It was my husband’s ‘work’ Christmas party last Saturday night and he made me go.

We have had the same petty argument every year since we married about his festive ‘business’ functions.

I hate them.

My idea of hell is meeting 25 people at once.

(My husband, on the other hand, considers socialising to be normal !. The nerve !).

Despite my reservations, the event itself was not going too badly until after the meal was completed.

At which time some of the trades contractors also employed by my husbands’ boss began dancing.

The plumber, in particular, became very active, and had soon relieved the hired entertainer of his microphone and commenced a stirring rendition of ‘Man, I Feel Like a Woman”.

I tried to stay in my seat, but I was busting to use the toilet.

On my return, I was picked up and thrown over the shoulder of a random drunk.

I thought if I froze, he would let go.

He didn’t. He swung me under one arm, then the other, rolled me over his back and then put me in a ‘twirl’.

(This was all his doing. My choices were: go along with it and hang on or let go and fall onto my head on the concrete floor).

I  held on. People applauded when the ‘dance’ was finished.

(I sat back next to my husband and tried not to puke on the table from dizziness and embarrassment).

I spent the next hour progressing from requesting we leave soon to threatening my mostly-drunk husband with grievous bodily harm if we didn’t.

All the way home in the car, my giggly husband raved on about what a wonderful wife I am and how much he loves me.

(All this did was annoy me on end and made me wonder why he never says stuff like that when he’s sober).

And people call this ‘having a good time’.

(Next year, I’m prepared to feign death if necessary, but I’m not going ! )