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And so this is Christmas

You can always tell in catering when the festive season is rolling around. Table sizes go up from four to about eight. The wine stays largely untouched, sales of lager and alcopops go through the roof. It's depressing, but that's the nature of the beast. I'm not working in a high-end restaurant, I work in a bistro, and at this time of year the awful reality of that is works dos. All of our regulars, the ones who normally I'd stop and chat to, maybe recommend a new wine I've got in, the ones who ask you what's good today, or how your girlfriend is, whose family histories I know better than my own, sensibly stay away.

In their place come companies nights out. Cowrokers who may hate each other normally and a boss they barely know lumped togther and forced to have a good time on company money. Some things are ineivitable. A secretary will get pissed and start crying. The boss will attempt to cop off with someone. I will get my arse grabbed. They will demand festive songs and wear stupid hats with tinsel on them. They will be singing from the same hymn-book "come on! It's Christmas!"

So on Saturday a drunk tried to start a fight with me over his drinks. Somebody else threw up in the toilet. In the sink. As we manage to the theory that we'd never make a part-timer do something we wouldn't be prepared to do ourselves I cleaned it up. These are things that don't happen at any other time of the year. Merry bastard Christmas.

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