Sunday Independent (Ireland) - Living - - FRONT PAGE -


I’M sit­ting at my desk when I spot an email no­ti­fi­ca­tion, sub­ject line: De­tails for this year’s Christ­mas party. I open it and start to scan. As I do, my in­ner Christ­mas tree starts to light up. Venue: East Lon­don boozer on a night bus route, handy for when I in­evitably max out my card so I can’t af­ford an Uber. Yes! Food and drink: Christ­mas lunch and pre-drinks in of­fice then pizza and free bar af­ter. Dou­ble yes! En­ter­tain­ment: se­cret Santa, big fat Christ­mas quiz and karaoke. Thrice yes!

But then I read ‘Dress code: Glam­orous’ and my heart goes as cold as old Ebenezer’s. I hate dress codes and I hate the word ‘glam­orous’ — it makes me think of back­combed hair, re­al­ity TV, lay­ers of iri­des­cent lip gloss and ubiq­ui­tous se­quins. Why can’t dress code be ‘things you don’t care about red wine bring spilled on’?.

Had they se­lected this theme, I would have a bounty of suit­able en­sem­bles but now I have to buy some­thing that will be de­liv­ered by next week. I google ‘glam­orous dresses, next day de­liv­ery’ which pro­duces thou­sands of searches with enough se­quins and tulle to cover the holes in the ozone layer. Ev­ery­one with a vag­ina, it seems, must dress like the en­tire win­dow dis­play of Brown Thomas in De­cem­ber. Last year, I went out the night be­fore the of­fice Christ­mas party and did not go home (bad Katy!) so I ended up wear­ing a pair of dirty black jeans and a cardi­gan. I did take my bra off though — so ver­sa­tile! This year, I can­not fail.

To hedge my bets, I or­der three not-se­quin dresses on­line and whack them all on my credit card (very bad Katy!). I won’t bother de­scrib­ing what they look like, I’ll just say, were they dress codes, they’d be ‘over­priced’, ‘maybe two years ago babez’ and ‘this won’t end well’.

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