An ex-colleague and treasured old friend remarked today how wistful she was for the old days of PR Christmas parties. I too have been missing the dizzy glare of ultra violet lights in fabulous venues, the endless round of mini canapes and the champagne burps at work the next day.
Every time I walk past clothes shops at the moment I am blinded by sequins, and even though I wasn’t really a sequins girl, I long to wear some now. The rush to buy the Christmas party dress, the hangovers, the laughter and the surprises, I miss it all.
My fondest memory is of being swept out of work by one of the big technology companies and ferried with my fellow journalists to a mystery location in Sydney. Bundled out of a bus, through a series of doors, no one quite knew where we were being taken until we stepped out onto the beautifully lit stage of the State Theatre where our party was to be held. Seats dimmed, spotlights on, champagne fizzing.
There were some wonderful times.
But no one in my life right then believed in Father Christmas. So I’m writing a letter to him now, asking him for all the things the BUBs would like to shoot down their chimney this year. It’s their turn for the spotlight right now.
That said, if anyone, ANYONE at all, wants to invite me to a party, then Father Christmas can babysit.