Ghost of Christmas parties

The office party is now to be dreaded. When things were going good there were no gripes. Our yearly steam-off migrated from the the local Italian to a local Italian in Perugia or wherever a cheap Ryanair group-rate would bring us. Wine flowed, compliments too and we all gave each other a collective pat on the back.

The next day would be spent laughing at how teenage we had all got. A hotel room was trashed - 'sure we're only having the craic'-but made good again as the company credit card was waved like a plaster in the face of an irate hotel manager.

Now it seems, things could get really ugly. Managers are nervous. Employees are nervous and the whole country is looking at its feet, terrified of making eye contact. It'll be the local Italian this year - but it wont be a Kodak moment.

We'll ignore the taste of the cheap house wine and instead throw it into us just to feel normal again. We'll push the pasta round the plate and then, just after dessert, we'll let rip. 'Tourettes with your coffee Sir?'

We'll mumble our disagreements to the bosses; our lack of bonus, our shaved salaries, our extra hours per gratis, our job fears, our new culture of presenteeism which jars with our Irishness. And then - before you know it - there'll be mints flying with four letter words. And this time, we've used up all the plasters.