I gurbled something to the gold dress girl, sought out my jacket and left. These things always end the same way, they do, different dress but the same sentiment and a mild sense of my own lack of comfort in compliment-giving.
That being said, I won't be too downcast because the room was full of my kind and I made no more nor less a tit of myself than my fellow single brethren.
Fucking office parties. They're meant for team bonding or some such wankology but usually end up on a cool day in March when the pang of realisation hits.
"I didn't... Oh fuck, I did too."
The same thing every year but at least there was some prime fillet beef and not the usual tat and mashed potato with the bits left in. That at least.
I can't be doing with the forced jollity, though, as there's always someone at the next table that you half know and fully want to avoid.
"So how's your year been?"
"Graysh, yeah, we had some setbacks but they've really pulled things back together so, like, yeah, you've got to be happy with that. I reckon we can turn a profit by spring so (looks around) let's fucking get locked like. And yourself?"
"Getting by. See ya."
The music. The music. Fuck off 'Galway Girl.' Fuck off 'Candle In The Wind.' Do one 'Merry Christmas Everyone,' you cretinous cock of a song.
When the free drink runs out you're left with shots at the bar, shots in the dark and a fuckload of meekness at the morning's delayed start time. That's all it amounts to, really.