Guinness...straight glass

Well, I survived the annual office Christmas piss-up relatively unscathed.  I had to be up earlyish this morning to scoot off to a physio appointment, so I took it easy.  Actually, I didn't take it easy; I necked at my usual fevered pace, but I dragged myself away from the crash site at 9pm, so all was well.

This morning I felt very pleased with myself as a result.  What a dreadful little prig I am in circs. like this.  My hubris was compounded when I got to work and surveyed the damage amongst my colleagues, one of whom was so hungover he winced at every time he took a step around the office.  The chap who sits next to my desk, and who has a raging thirst, couldn't a recall a single event from the entire evening except for his being harangued by the staff at his hotel for trying to climb over the reception desk and steal a bag of Maltesers when he returned to his room in the small hours.  He then had the Olympic chutzpah to complain about the absence of bacon on the complimentary breakfast buffet.

Anyway, one Yuletide hurdle cleared.  Time to pin back the ears and hurtle toward the next.  To the pub!

There's a good boy

As we go to press, my plan to behave myself at the office Christmas party tonight is holding-up manfully.  I rode my bike to the tube station this morning and left it there.  The strategy behind this move is that having to ride it home from the station later will reinforce my resolve to drink moderately - the rationale being that one cannot ride a push bike when catastrophically pissed-up.  Although having said that, I have done this in the past of course, once memorably along the very narrow towpath of the river Lea.  The blood still curdles at the thought of that trip.

At my age, I should be able to control myself better than this.  In small groups I am quite disciplined, but in a vulgar mob I lose all restraint.  This is due to my profound shyness.  I need at least four pints to settle my nerves.  By then of course one's judgement is clouded and the Tasmanian Devil that lives in my head starts goading me into "having a tear up".  The residual sensible part of my brain sees all this unfolding, but is powerless to intervene.  He just sits in the corner, shaking his head and tutting.  After a couple of hours of determined necking, I'll find myself dancing, and then even the crapulent mind knows the game's up.

No dancing tonight, none.

Yuletide pressure

I popped to see my physio this afternoon.  My left knee's been giving me a bit of non-specific gyp, as I believe it's known in the medical game, for a couple of weeks.  So I needed an expert eye and a BUPA slush-fund to give it the once over.  The prognosis is positive.  I'll be back to my middle-aged best in no time.  The only eff in the oh is the fact that I have another appointment on Friday morning at 9am.  Normally, this wouldn't present any great hardship, but this Thursday is our firm Xmas set-to.  Generally, the day after this is reserved for sweating and personal recrimination.

When the fizz suggested this "window", I bullishly thought "Yeah, why not.  Let's do it,"  Now I can't stop welling-up at the prospect.  I may have to back out.  I don't like to disappoint him, but the inner-weasel is strong.  The weather's supposed to be shithouse as well on Friday.  I've started making excuses already.  Have you noticed?

But first things first - it's our residents' association annual carols tonight.  I'll get through that and see how I feel in the morning.  I don't hold out much hope for the current appointment's prospects.  Know thyself.