So DH has his Christmas staff party tonight and I am reminded of the many, many staff parties there have been over the years - good, bad and downright ugly.
There was the first (and only) staff party for the company he worked for in Abu Dhabi. I think fondly of this one as it was not long after we arrived in the UAE and I had lost a startling amount of weight with absolutely no effort whatsoever. Travelling from Al Ain to Abu Dhabi for the big night, I took great pleasure in buying a gorgeous, strapless purple number from Reiss in Marina Mall which was a UK size 10 and ever so slightly too big. (It now hangs, unloved and unworn in my wardrobe, unlikely to ever be zipped up again...)
As always, it isn't a Christmas party unless we haul the entire brood with us, installing them in the hotel room with TV and the room service menu while we party it on downstairs. At the time the eldest was only 8 so we got a babysitter to the room. The poor girl was Ethiopian and hadn't a word of English. As the children catapulted across beds and sofas, yelling in delight at a new place to sleep, her eyes pleaded with me to stay. "It's fine, you'll be fine" I reassured her as I backed out of the room, "...just, just don't let them kill each other..." before fleeing downstairs to join DH.
Because DH's employers were from Saudi Arabia, the party was to be 'dry' (ie no alcohol - whaaaaaaaaaaat??). We were of course horrified on learning this, but were quickly reassured by the waiter that we could order drinks to the table, as long as we were discreet.
And we were discreet, although our discretion seemed a little redundant when the Malaysian guy at the next table started necking brandy from the bottle.
The whole evening ended messily - as is necessary with Christmas parties - and we woke to discover that DH, who had been too pissed to undo his cuff links the night before and couldn't get his hands out of his shirt, had slept face down with his arms bound behind his back in sado-masochistic fashion. Christ knows what the poor babysitter thought...
Our first Christmas party in Perth followed months of FIFO (fly in fly out) which anyone who follows this blog will know, sent me in to a downward spiral of depression and so it was with mixed feelings that I donned my Bollywood outfit for a night of fun and japes courtesy of the company that kept my husband 1600 kms away from me for much of the time (or at least that's how I saw it in my muggy, depressed mind).
The evening started off cordially enough, but when, three drinks in, his employer asked me how I liked Australia, I didn't hold back on my opinion of the fly in fly out lifestyle and how it was tearing families apart across the country, and how a generation hence there would be dire consequences for all concerned - both parents and children. Then I said a bit more. Then a bit more after that. By the end of the conversation I was practically in tears and he was reassessing whether DH was the right guy for the job.
The evening ended when I sent a table of drinks flying and DH marched me up to bed. I'll admit it wasn't my finest hour.
Three weeks later DH, having been summoned by his employer to discuss his future with the company, was gently 'let go' to find a more suitable and family friendly position. He still blames me to this day for losing him that job.*
Last year we were living in Paraburdoo, 1600kms north of Perth and half a century away from civilisation. When we received the invite to the staff Christmas party, I instantly went online to buy a suitable party dress - after all, going shopping wasn't an option in the bush.
On the day of the party, we dressed in our finest; sparkly shoes and red satin dress for me, tuxedo shirt and trousers for DH (too hot for a jacket in midsummer in the Pilbara) and set off. On approaching the entrance to the party, I noticed people milling in and out wearing casual shorts, vests, thongs (flip flops), slouchy beach dresses and it occurred to me, not for the first time, that Paraburdoo was not quite like anywhere else - it danced to its own unique tune. If Australia is considered laid-back, Paraburdoo is horizontal.
"Drive on!" I instructed DH urgently, and we dashed home to change into something slightly more appropriate.
The party was actually quite dull, only made worthy of comment by the old codger who lived several doors up from us, who rather indiscreetly took a photo of my boobs with his phone when he thought I wasn't looking. I don't think he was counting on the camera making a loud clicking sound and he quickly hid the phone and glanced nonchalantly around him as if nothing had happened, confident he'd gotten away with it. I suppose he did get away with it although I shudder to think what he does with that photo...
So here's to the ghost of Christmas parties past, present and future - and to staying away from the boss and the office perv, who may or may not be one and the same, I'll know later tonight. Cheers!
*A cruel irony, the day we left Perth for the UK we drove around our old neighbourhood in Helena Valley and noticed a new housing estate was being built by - you guessed it - the employer he left because of FIFO. Our lives could have panned out very differently had he stayed with them a bit longer since there is little doubt he would have been placed on that very job, minutes from our home. Ho hum...
There was the first (and only) staff party for the company he worked for in Abu Dhabi. I think fondly of this one as it was not long after we arrived in the UAE and I had lost a startling amount of weight with absolutely no effort whatsoever. Travelling from Al Ain to Abu Dhabi for the big night, I took great pleasure in buying a gorgeous, strapless purple number from Reiss in Marina Mall which was a UK size 10 and ever so slightly too big. (It now hangs, unloved and unworn in my wardrobe, unlikely to ever be zipped up again...)
As always, it isn't a Christmas party unless we haul the entire brood with us, installing them in the hotel room with TV and the room service menu while we party it on downstairs. At the time the eldest was only 8 so we got a babysitter to the room. The poor girl was Ethiopian and hadn't a word of English. As the children catapulted across beds and sofas, yelling in delight at a new place to sleep, her eyes pleaded with me to stay. "It's fine, you'll be fine" I reassured her as I backed out of the room, "...just, just don't let them kill each other..." before fleeing downstairs to join DH.
Because DH's employers were from Saudi Arabia, the party was to be 'dry' (ie no alcohol - whaaaaaaaaaaat??). We were of course horrified on learning this, but were quickly reassured by the waiter that we could order drinks to the table, as long as we were discreet.
And we were discreet, although our discretion seemed a little redundant when the Malaysian guy at the next table started necking brandy from the bottle.The whole evening ended messily - as is necessary with Christmas parties - and we woke to discover that DH, who had been too pissed to undo his cuff links the night before and couldn't get his hands out of his shirt, had slept face down with his arms bound behind his back in sado-masochistic fashion. Christ knows what the poor babysitter thought...
Our first Christmas party in Perth followed months of FIFO (fly in fly out) which anyone who follows this blog will know, sent me in to a downward spiral of depression and so it was with mixed feelings that I donned my Bollywood outfit for a night of fun and japes courtesy of the company that kept my husband 1600 kms away from me for much of the time (or at least that's how I saw it in my muggy, depressed mind).
The evening started off cordially enough, but when, three drinks in, his employer asked me how I liked Australia, I didn't hold back on my opinion of the fly in fly out lifestyle and how it was tearing families apart across the country, and how a generation hence there would be dire consequences for all concerned - both parents and children. Then I said a bit more. Then a bit more after that. By the end of the conversation I was practically in tears and he was reassessing whether DH was the right guy for the job.
The evening ended when I sent a table of drinks flying and DH marched me up to bed. I'll admit it wasn't my finest hour.
Three weeks later DH, having been summoned by his employer to discuss his future with the company, was gently 'let go' to find a more suitable and family friendly position. He still blames me to this day for losing him that job.*
Last year we were living in Paraburdoo, 1600kms north of Perth and half a century away from civilisation. When we received the invite to the staff Christmas party, I instantly went online to buy a suitable party dress - after all, going shopping wasn't an option in the bush.
On the day of the party, we dressed in our finest; sparkly shoes and red satin dress for me, tuxedo shirt and trousers for DH (too hot for a jacket in midsummer in the Pilbara) and set off. On approaching the entrance to the party, I noticed people milling in and out wearing casual shorts, vests, thongs (flip flops), slouchy beach dresses and it occurred to me, not for the first time, that Paraburdoo was not quite like anywhere else - it danced to its own unique tune. If Australia is considered laid-back, Paraburdoo is horizontal.
"Drive on!" I instructed DH urgently, and we dashed home to change into something slightly more appropriate.
The party was actually quite dull, only made worthy of comment by the old codger who lived several doors up from us, who rather indiscreetly took a photo of my boobs with his phone when he thought I wasn't looking. I don't think he was counting on the camera making a loud clicking sound and he quickly hid the phone and glanced nonchalantly around him as if nothing had happened, confident he'd gotten away with it. I suppose he did get away with it although I shudder to think what he does with that photo...
So here's to the ghost of Christmas parties past, present and future - and to staying away from the boss and the office perv, who may or may not be one and the same, I'll know later tonight. Cheers!
*A cruel irony, the day we left Perth for the UK we drove around our old neighbourhood in Helena Valley and noticed a new housing estate was being built by - you guessed it - the employer he left because of FIFO. Our lives could have panned out very differently had he stayed with them a bit longer since there is little doubt he would have been placed on that very job, minutes from our home. Ho hum...
