A couple of nights ago I found myself out of my milieu.  Or at least I hope I did.  Sharing the intimate space of strangers I would not invite into my living room was a salient reminder of why I do not go clubbing.  Especially not at what passes for a club locally.

Somehow the spirit of all things Christmassy and desire to fit in with colleagues at a temporary seasonal job persuaded me to pay for the privilidge of jigging up and down whilst simultaneously ducking to avoid the tentacles mysteriously extruding from random members of the opposite sex.  The median social skill set apparently does not cover introductions prior to grope attempts.   And quite why the scent of vomit laden breath veering towards your face is likely to entice anyone into the attempted snog is beyond me. I looked at the somewhat homogenous gene pool surrounding me and thanked god that I was married.

In short, watching overinebriated colleages attempt to hoik each others skirts up as they tried not to split out of overtight dresses in the name of Christmas jollity made me cringe, the music sucked and I decided to retrieve my coat whilst the majority were still checking theirs in.  Maybe I am getting old, but those slugging it out in there certainly were.  Turkey is turkey no matter how its dressed.