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’.