I set myself the task of writing an office party poem and, frankly, it felt like I was writing four different incompatible pieces that I never quite managed to choose between or successfully integrate in the final version. But I was writing to a deadline, so I came up with something and sent it off regardless. This is it.

One night only

You don’t have to be mad to work here and

we’re not. Just tired. Jaded. But still we go

and stand in clumps, a drink in every hand,

a safe way from the hopeless mistletoe.

The new girl looks alarmed – surprised she came

given the tales we tell about last year.

‘The photocopier’s never been the same.’

Dawn acts as chaperone and bends her ear.

‘Watch out for George, Debs’ ‘Why?’ ‘Thinks he’s a poet.’

Debs smiles obligingly and looks confused. 

Later her drinking borders on heroic.

She’s all right, her. Look, see how soon the booze

has softened, smudged, fudged, eased tongues off the leash,

glazed shiny faces in vague bonhomie.

Bob ‘BossMan’ Jephson makes his annual speech

concluding: ‘We’re just one big family…’

‘…Please,’ Dawn stage whispers, ‘Take me into care’.

Jo Watlington snorts Pernod through her nose.

The BossMan beams, and leaves by the back stair.

Mim Corbett tells her joke. A toast’s proposed.

There’s even warmth in the traditional groan

That greets George as he shapes to read his poem:

Don’t give me bah humbug - I’m not playing Scrooge

Don’t wince at my tinsel - I’m not in the mood

No man is an island - No woman is an isthmus

And people are people wherever you go

So have a merry Christhmus…