Friday 17th December

Tonight is our work Christmas do, which is being held conveniently close to my house/the office this year. In order, therefore, to avoid being stuck in the office for two hours after work finishes, Georgie, Susie and I head back to our flat for some pre-party drinks. There's been a couple of bottles of wine sat behind my desk for quite a while (courtesy of an unknown benefactor - but we're hardly going to share them out at work are we?) so I sneak them into my backpack before we leave, meaning that we have plenty to be going on with back home.

After some customary work-bitching and a galvanising shot of whisky, we head out into the light snow and up towards the restaurant where the work meal is to be held. On walking up to the door I'm immediately accosted by a burly security guard, who patiently explains the dress code to me (of which we'd had no prior knowledge). I inform him that I'm here for a pre-booked party and that I have no intention of going home to change out of my usual trainers/jeans ensemble just to get into his dodgy venue. He concedes - but points out that "when I've had my dinner" the dress code will be brought back into force. Not the nicest welcome I've ever had.

The restaurant itself seems to have a sort of nightclub upstairs - the sort of tacky, gaudily decorated place that lower-league footballers are usually caught in; along with a separate VIP area and even more burly security guards. The bar upstairs is cocktails only, so when I want a pint to drink while we wait for our tables to become free (the place having screwed up the booking) I have to order it downstairs and have a member of staff carry it up. Already, I can't be bothered with this place.

We finally get our table - but the food takes another hour or so and when it arrives it is singularly underwhelming. By this point, though, almost everyone in our 40-strong party is getting drunk and irritable and completely not in the mood. The guy who organised the party is shouting at the manager and one of the directors spends the rest of the evening negotiating the bill. In short it's an unedifying display and a complete car crash of a Christmas party.

I last until midnight, and trudge the short distance home in the snow and the ice, briefly swearing not to bother with one of these next year.