My last two work Christmas parties have been shit. There was the time that we went to Tiger Tiger, one of the worst kinds of pits in the worst kinds of places in the whole town. And then there was the time that my dad had a heart attack. Even now, I’m not sure which was less pleasurable. They were both royally shit.
It was with no small trepidation, then, that I approached our work party this year. We were going to a Mediterranean taverna, Efes, and it was costing thirty-five quid. What food, I wondered, was worth that much?
We kicked off with a mezze starter: houmous; vine leaves; pitta bread; a meatball in sauce; prawns in pink sauce. Tasty, but not that promising a dawn to the meal given its huge bill. The main was placed on the table, and my heart dropped. Before me was a tray of plain rice, with four types of meat on top, and a bowl of wedges. And that was it. Aww, man! With just profiteroles as the dessert, I felt like I’d been thoroughly screwed. Thirt-five quid, PLUS drinks, what a swizz! This is typic…
The lights went out. A guitar chord rang out. An amplified voice: “Good evening lay-dies and gentlemen.”
The singer was, it turned out, the first part of a full programme of entertainment. There was dancing from the waiters and dancing from the customers. Party classics All Night Long from a DJ were sandwiched between a Michael Jackson impersonator and a belly dancer. People were pulled out of the crowd to participate. I wasn’t expecting it all, but I had a really good time.
At the bus stop, after the party had ended, I ran into Laura, who I’d met through work a month or so ago. She was taking my bus, so we rode together. And we exchanged numbers. And we arranged to meet for a drink. Let’s see where this goes.