Life Pro Tips

In a former lifetime, I worked for a very fancy company. It’s the kind of company that most people have never heard of, including myself before I worked there, because it caters only to the obscenely wealthy. I fell into it by accident, having been looking for jobs that required fluent French speakers. It was a small, close-knit operation, and I loved my co-workers. Every day felt like hanging out with a bunch of friends. But when the CEO came into town for the annual Christmas party, we were all on our best, most professional behaviour.

As you can imagine, the CEO was a man of sophisticated tastes. He liked the finer things in life, and previous end-of-year celebrations had been held at some of the most upscale venues London had to offer. But this year, his daughter had started working at the company, and it was her job to plan the festivities. The location she chose was interesting, to say the least.

Being her father’s daughter, she was also a fan of the lavish and luxurious. Us normal people, the employees, arrived feeling out of place in our black-tie attire, to what can only be described as a restaurant and a nightclub mashed together and smeared all over each other. It served the usual fodder that posh people claim to like: caviar, gravlax, foie gras, truffle-smothered everything. (To be fair, it was all bloody delicious, if you like truffles.)

It was the kind of place where the staff floated around silently and gracefully, keeping everyone’s wine glasses topped up without anybody ever noticing them doing it. For this reason, I imagine everybody thought they were only on their first glass of wine, and didn’t realise that they were actually a few bottles deep by about 8pm.

For once in my life, I was being quite sensible. I had been seated on the same table as the CEO, and frankly was quite terrified of him seeing me drunk, although he had no such qualms the other way around. Turns out we are from the same little-known, rural part of the UK. Small world.

It was probably around the 8pm mark when I nipped to the loo and took my time in their swanky bathrooms availing myself of all their amenities (expensive hair straighteners, lush hand lotions, the works.) I may have washed my hands a few times in a row just because their handsoap was so delightful. When I emerged, probably smelling as strong as a Lush storefront, I was greeted with quite a sight.

The lights had been dimmed to what was essentially complete darkness, and the strobe lights had been turned on and the music turned up. Every single person in our room, including the CEO himself, was standing on the tables dancing. We weren’t even halfway through the 10-course menu yet. I looked sadly at the plate of fine French cheeses that were being smushed under elegant high heels and shiny black brogues before they were rushed away by the now visible and visibly stressed waiters. I probably still would have eaten it, shoe prints and all, and thought about stopping them, but realised it would be difficult to sit and enjoy as someone was currently jumping up and down on my chair.

If you can’t beat them, join them, as the old saying goes. Bitterly regretting my earlier decision to stay somewhat sober and sensible, I headed to the bar and ordered myself three shots of sambuca to catch up with my wine-drenched colleagues and bosses. But I kept getting spotted at the bar, and more and more people headed over to do shots too. Frankly, I’m not sure how many shots I ended up knocking back. And unfortunately for me, drinking neat alcohol makes me incredibly clumsy.

A few hours later, I opened my eyes confused and disorientated. “Where am I? Why is there a giant lump on my head? Why is it so quiet? Oh, okay, it appears I tripped over my own feet, hit my head against the cubicle wall, and knocked myself unconscious. Again. I really have to be more careful in bathrooms.” I staggered to my feet and poked my head out the door. Total darkness. Total silence. Total emptiness.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, including the staff, had gone home. Turned off all the lights, locked up for the night, and gone home. Heart in mouth, I headed back to our private room to look for my bag. Gone. Starting slightly to panic, I made my way to the cloakroom where I’d checked my coat. Gone.

It was minus three degrees Celsius that night in London and was snowing. I was wearing just a sleeveless party dress. No coat, no cards, no phone. Home was approximately a three-hour walk away. But anyway, all the doors were locked. Even if I wanted to leave, I couldn’t. I decided I might as well take a look around. If some kind of alarm went off, at least the police might take me home?!

When I pushed open the door to the kitchen, I was relieved to see a cleaner in there mopping the floor. I was saved! Or maybe not… Upon seeing me, the cleaner started to scream and, ignoring my pleas for help, pushed me out of the back door and up the service stairs with their mop. Now I was truly out in the cold. There was nothing else to do but start walking and hope that I didn’t catch hypothermia.

I guess my guardian angel had been at their own Christmas party that evening but, out for a quick cigarette, they finally noticed my predicament. “You all right, love?” A gruff but friendly voice called from across the street. It was the bouncer for a club down the road. “Not really,” I sighed, and explained my tale of woe. He called his manager and gave me a high-vis vest to wear, which was a nice gesture but didn’t really help at all as it was, after all, a vest and had no sleeves.

His manager turned up and told me, “Nope. Not possible. My guys work that venue too, and they check all the bathrooms before they lock up for the night. You must have been somewhere else.” “I don’t know what to tell you. I was definitely there. I only went to one place for the whole night because, as I said, I was there for about an hour, then hit my head and was knocked out in the bathroom, then just woke up about 20 minutes ago.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, he called a female bouncer to bring a jacket and a car and drive me home. And that’s the story of how I got a free ride home from central London on one of the busiest nights of the year. Result!

Joking aside, I think there is a serious message to impart here. The moral of the story is: don't try and be sensible at a Christmas party, just drink the damn wine like everybody else. Also, don't go get shots, just drink the damn wine like everybody else. And finally, be careful in small spaces.