At the beginning of my career, I couldn't get enough of work Christmas parties. Living in London and working in the music business, I went to a couple every night in the run-up to Christmas. I loved how everyone was dressed up and enjoying themselves, faces free of the worry of the rest of the year.
But, even in an environment where anything goes, a line was still drawn on what not to do at the office Christmas party. I remember one year watching a colleague with a young child to provide for packing up her desk the day after the party. She'd been given her marching orders after getting drunk and telling the boss some home truths. I watched her pack up as wind blew snow against the window behind her.
Any other day of the year, that boss may have been forgiving. He may even have thanked her for telling him, thanked her for stopping him making more of a fool of himself in the industry the following year. Instead, she got the sack right at the "most wonderful time of the year" and no one ever saw her again.
It always stuck in my mind; how quickly things could turn. From that time on, I never fully enjoyed the end-of-year work celebrations, from the Christmas lunches where the bosses got so boozed they got kicked out of the restaurant to the Secret Santa gift of a poster with the best places in the country to throw yourself off a cliff, to the awkwardness of toasting the season with people who have made your life a misery all year.