Works dos are renowned for being terrible: a bunch of people who have nothing in common besides sharing an office space for seven or eight hours a day, five days a week, many of whom harbour deep dislike for one another, forced into a social environment with large quantities of alcohol and the stipulation that they must enjoy themselves. It’s not natural.

This was the opinion Jason held, and as a consequence he was dreading the inaugural Christmas night out on the town.  It had been decided upon democratically, having been agreed that a more fluid arrangement was better suited to everyone, and was preferable to those with limited budgets and who therefore would have found a more formal event, consisting of a set-price meal, etc., rather difficult to afford. He’d agreed to go, because he didn’t hate everyone he worked with, and because he didn’t want to add fuel to the fire of opinion that he was a miserable, stand-offish prick.

There were, naturally, a few people he knew he’d rather not spend time with, and he devised a plan whereby he would only stay for two or three drinks, and then, depending how the evening was shaping up, make his excuses. He really didn’t think such a night out was deserving of a hangover the next morning. But then, he didn’t think such a night was deserving of much effort on the clothing front either, so he left as he was from work, and still arrived before many of the girls who had finished early just so they could get changed and do their hair.

Jason was pleased to see Calvin had already arrived when he entered the first bar on the itinerary. He could tell the moment he walked in the joint that he was going to hate it: a long, high bar of electric pumps selling nothing but exorbitantly-priced premium lagers lined one wall; the tables were all above elbow-height and clearly designed for standing at rather than sitting – a point made more explicit by the minimal number of stools about the place – and chart dance music was already pulsating despite the fact it was only 5pm. Worse still, a steady trickle of office workers – scantily clad chunky women doused in sickly-sweet perfume and men with heavily waxed hair and pinstripe Friday night suits – had half-filled the cavernous room already.