I've just returned from my works Christmas party. Bigger than any similar event I've ever been to, they've hired one of my town's largest public venues. There's a free bar, a dancefloor and free food, a lot to be going on with and some of them will be still partying at midnight. Yet I've come away early and walked alone through the freezing cold back to the flat.
Been flying too close to the flame again, you see. While I find the company of my female colleagues to be delightful, several hundred of them all sporting their party finest was just too much for someone fighting their girl side's efforts to escape. I couldn't drink anything because of my medication and when the DJ cranked it up to the point at which I couldn't hear conversation I admitted defeat.
In another world, I'd have gone along in full-on Jenny mode. At my workplace I'd get away with it too. The publishing business is not known for its backward attitudes so beyond a few raised eyebrows it would be just another part of life's rich tapestry.
But I can't do that. It would upset my wife beyond measure, and other than making my works party evening it wouldn't achieve anything. I'd be back to ever-scruffier-feeling bloke tomorrow morning and suffering a sharper-than-usual GD pit into the bargain.
This never gets any easier, does it.