Basic Bitch

An office party for one

As a six-year-old, it was my greatest passion to set up an office under

the table, highlighting the phone book and tapping on an enormous calculator, dreaming of the day I would own an electronic pocket organiser. Then, as a teenager, I spent some summers in a real office. I was doing invoices... or maybe it was the payroll; I definitely opened post. I was not trusted to make tea. To my 15-year-old mind, there was nothing more tragic than offices and the people therein. I vowed I would never work in an office.

Now I know that there is nothing more tragic than 15-year-old girls, as friends with proper jobs compare free office bars and at-desk massages. But I have never broken my vow — mostly because, being computer illiterate with wildly hit-and-miss social skills, I have basically none of the requisite skills for most office-based employment.

And, mostly, I love working from home. I like going entire three-day stretches without having to wear a bra, or plucking my monobrow. I like my favourite teacups being there when I want them. But at this time of year, when all the talk is of office Christmas parties, I get a pang.

For the month of December, I nod along knowingly when people complain that they haven’t a minute to bless themselves with all the dos. I press my nose up against the Marks and Spencer window like the little match girl, with their wonderful and mysterious ‘edits’ of perfect Christmas-party outfits. I have never photocopied my bum with anyone from ‘accounts’. I have never been given a creepy Secret Santa present. Reader: I have never snogged a colleague.

This year, I’m taking action: I’ve ordered a cheap but sturdy-looking photocopier. I’m doing Secret Santa with myself, by drinking a bottle of port, blacking out, and letting loose on Amazon. And I’ll highlight the phonebook, wearing a lovely dress from M&S, without a bra and with my monobrow resplendent. Yep, I refuse to be tragic.