By KATE LEAVER
I probably set a record last week, for Least Time Spent at a Christmas Party.
Have you ever walked into a party, completely on your own? No name or face clues. Just a pretty dress, strappy heels and a hot blush creeping up your neck.
Last week, I did it. When the invitation to this Christmas bash arrived, I was so thrilled. Flattered to be included, and positively gleeful with the prospect of meeting this group of wonderfully smart women. Then and there, I promised myself that I’d go.
The day came, and I spent hours fretting about the party, desperately tempted to excuse myself from the event. I so frequently duck out of parties at last minute in favour of hibernation, but I challenged myself to go to this one. I pictured myself chatting loudly, making meaningful connections, befriending writers I admire enormously. I pictured myself an extrovert.
This is what really happened.
I drove to the pub straight after work, at about 8.30pm. I switched my sensible flats for strappy sandals that leave zig-zag indentations on my feet but make me feel sassy. I circled the block 9 times, half looking for a park, half psyching myself up.
So I faked a phone call. Walked straight out and back down the stairs, and flew out onto the street, sweaty and grateful for the light breeze and anonymity of the curbside. I called my mum, high pitched and wobbly: “Ma, am I allowed to go home now? I’m actually quite pleased with myself that I turned up at all, but I think I need to go now. Can I just notch it up as a good story? Maybe I can write about it! Being scared of parties! I was actually really brave, mum. But I’d like to buy myself an ice cream and go home via the bookshop.”