This year our works Christmas do was an Abba themed party at the Talardy Park Hotel. Promises of good food, great atmosphere and dodgy dancing were delivered. What I can remember of the night was fab; it’s what I can’t remember that worries me.
When a themed 'do' was suggested all the girls were really enthusiastic, I however, was with the fellas on this one, Bum idea! It’s not that I have anything against dressing up, I mean I once found myself on Reading High Street dressed as a gorilla, boogieing to bongo music whilst being filmed for a Swedish TV channel – Don’t know what it was about, didn't ask but I do watch Tarrent on TV regularly just in case I crop up on it, knowing my luck it would be for a suppository advert!
I admit that I am not an Abba fan. I can appreciate that the songs are good but I can never manage to sing along to them and sound dissimilar to my cat. My main issue was simply that I figured this kind of party would split the room into three camps. Blokes@Bar preferring to queue than Chiciquita, The Bitchy Bratz look-alikes who prefer to sit and belittle others rather than dance for fear that others will sit and belittle them and finally there are the Dancing Queens who worship at the alter of Abba, whether they do a Two Step Shuffle, Rock & Roll with Hubby or moves that would intimidate MC Hammer, they all have one mission – to elbow you off you 10cm squared section of dance floor. No I was not looking forward to this party!
When I arrived I was surprised that although the predicted three camps were present, everyone in the room appeared to be full of ‘Joy to the World’ spirit, and defiantly a substantial amount of other spirits too. I’ll give myself dues and say that I looked pretty darn good in my satin outfit and Abba inspired blue and silver make up so I was blown away when a Bratz clan member came to compliment me without returning to her mates and sniggering. Next I went to the bar and was stunned when two Blokes@Bar actually moved aside to let me order, normally I would have spent at least twenty minutes underneath a sweaty armpit as the head of Blokes@Bar passes a round of drinks backwards to the rest of the crew. It was at this point I decided to relax, accept the freely flowing wine (normally stay off the stuff as lethal), boogied on down and had a blimmin good night.
Monday morning in my office, I entered to a chorus of “Hey Lynz, How’s the hangover” That was when I became worried; I knew those looks...what did they know that I didn't know? Turns out they had known that I had danced the Locomotion to most of the tribute show, WHY? Because I came a cropper when I tried to take it up a notch to the Cha Cha Slide, which my four-year-old daughter had been teaching me. I’d slid under the table after getting in a pickle because my satin top, somehow caught in my diamante thong, then I was apparently put in a taxi and promptly slid off the seat; I blame the satin trousers again.
The girls thought me so hysterical that I figured I might as well finish them off by letting them in on what my husband had told me the previous morning. That night in the bedroom I attempted to get undressed but got stuck with that thong again, I must have tried to sit on my bed but went backwards straight over the edge and fell head first on the floor, my husband awoke to me upside down, naked bum in the air and responded to his concern by asking if he had taped X Factor for me. Is it obvious that I don’t get out much anymore?
So to all those dreading their works Christmas party I say this to you, Don’t worry about what you should do, Don’t worry about what you did do, Worrying should begin when you know not what you do.