The geese are getting fat

In keeping with seasonal expectations, it's been pretty busy in my vicinity of late. Thursday night was my office Christmas party, and I must say how refreshing it was that my first experience of this type of event managed to live up to every single generalisation and stereotype that I had ever imagined. There were drunk people making a fool of themselves by tripping up the stairs (incl. me at approx 10pm); a fair few people wandering around the large venue having lost their friends (me at approx 11pm) and inebriated people trapping innocent victims in feisty embraces and trying to persuade them that a quick kiss would not turn into office gossip (me in the role of 'victim', shortly before my departure at around 1am). The food was disappointing, the music was mediocre and the skiing game with which I became obsessed after an early victory left one with polystyrene bean-bag balls in many private areas which were difficult to extract while retaining feminine mystique. It was fun.

On Friday I was feeling somewhat the worse for wear and was substantially slower as a result. I ate enough carbohydrates to fuel a marathon runner but did less cardio than a fat man in a coma - and when I left the office building my hangover meant that I became extremely irritable very quickly when my card wouldn't let me through the security barriers. I swiped it repeatedly to no avail and then felt suitably idiotic when I looked down at my hand and realised that my card had fallen out of its holster and I was rubbing an empty plastic case over the reader.

The highlight of Saturday was bowling and karaoke with my choir friends, particularly the latter. Karaoke is fun anyway, but when it's done truly unashamedly with eight part harmonies and comedy voices, it's seriously fantastic. I did manage to get a little carried away at a few points but thankfully I wasn't the only one who threw themselves into the part with gusto. This festive shenanigan was followed by delicious food and then the X Factor final - probably not many people's Saturday of choice but it hit the spot for me.

Today I have been efficient and happy - I have been for a run for the past two mornings which has sent my smugometer off the scale and ensured that I could lay into the roast chicken and bread sauce with a touch less guilt. My irritation levels did veer towards the russet/crimson zone earlier this afternoon, however, when my father showed me an article in the Sunday Telegraph which reported that a scientific advisor to the Labour government has said that women should stop fancying men with fast cars if they want to help the environment. Allow me to clarify: the purchase of a fast car by a man is the fault of women and nothing to do with the man at all. Consequently, any contribution to global warming made by male-purchased sports cars is not the responsibility of their owners. Rather, a man's innate (and thus uncontrollable) desire to impress us girls is the defining factor in 100% of car purchases, testosterone dragging them helplessly towards higher fuel consumption. OK. On behalf of all women, I'll accept the blame for the global warming arising from men's car purchases if men will concede that, by fancying us when we dress nicely, they are thus entirely responsible for child labour by 'making' us purchase clothes which could be from unethical sources. Scoff. I don't remember such a pathetic denial of the consequences of one's own actions since fat people started suing McDonald's, and anyone who agrees with the report's writer should be forced to do something really unpleasant that would enlighten them to the true stupidity of their perspective. Perhaps they might have to make some efforts to educate themselves to a minimal standard - something akin to the level of liberal sensitivity of the average Swedish eight-year-old should do the trick. And of course, they should never be allowed to view the Telegraph as a news source again.