Last Friday was our work Christmas party. You know that it's been one of those sorts of nights when 2 days later someone emails you from work saying "Ok, next time we all go out, we're gonna have that dance off. Get ready", and your thinking "Dance off? What dance off? Was there some sort of West Side Story moment at this party? Am I a Jet?"
I won't bore you with the details of how I went through the usual malaise of the "what the fuck am I going to wear? Why does everything I try on in the shops look like shite?", but suficite to say I knew it's bad when I get sent a care package of clothes thanks to Li, with all her lovely party frocks in it. Unfortunately for me, I don't have the breasts to carry off any of her tops (chicken fillets wouldn't have filled been enough for my puppies. In fact, whole chickens stuffed down my top would not have helped at all). Surprisingly, help came in the form of a dress that my mother had bought for me when I saw her earlier this year.
Now I love my mum, honestly I do. And her clothes are fantastic. On her. Unfortunately her dress sense, when extended to me, is not a winning combination that's going to get me in on the cover of Vogue anytime this century. So you can imagine my shock when she told me she had bought me a dress and the smile I had prepared myself to wear when she showed it to me was genuine and not a hard, plastered on grimace. It's a green patterned maxi empire cut dress, with a sort of plunging neck line, that I had planned to keep covered behind a pashmina, a bolero, and whatever pillars happened to be at the venue. 3 glasses of champagne later and that plan flew out the window. So after the whole chicken fillet/borrowed clothes debacle, I was shocked to find out that my breasts were in fact topics of conversation with my bosses wife. I practically chocked on one of my never ending glasses of champgane when she asked me where I got my cleavage from? (No, they were not a christmas present, I've had these my whole life).
So relatively sucessful Christmas party? So-so. No raging hangover the next day (thanks to The Ex-Flatmate and a friend of ours going off to Tesco's at 3am to buy pizzas (yum)). Bruises all over my legs from being flung around the dance floor (oh wait.. I remember this "Dance Off" thing now... The massive bruise on my knee is proof that I am, in fact a Jet, from my first cigarette to my last dying day), and a hole in the top of my foot where someone has decided to try to crucify one of my feet by smashing their stilleto heel into it. This is Christmas people, not Easter. And I'm not the massiah, I'm a very drunken girl. Now with added boobs.