On the Sixth Day of Christmas...
For years I’ve partaken of an office Christmas party. Sometimes the company picked up the whole tab, sometimes it bought a round of drinks, and other times it forced us to take the afternoon out of our holidays and made us pay for the whole thing ourselves. Not so much as a party hat. Which I suppose I can understand – your staff work their arses off for you all year (theoretically anyway), so why should you stick your hand in your pocket to get them stuffed and shit-faced once a year?
She Who Must, on the other hand, has never had to pay for a Christmas night out in her entire working life. Ever. Lucky sod. And last night was no exception. She Who Must Be Wined And Dined With Festive Cheer and I went to her work’s annual Christmas bash (not to be confused with their annual Christmas Client bash a fortnight ago, or the annual Christmas Lunch which happens next week). Champagne, good food, excellent wine, comedy cardigans, and exposed nipples. Well, only the one nipple – on the dance floor during an energetic rendition of ‘Twist and Shout’ – and kudos to the female flasher in question, who just popped it back in again and kept on dancing. While the guy boogieing with her did his best to look like he saw ladies' breasts every day and wasn’t in the least bit embarrassed by the sudden exposure of naked flesh.
That, dear friends, is a Christmas night out.
Which rambling narrative brings us to today’s tale of wholesome fun:
OK, so it’s got nothing to do with Christmas nights out, but there are nipples in it. Which is as much as you can hope for on a Sunday afternoon.