The Holiday Party
Forced to engage in small talk, Alistair endures her father’s office party for your amusement.
My dearest’s, I write to you whilst still lying atop my swooning couch, as little Fauntleroy applies a cool towel to my brow to try and calm my vapors. Yours truly had to honor Daddykin’s only gift request this year (it’s his only gift request every year) that I suspend my “No Small-Talk” clause for one day of the year in order to show up and play nice at Arabella Mines’ annual holiday function. I think going to this party every year is probably the last thing on the planet I’d ever want to do (and I should know- if you can think of something low down and dirty, I’ve probably done it. Twice.), but alas, I can’t help but have a soft spot for my Dad, so I oblige. Grudgingly.
Mumsy, Dirk and I pulled our usual “Show up at the very last possible second before food is served to delay the inevitable” routine and whisked in just in time for food and booze, which in my opinion, is the perfect time to arrive anywhere. Mumsy did her usual run of the table, lips pursed in permanent disdain as she exclaimed how awful the food looked when we all know that’s just a rouse to justify why she skipped eating and headed straight for the Champagne.
Dirk and I did our usual run through of office fashion and found some fantastic specimens ripe for derision – although we did find one girl had the most amazing shoes – we almost forgave her for those hideous breast patches. Dirk wanted them so badly we waited for her to get drunk enough to kick them off to dance and totally jacked them.
Daddykins did his best to keep up, but being as he seems to be the only member of the Arabella family not addicted to prescription uppers he tuckers out rather easily. Mumsy had him sit down and take a little nappy in his office, making sure to rifle through his pockets for any cash so the rest of us could hit up a bar afterwards.
But the real highlight of the evening (I wish that sarcasm could drip through pages) was when Dirk and I took it upon ourselves to try and mingle (shudder) with the middle-class masses of the company. Talking to heathens and poor people is about as appealing as shopping at Hermes when they’re actually open. We heard a litany of commoner complaints ranging from family squabbles to health scares. None of which I could care the least about. But the grand prize winner for best over-share was when one of the bottom-rung underlings cornered us at the chocolate fountain to explain that we needed to convince Daddy to let him have more time off because after a routine root canal he discovered he was in fact allergic to whatever they’d inserted into his gums and until the plastic parts disintegrated in his body said allergic reaction consisted of unannounced and uncontrollable explosive diarrhea. I found it hilarious, as pain and discomfort in others amuses me. Dirk of course, being the consummate gentleman he is, was not amused.
So we made it out alive kiddies – somehow by the grace of your god and a litany of every opiate, barbiturate, and pain killer known to man I was able to forge ahead and overcome a yearly tradition of forced fuckery. My Christmas gift to all of you is the continued contribution of my superior opinion.