The Christmas Party

Went to the Christmas party at my freelance company last night. My son went too, with his group of half-a-dozen interns.
At first, before I got there, I felt like kind of a traitor -- and an interloper.
How many Christmas parties had I done at my last company? A dozen? I mean, that's the Christmas party I went to for years.
And then, do I really belong at this company's Christmas party? I'm only guaranteed a couple days of work a week these days, although this month because of vacations, I've gotten twice that.
Is that Christmas Party-worth?
But it's a friendly, young office, and everyone was asking who was going, encouraging people to go. And the interns were definitely going -- free drinks on a Friday night? -- so yeah, why not?
What a fun party.
So much better than the mostly dreary affairs at my old newspaper, where careers were more on the agenda than fun.
Maybe it's because I don't really care anymore. Not sure.
Or maybe they just know how to throw a good party here.
Anyway, it was a d.j.-hosted event with a dance floor in central London -- and I think the bar was free all night.
First good thing.
Dancing and drinking in a cool bar near work on a Friday night.
At my newspaper, the Christmas party was always held on a Sunday afternoon right before Christmas at someone's house.
Can you imagine a worse time?
Two Sundays before Christmas, you gotta give over a Sunday afternoon to work?
And then, it was almost always pot-luck, so you also had to bring something too -- and worry about that.
They divided it up -- some people brought appetizers, some desserts, main course dishes, drinks, the whole thing.
And then stand around and talk to each other for a couple awkward hours when everyone wanted -- and actually needed at that time of year -- to be somewhere else doing something else.
Lots of career-tuning going on, too, since the big bosses always showed up.
And then everyone encouraged to bring their spouses, all of whom felt pretty out of place, usually knowing no one.
Not that much fun usually.
Back to this Christmas party.
Started right after work on a Friday night. Good time. Everyone in the mood.
Still three weeks until Christmas. Nobody gave a shit about Christmas. Also good.
Free bar, and some finger food, so restricted to company employees. Spouses and significant others not invited. Also good, although dangerous with enough booze. But definitely entertaining to watch.
Lots of very attractive young girls work at this television company I'm freelancing at. I'm talking some real beauties. And the men, much much fewer in number, seem mostly to be married.
And British Christmas parties, I'm learning, are all about getting drunk -- and verging over into the inappropriate.
So, especially for a voyeur like me, REALLY entertaining to watch.
It was good to have my son there, so I could go and hang out with him and his intern group now and again. They're all a gas, all in their mid-twenties, all fresh, cute and smart.
Weird, though, too, in a way, to have him there. Have never been to a dancing/drinking party with my son actually. Fun to watch him too.
Everyone danced. Drank. Some did karaoke. All fun.
At one point, I was standing around with my son and his group, standing next to my son at that point (I didn't hang out with him much, but at that moment, I was), and he had his arm casually on my shoulder and I was looking up at him (he's really tall). We were all laughing.
One of the key women at the company came up to me later, a bit tipsy, put her arm around me, and whispered, conspiratorially: "Daniela, don't go the intern route. It doesn't lead to anywhere good."
It took me, also tipsy at that point, a minute to figure out what she was saying.
Then it hit me. She thought I was hitting on my son. Had no idea he was my son.
Most people in the big room that is the office there know by now, but this woman hadn't been around much lately, traveling probably, and had just come back that day after a few weeks, I had noticed. She's someone you notice.
Her comment: Priceless. Pee-in-your-pants funny.
Especially after a few drinks.

The Power of Tea

Didn't know what was going on in the beginning.
People at my freelance job would routinely bring out several cups of tea from the kitchen there to distribute among colleagues on the desk.
At first, I thought it was just the interns currying favor. No intern would venture near the kitchen area without asking everyone seated anywhere near them if they wanted a cup of something. Mostly tea.
Then I realized it was everybody, not just the interns.
Any time anyone went near the kitchen, they first asked everyone if they wanted something.
I always said no, thank you, nursing the cup of coffee I had gotten myself in the morning.
I mean, in the newsroom I used to work in, nobody ever asked anyone if they wanted anything, or brought anyone anything.
Sometimes as a treat, someone would pick up a dozen donuts in the morning, or half-dozen bagels, or something. But that was a rarity, an occasion, a birthday, a Pulitzer Prize.
Here, it's happening several times a day. Every day.
And everyone always answers yes -- one sugar, no sugar, milk, no milk, weak, strong, whatever their specific desire is.
And out it comes.
Wow.
I started to feel like a real scrooge there with my own cup of coffee. Never asking anyone if they wanted anything.
I asked someone on the desk what was going on.
He laughed and told me a story.
An American had come over for awhile to work there (it is an American company, after all, but mostly filled with young Brits), and noticed the same thing I noticed.
You can't help but notice it. People are literally walking around several times a day with three cups of tea in each hand.
He told the visitor -- and me -- that it's a tradition here in the workplace. People make stuff for each other, mostly tea.
He said the American visitor thought it was just so quaint, so British, that he asked if he could take a picture of someone walking with all the tea to show his friends back home.
Tea is the answer to anything that ails you here.
One day early on when I locked myself out of my apartment here, I knocked on my neighbor's door downstairs, looking bereft, not knowing how to get in, looking for advice, or friendship, or something.
"You need a cup of tea, luv," she said to me, tenderly. "Come inside and I'll brew some."