As if my life these days weren’t plagued enough by pregnancies, procreation and a profusion of Other People’s Offspring, my work party this year is taking place in – wait for it – a maternity hospital. Why yes, you did read that correctly, an end-of-year, down-and-dirty office party in a maternity hospital. Naturally. Because clearly, the cacophony of screaming babies is the perfect backdrop to Christmas debauchery. And no doubt the agonised screams of birthing mothers will function as just the sort of social lubricant required to bring people together in the traditional, lecherous fashion of such gatherings. On the upside, at least there will be beds or gurneys on hand for the post-prandial snooze. Ooh, and doctors rushing around in their scrubs with stethoscopes swinging across their swarthy, life-saving doctor chests and complicated charts clutched in their healing doctor hands. Ah, doctors. Suddenly it seems like the perfect party setting after all.
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