Surrealists

Last night I went to the Capgemini Christmas jolly at the Dali Universe at County Hall; I still adore Dali. I got minging, stumbling, undoubtedly slurring drunk. Started with a champagne and cassis which had a raspberry surprise waiting at the bottom of the glass, followed, over the course of the evening, by three glasses of white wine.

My old boss, the gorgeous Stephen, was there, still looking like Clint Eastwood, trying to introduce me to my current boss, who was trying to introduce me to him - among 400 or so mostly male colleagues, most of whom I didn’t know or recognise, milling about around sculptures I wanted to just stand and stare at. In the status stakes, I did have the pleasure of watching some serious points rack up when Stephen mentioned that I’d been the test manager on Starhub, probably the biggest international project we’ve ever done. I have a great future behind me.

I did recognise Richard, Rachel’s friend, memorable because I always did forget his name and managed to do so this time too. And Dave Y from the project, looking strange in a DJ but just as down-to-earth and friendly as he always is. I was quite surprised when he said he’s never heard of Dali, had only recently discovered Gaudi, and for some obscure reason thought they were connected. They're both Catalans but a vegetarian architect and a dissolute artist aren't quite in the same game.

There was food, but it was mostly weird stuff to be trying to eat from a bowl: Lincoln sausages and mash; a couple of other options which were equally unappealing so I went large on two bits of chocolate brownies and one beautifully presented miniscule mince pie, about the size of a fat marshmallow.

There were a couple of artists doing caricatures and mine looks like a cruel caricature of the bloody queen; more sigh. I still have it, found it in my coat pocket this morning. I remember that the crowd had thinned a lot when I decided to leave but have a big blank space during which I collected my coat and hat and the next blink was seeing a cheerful but concerned faced chap with a benny hat asking if I was sure I was OK as I fell on the floor getting into a taxi I don’t remember hailing. I also don’t remember getting back to the hotel, or paying the driver, or getting to my room. From the change in my pocket, the fare was £14, and I did still have the money I’d taken out with me.

That’s the one far too many. It was damned dangerous for me to be alone on the street in London in that state, and I’m lucky to have no more than embarrassment to remind me. The cheerful faced chap turns out to be Robbie, a senior programme manager : as I discovered when he wandered into my office today and said, “didn’t I help you into a taxi last night”. I felt very humiliated and blushed a lot.

At least I didn't wake remembering a vivid dream about snogging the face off a colleague to realise it *cough* hadn't been a dream (as happened on a work jolly to the Isle of Wight several years ago)

Moral? Eat first.