in the sitting room.

Really.  It was the most direct proposition of which I've ever been on the receiving end: he started with low level flirting, moved on to attempting to tickle me (this didn't work.  I was not in the mood to be tickled), and then decided to go for the jugular with some incredibly masterful kissing.  Even worse, he's seeing someone else, so, regardless of how irresistable I may or may not be, he shouldn't have.  He happily informed me that it was inevitable that we'd end up in bed together having a faaabulous time, he could tell it would be fabulous owing to the way I dance.  I am promised a grin all over my face, and to be reduced to a gibbering wreck (no, that's not exactly what he said), shouting like an I don't know what.  To which I remarked that my flatmate might get a bit perturbed by the shouting.  Currently, she is merely amused by the scattering of notes round the flat, describing which towel to use (for the contractor on the sofa), where the flat is (this was left on top of the AtoZ, next to the coffee jar and cup on the worksurface), that there was a drunk colleague on the sofa, and to make sure he wasn't dead if there was no movement by 10 o'clock. 

It's nice, every once in a while, to be told that one is hot and yummy (several times over - drunk people are very repetitive, aren't they?).  But, it's almost always the wrong man who says it.  Even if he does helpfully agree to allowing me to write about it on my blog (hey.  At least I didn't have to describe what a blog was...).  While attempting to blame it all on the alcohol, and the fact that half the social conventions that apply when drunk can be forgotten about at the Office Christmas Party.

"The most intelligent garment a girl can wear to the office party is a wetsuit" - Jilly Cooper.  She failed to mention the anti-men pheromones.

xxx

And, at 1.20 p.m., despite the fact that he apparently de-flatted at approximately 10.45, there is no sign whatsoever that anyone will be sitting at the desk opposite me today.  Apparently, he was in a mild snot that I'd failed to wake him before I left.  How anyone could sleep through my crashing round a dark sitting room, followed by a similar effort by Jo, I don't know.  I have jumped every time someone's come in the office, due to apparent annoyance....

I've had some paracetamol.  I've had some lunch.  I've had coffee and water.  I almost feel human again.

Oh, and I'm off on a training course Monday-Thursday inclusive next week.

xxx

"I bet Dad's trip to Peterborough was by train: everyone's stories of this town seem to involve trains."

I believe there was a train involved in the whole hideousness of Dad's trouser loss - however, I've been informed that he left said trousers in the overhead locker on the plane.  Why he was transporting the Paternal-In-Law's trousers by plane, I know not.  However, this does explain why both my Mother and I have an absolutely huge urge to not use the overhead lockers if at all possible.  I have a travel bag which is big enough to carry masses of tat (including the medecines, spongebag, and spare knickers on top of book, craft item, iPod or other personal music device, tickets and passport, and food) but still fits under the seat in front (note, it is necessary to have medecines, spongebag, and spare knickers so that one can at least function for 24 hours after arrival until lost luggage turns up, or you've had a chance to get some spare pants elsewhere).

My own Peterborough story also involves a train.  It was quite hideous - and I wasn't actually on the train.  My former fiasco, Benj (and before he became my fiasco, too - what I was thinking, I don't know), was the culprit.  The plan was for him to get the train from Coventry to Norwich, so he could sit next to me while I drove from Norwich to York to get to my new University.  My Mother not believing that I was capable of navigating myself there on my own.  Navigation was not Benj's strongest point, but he might have come in useful to change any punctured tyres or something (I would have phoned the AA, but that's just me.  Those pneumatic nut tighteners they use in garages render the common or garden wrench thingy that you get with cars completely useless.  Jumping up and down on the lever only bends it, it doesn't actually persuade the thing to turn).  So.  On the train he got.  Change at Peterborough, onto the train to Ely.  Except he didn't.  He got on the Intercity125 type train to Edinburgh instead.  Ely, Edinburgh, well, anyone could make that mistake.  He didn't notice his mistake until he got to Leeds, which is about one and a half hours down the line (or is that up the line?  Who cares).  At which point, he bailed, panicked, phoned us, and ended up in a hotel of some description.

So, I ended up driving to York via the centre of Peterborough, rather than skirting round the outside, and collecting him from the station.  I'm not terribly competent with directions, particularly in built up areas.  I like long stretches of open road, me.  I got lost several times on the way into Peterborough and was in a thorough muddle, and, to make it worse, the traffic was appalling (I remember reversing somewhere or other, and it was wet, it was horrid, and I have only the most blurred memories of why I was reversing, but it was a bit hairy).  It was Saturday, it was shopping day and I think there was a football match on.  And I overshot the station.  Not only did I overshoot the station, it took me at least an hour to get to the nearest roundabout, and turn round back on myself, and make it into the station.  The signposting wasn't exactly clear. 

I was absolutely livid when I finally found him - because he wasn't sitting anywhere obvious.  He was sat next to the door, to the side of the door, reading.  I got all the way into the station, down the platform, into the loo (I was desperate by that point) and back into the foyer and out again without him noticing.  Or me noticing him.  My poor road atlas bore the brunt of my temper, I think it went flying at one point - when I lose my temper, I lose it good and proper, and it's a bit safer to take it out on inanimate objects which can't fight back.  Even if the poor thing now has a somewhat detatched cover.  Yes, I do feel guilty about that.

But really.  What sort of muppet manages to mistake a local train for an Intercity Train, and doesn't notice for an hour and a half?  When the local journey should take about half an hour?  It could have been worse.  The ticket inspector on the train might have noticed that he was on the wrong train, and fined him.

I am still saving my Secret Pal parcel for a quite moment.  I am thoroughly enjoying the anticipation at the moment.  But, I have to go and buy some prawns for supper (Ian is descending, of his own accord, tonight).

xxx