Christmas Party

This is also going in my report:
I have written previously about the need to tread carefully. I don’t mean to be a Grinch but Christmas time is especially important to have your wits about you and not just get caught up in festivities. Just like my previous post I mean treading carefully as in literally as much as figuratively.
Christmas parties can be an enjoyable end to the year but all it takes is for some stray mistletoe for revellers to shoot themselves in the foot. See what I did there? If not, read it again because it’s a pearler- Missile. Toe. Shoot. Foot. Got it? Never mind. Some crowds can be fun and some really do mean having wits around you. You can use your imagination what kind of wits are around.
I went to such a function recently and just like my exploits in the Victorian Alps, I failed to tread carefully and the simple task of walking on a footpath to get to the function results in a twisted ankle. Either the local council is too lazy to design a path that is flat or stable or it was specifically designed that way to compensate anyone who suffers from a bit of wobbly shoe.
Unlike my long-awaited trip to the snow, any Christmas party was a dime a dozen and I had no need to push through any pain barrier. If it was bad enough, I’d just go home and ice up. This time it was only a minor and I was able to shake it off without much discomfort. A rare treat and it wouldn’t matter how much it hurt, I’d keep going. But something like this, no need to be a hero. As one who doesn’t partake of the ethanolic anaesthetic, the kind that causes the afore mentioned wobbly shoe, just being there meant the pain was only minor.
So, not drinking. Loud music. Unable to hear conversations properly. What am I doing here? No, really. Why? The food of course. Grab a Coke or a Pepsi or what ever cola beverage the establishment has a supply contract with but call it a Coke for simplicity unless they say otherwise. Then look for some food of some sort. Any sort. No sign of it. I’ll grab another Coke.
Someone shouts out, “Hey Makkinga, you’re still funny as ever.” I answer, “Hey, you’re still,……you’re still……that’s great my friends call me Malcolm”. “That one liner you posed made me laugh so loud” “Yeah that was one of my favourites” (Translation: Who are you and which post are you talking about). Time to get some food, but there’s none so how about I grab a Coke instead. And another. And another. And I’m seeing how easy it is for non-Coke drinkers to get that wobbly shoe and am thinking that maybe the local footpaths are designed as compensation for those with issues of podiatry instability. As well as wondering what sort of pain is being numbed by the anaesthetic.
Finally, some food. A small pastry or two and suddenly I’m feeling as hungry as ever. So, what else is on offer? Of course, another Coke. And another. And another. Was that another food waiter? Yes, it was, but everyone has already emptied that tray before I can get anywhere near it. I might have a Coke while I ponder whether there is more food coming or whether I should go home and have some toast.
Everyone’s aesthetic is kicking in as they’re being more chatty. “Maybe they’re onto something with drinking that stuff,” I ponder while sipping on a Coke. What they are saying makes scintillating conversation. At least I imagine it would if it wasn’t for loud music drowning out any semblance of conversation. I through in a couple of one liners between songs so they can be heard. Kind of pointless otherwise. As much as laughing at my own jokes is mandatory, it’s not sufficient by itself.
Finally, after my regular bed time, but still finally some food. My night is complete. No need for toast at home. Real food. A seafood and chip basket. “Now I can say it was a good night”, I’m thinking as I wash it down with a Coke. And another. And….
I call it a night earlier than most people, but glad it was late enough to reward my patience by not bailing before there was some food served. I get home but can’t sleep. I wonder if it had something to do with my seventeenth Coke or my twenty-third.
This is why we can’t have nice things.
And as a post script, I’m at work taking a phone call in the office but walking as I do so. For some reason it makes it easier to think clearer. Walking and talking. No loud music. No obstacles to walk around. No uneven and shaky footpaths compensating for the medicated. And suddenly, SNAP. My ankle has gone again. Even more properly this time. Violet Beauregarde has decided she’s visiting for Christmas.
This is also why we can’t have nice things.
Malcolm Makkinga is a full-time finance broker, part time joker and experienced octopus wrestler. He takes his work seriously but not himself. For a seriously human approach to your home loan needs call 0430 464 280, go to Facebook or send an email to