It is that time of year again.
The Christmas trees go up on the first of December, carols start sneaking down the supermarket aisles, and the sentence "let's catch up before Christmas" becomes the automatic sign-off to every conversation.
Office fridges fill with leftover shortbread, someone always walks around wearing a festive headband, and invitations to parties pile up quicker than you can say Secret Santa.
For years, the corporate Christmas party was the highlight of my calendar. It was the one night where the rules loosened and suddenly everyone became best friends after two drinks. It was a chance to let my hair down, cheers with a spicy marg or ten, and dance with colleagues I normally gave a polite corridor nod to. It was messy and chaotic and glittery and, if I am honest, it was the one time of year I could drink the way I wanted to without causing too many side glances.
There's always that one person who takes it too far. The one who ends up snot-crying in the corner at midnight, pouring out their life story, mascara streaking down their cheeks, while everyone else wonders how to gently usher them into a taxi. Once upon a time, that person was me.
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