Well, that’s a wrap…sort of. The consultant life is over and done with for another year. Now for two weeks of bliss – writing, reading, binge-watching, and maybe a snifter or two…Bring. It. On!
It’s that time of year again of course – time for the Work’s Christmas Parties. A time when people who don’t really like each other pretend they just LOVE that hilarious jumper. A time to focus on how much you’ve had to drink, so you don’t run the risk of telling them what you really feel. A time to get so drunk, that you end up hugging Dave from accounts and telling him how much love him – like a brother (not in that way). The feeling is mutual of course – a feeling that will last forever (as long as forever ends as the hangover starts).
Being a small consultancy, and a bit of an old fart at heart, we’re fortunate enough to instead snatch a couple of intimate meals (not in that way) for our Work’s Do, and concentrate instead on avoiding city centres like the festive plague. My two adult sons who still live and work from home are yet to adopt my grinch demeanour however, and seem to have thoroughly enjoyed their own Work Christmas Party.
As my ‘boys’ are now 24 and 21, I had thought my days of being dad’s taxi were far in my rear-view mirror. Apparently not. At least I was just dropping them off, and didn’t have to wait until the end of the club/match/party in a naff cafe, or in a cold car – I just dropped them off, and assured them that I would be asleep a long time before they got home (probably), and would like to remain so at whatever time they returned home. To be fair, they don’t normally wake me up with their Maccies breakfast when they come home on a weekend after a soiree, but I do confess to having a sneak peak on the cameras to see what time the drunken sots eventually dragged themselves home.
And so it was this time…
The youngest got home first at around 0130. It seems like his girlfriend was delighted to get up and taxi him home (she doesn’t mind…really). The stains covering his abdomen and top half of his jeans were clear to see even in night vision. A spilled pint rather than anything more sinister, I’m happy to report. All in all, quite an orderly and smooth entrance. Unlike the eldest.
The cameras also record sound, as they are now both aware. We’ll leave the awkward conversations about the first time they discovered that for another day…The eldest arrived home at 0445 with fast-food bag firmly held in hand. He nearly crossed the threshold, but remembered at the last moment about the sound recordings. As such, he turned to face the mega-candle illumination of the front camera and whispered three football-theme-bastardised Christmas carols in his quietest singing voice. To be fair to him, the volume of his singing was barely above lip-sync. Drunk he may have been, inconsiderate he was not. Having delivered his entire repertoire of chants-come-carols he turned away to go inside. He almost made it – before turning back to the camera and informing ‘us’ he was now going to bed.
Ah…proud dad moment, right there.
