I just checked, and guess what? the piece I wrote for the Times about Christmas parties is still available on their website here if you can get behind the paywall.
For those who can't, here is the original version of the piece from 20 plus years ago - enjoy -
Party time
“The best thing
about being self-employed is that I don’t have to think of an excuse for
missing the office party,” said my fellow home-worker – my husband.
I, however, am
in need of some fun and games. Living up a lane in the Peak District is
heavenly for three seasons of the year, but when the looming mists swirl in and
blank out the fabulous views, and I can’t go anywhere without wellies, and it
feels as though the long dark tea-time of the soul has set in till March, I get
desperate for bright lights and company.
Unfortunately
the man at the computer downstairs is not a party animal: he neither goes to
parties, nor understands what they are for. I remember when I decided to have
one for my fortieth birthday, he asked “Why on earth would you want to
celebrate getting older and moving another few steps downhill? All we’re
heading for now is death.”
He couldn’t face
attending the party, but was concerned about the hordes of people I would be
having in the house, and wanted to make a contribution to the preparations. He
did. He calculated the tonnage of the assembled revellers, worried that the
sitting room floor might collapse because dancers would refuse to keep to the
edges of the rooms, and he went down to the cellar, where he used chunky four
by four wooden posts to prop up the floor from underneath.
Apart from that,
the only other time he’s been anywhere near a party was one New Year’s Eve when
he found two of our oldest friends on the doorstep, unannounced, and waving a
bottle of champagne. Unhappily, I was away, but he phoned me and while he wailed
about the “scandalous imposition” of their expecting him to stay up until
midnight and be jolly, I jumped up and down with frustration that I couldn’t be
there to join in.
He’s not what
you’d call a singing-and-dancing-kind-of-guy. Think less Gene Kelly and more
Fraser, the Scottish undertaker in Dad’s
Army - “Doomed! We’re all doomed!”
But he does have
a tender heart, and, eager to cheer me up, he has suggested we have our own
office party – just me and him.
We
should have it in his study as it’s bigger than mine, he says. I am just
wondering how he will press me up against the filing cabinet for a quick snog
when you can’t get near it for all the wallet files spread out on the carpet
for easy access, when he offers to clear the floor. He will also carry out into
the hall the plastic boxes stashed with papers and reports, and he’ll
even wheel his poncey, sorry, precious
new bike out to the shed (to join my sturdy workhorse) where he thinks it might
be all right, just for a couple of hours.
I’m not sure
what he’s got to offer by way of food and drink, though. He is teetotal, and
he’s never been able to grasp the concept of eating as an enjoyable activity:
as far as he’s concerned, eating is for refuelling. That’s apart from yoghurt,
of which he is a connoisseur. Our village shop gets in catering size cartons of
Longley Farm natural, just for him.
At Christmas when the shop is closed and he
has to pre-buy in bulk, and yet I also need extra fridge space for family
entertaining, he keeps his extra cartons of yoghurt cool by floating them in
the water barrel in the garden.
It may be just
me, but when I think of party food, yoghurt isn’t the first thing that comes to
mind.
I don’t care though, because for the party he
says he will wear a Santa hat and download a festive screensaver onto his
computer.
He really knows
how to show a girl a good time.
I
do appreciate the offer of an office party, I say, but I wonder whether it’s
possible to have a party with only two people. Couldn’t we invite someone else? Unfortunately, the only other people we see during our working days are the
postman, a sweetie who likes to tell us how many buzzards he’s seen on his
round, and our neighbouring farmer, who calls when he is moving his heifers, to
ask us to stand in our gateway to stop them from coming in and cavorting on the
lawn.
But we do have a
continuous stream of telephone callers. Perhaps during the party we could have
the phone on loudspeaker, I suggest, and at least have some conference calls,
maybe with a Christmas quiz, so it doesn’t feel so lonely? He says we can’t do
that, because he’s just recorded a seasonal message on the answering machine
saying “Sod off, it’s Christmas.”
He says he’s
willing, but his Christmas spirit is weak. And even after detailed
explanations, his grasp of partying is non-existent. So I may flip out: cabin
fever does strange things to people. If you see a news report of a desperate
middle aged woman in sparkly reindeer antlers streaking through a Derbyshire
village shrieking “Does anyone want to party?” you’ll know who it is.
© Times Newspapers/ Sue
Hepworth 2002
By the way…I have moved from X to Bluesky, and my handle is @suehepworth.bsky.social
From now on, every time I post on the blog I will flag it up on Bluesky.
