Time at the bar: how not to treat the regulars

NAOMI SAFFERY

Generally, I choose the house I live in based entirely on the local. In London we lived a few doors down from a boozer that served Pimm’s by the bucket load and knocked out a wonderful BBQ every summer. This was followed by the lovely ramshackle gastropub just around the corner from our house in Oxford; it served amazing mulled wine and I had a very happy winter indeed.

The village that we have moved to has a wonderful pub made of stone, with roaring log fires and wooden floorboards akimbo. It is suitably ‘ye olde worlde’ and I fell in love with it. I had visions of numerous hours spent sitting next to the fire with a good Merlot whilst chatting to villagers about badgers, hedgerows and cricket. That was until the landlord arrived.

Stuffing your face on the bus? DON’T!

NAOMI SAFFERY

I have already written about my issue with bus drivers. But let me now turn my focus of derision to my fellow passengers. Up until a few weeks ago I only had minor complaints when it came to my brothers (and sisters) in arms. We were all in it together, battling our way to work; negotiating delays, rude drivers and the maniacal passenger who had us all staring determinedly into our laps.

But now all this has changed. The reason? The incessant need by a frighteningly large proportion of public transport-partaking society to eat their greasy, noisy and unnecessary food in front of others. I have been tipped over the edge by a particular incident that needs to be recounted in full for the enormity of the problem to be fully understood.

What if you're just not in the mood?

NAOMI SAFFERY

When it comes to real life, I am as unromantic as they come. I like the idea of romance. I like the thought of a handsome prince riding up to my turret and whisking me away to a far-off land filled with roses, wine and kittens. But, the reality of being romantic is one of effort and hard work. 

After the prince has whisked, and it all becomes routine, it is too much effort to think up those sickeningly cute gestures and it is too much effort to be on one’s best behaviour in the hope of a romantic treat being showered upon you. I actually can’t be arsed. I would rather run myself a bubble bath, pour myself a glass of something fruity and light my own candles than have someone else do it for me.

Tapping at your last nerve: two perspectives on the pitfalls of office typing

NAOMI SAFFERY

There are many, many reasons why working in an office – any office – can be a challenge for those among us who would rather be lounging by a pool, with a cocktail in hand and generally enjoying a life of decadent debauchery.

One reason why working in an office is so challenging is the furious – nay, frenzied – speed at which people type. Is it just me or are there people in offices who genuinely feel that waving their administrative schlong around via typing at warp speed, will land them in the boss’s lap, complete with promotion, bonus and an all-round pat on back?

Large Groups of Language Students. Discuss.

NAOMI SAFFERY

Now that summer is officially over, I can finally breathe a sigh of relief and go about my business without the tiresome chore of avoiding tourists. Whilst I may be fortunate enough to live in a charming city, I certainly pay the price.

During the warm and sunny months I hide away at home and only dash to the shops when in dire need of sustenance as hoards of marauding tourists swarm through the city ingesting it whole and leaving nothing but a shuck for the residents to pick at in their wake.

Every time I dared to leave my house, normally only when we were down to our last crumb, it didn’t go well. I would step out and take a deep breath of pure, picturesque city air and mount my bike. Then, before long, as I peddled forth, I would inevitably start to encroach upon a mob. The hoards ahead of me would swerve about on foot, dipping off the pavement at random times just to freak out the approaching cyclists. Turning into a side street, it’s normal to find a group standing in the middle taking photos. I repeat: in the middle of the road.

I’d ring my bell; no movement. Followed by stopping and glaring; no movement. Ah, so the ‘I’m-terribly-sorry-softly-softly-English’ approach doesn’t work. Time to throw my manners out of the window. So barging through, shouting expletives it is. And then they would all get out of my way.

On one particularly offensive occasion, I parked my bike and entered the shop feeling faint from hunger and thirst. As I tried to negotiate the aisles with my basket to find the teabags, I came across a large group of language summer school students. Nowhere is safe.

They are the absolute worst. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t say this but just the sight of their matching, branded, brightly coloured rucksacks drives me mad. Therefore, I have to make it known that I think they are all total dorks. I can’t help it – my inner prejudiced psycho rises up and I cannot contain my total loathing for matching, branded rucksacks. The children upon whose backs they reside are equally annoying but as they are human beings I cannot, apparently, loathe them as much. So I unleash my hatred onto the bags.

The bags hover around in clusters and do not move out of the way for anyone, least of all people trying to get to work. I sometimes wonder if a grenade would move them. But I am informed by several sources that this isn’t allowed. I see different groups of bags about – they are all as ill-behaved as each other, no matter the origin. For the life of me I cannot understand why it is so hilarious to sit on the pavement in multiple groups, eating McDonald’s and singing various pop songs, badly. I am obviously too stupid to understand the joke – maybe I should sit down and tuck in to a BigMac underneath a well-known tourist attraction and join in. Although, I don’t have a matching rucksack so am obviously never going to be part of the ‘cool gang’. And I can’t sing in French/Spanish/Italian/Portugese/American/German (delete as appropriate).

I am further disgusted by the hyper-excitement that all the rucksacks exude – being away from the bags from whose loins they sprung, being abroad where you can behave totally inappropriately because it is ‘abroad’. I never understand this (and this goes for the Brits abroad as well). Why do people behave so badly when they go to another country? Every rule of etiquette and social grace seems to fly right out of the window.

From mid-May until some time in September, the whole summer season is an operation in tactical tourist avoidance. I stupidly parked my bike somewhere central so I had to fight my way through a coach load of Americans to reach my poor set of wheels, and then try to scuttle through a group of Japanese tourists before mounting and riding off. At last I was cycling home – nope, screeching to a halt I waited and waited for the blue bloody rucksacks to move. Nothing. My blood started to boil as these children chatted each other up in the middle of the street. Seriously, you all have braces, spots and limbs more gangly than Inspector frigging Gadget, give it up. I decided to revert to being a teenager and started to rhythmically ring my bell. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

A bag turned round; she looked me up and down. Ding. Ding. Ding. I wheeled out the biggest weapon I could think of – I raised my right eyebrow. Slowly, sardonically, I challenged the bag to a bike-on-pedestrian fight. No matter that I was about 12 years older than her and really should have gone around her little group of pimply admirers. I had taken enough crap from the summer parasites getting in my way and, worst of all, dithering about with fast food and guidebooks.

Ding. Ding. Ding. I glared. She glared. Slowly, drop by reassuring drop, it started to rain, a sure sign that summer, and my ordeal, were coming to an end. The bags started to scurry around, panicking, they all ducked for cover. The city was momentarily saved as the streets cleared of all tourists, bags and all. Round 1 goes to the residents. Relieved, I cycled on and rejoiced in the purifying rain, washing the streets of unwanted baggage. Read more by Naomi.

Phone our helpline; it only takes a minute, girl

NAOMI SAFFERY

Readers, I have been driven mad by a telecommunications company. Last Friday night, I decided to try for the millionth time to sort out my phone and broadband connection. Now, you may wonder why I chose a Friday night. I didn’t; it chose me. I found myself alone with the obligatory bottle of Pinot Grigio and thought that I would at least do something useful.

I have been battling for an eternity with the company in question. I am surprised that they haven’t put caller recognition on every one of their phones in every single call centre (which are mostly, it seems, in Scotland) to avoid me. Some people connect with the outside world through social networking sites; I spend my time being passed from one department to another during 20-minute phone calls which never, ever come to anything.

I drank another glass and reached for the handset. I always find that squiffyness aids these situations so I dialled with jaunty confidence and waited. And waited. And waited a bit longer. Ah, here we go: “Key 2 on your keypad to talk to one of our customer service advisers.” Righty-ho. I press ‘2’. And it rings, it rings and ...Ah, ‘Sharon’ answers.

I psyche myself up; I know the ropes by now. I ask Sharon to send me the paper form again. “It says here that it was sent to you on the 9th.”

“Yes, I know but I haven’t received it, so I need you to send another one.”

“I can’t give any account details over the phone as you need to send the form back.”

“I am aware of that fact – that’s why I need another form.”

“Well, as we don’t have the form back I am not able to process anything on your account.”

“Err, well I would have sent the form back, had I received it. I need another form, so will you send one?”

“Let me put you through to my colleague in ‘Account Services’.”

Dear God; please let me get through this.

So, Sharon puts me on hold. We run through various jaunty ditties written by some two-bit composer on his Yamaha to pay his bills (probably his phone and broadband bill). I neck another glass. How long can this possibly go on for? Still, it’s on a loop so I’ll be able to hum along in a bit. The loop stops and a crackle, at last – I am going to talk to someone.

No, the music has just changed to Christina Aguilera, now Spandau Ballet and of course, kings of the ‘on hold’ music scene; Take That. It Only Takes a Minute, Girl is blaring through the phone. Seriously, does someone somewhere get paid to choose this music? And, if so, they are obviously someone with an incredibly ironic sense of humour as I have now been on the phone for 22 minutes. And counting.

“Hello, Miss Saffery?”

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid ‘Account Services’ have all gone home for the evening – you’ll have to call again in the morning.”

My eye flits over to the remaining Pinot Grigio as I say “Thanks Sharon, do you realise you have me trapped in a Kafkaesque nightmare? Is that the company’s intention?”

“I’m sorry Miss Saffery, you need to call Account Services in the morning to release your form”.

Release my form? I need to be released, for pity’s sake. My hand reaches for the bottle as I hang up on ‘Sharon’ and slowly sink to the floor. Read more by Naomi.

Apparently sausages grow in fields now...

NAOMI SAFFERY

I have to congratulate the advertising executives who dreamt up the latest ad featuring Jamie Oliver. Truly, it is a work of sheer and masterful hilarity. I remember the ‘early years’ Jamie sliding down his banister and throwing ‘bits and bobs’ around the kitchen. Now he has graduated from the school of ‘alright me ol’ mucca what can I do yer for’ to serious campaigner and activist doncha know. Yes, gone is the cheeky chappy, and instead Mr Oliver is fighting childhood obesity, bad parenting and general food-related issues that, according to him, aren’t ‘pukka’.

So, he tackled school dinners and twizzling turkeys. But it doesn’t end there – now he needs to reform the nation’s bad food habits. And how is he doing this? A series of adverts for a leading supermarket. Yeah, because their vegetables flown in from Kenya and washed in chemical solution are so fresh and healthy. So we had Jamie on the road – chucking food around for giddy mums to try. But that wasn’t enough – now his beef is with taste.

Apparently, things that taste good are what the supermarket is all about because things that taste good are pure and healthy and virtuous, and if Jamie says it’s good then it must be. In the latest ads, Jamie is filmed rambling on a hillside, clutching a fork, becoming more and more out of breath. ‘Where is he going?’ I asked myself as I tucked into my TV dinner of kebab and chips. ‘Gosh, he is struggling – is he looking for water or an inhaler perhaps? Or is the fork to catch a pheasant with?’

Nope, he heads straight for the frying pan on a stove in the middle of the field. Of course, that’s what grows in fields! I had always wondered. In the pan sizzling away are a load of juicy-looking sausages. Miraculously ready and waiting for Jamie’s fork to plunge into their meaty goodness and hold up to the camera. Before I have time to blink he has roughly bitten into a sausage and uttered the phrase “Everything [the supermarket] stands for in a bite.” Then some more rambling and banging on about taste and the grand finale – a doe-eyed stare into the middle distance.

Well, I learnt two things from this very informative advert. Firstly, that sausages are actually vehicles for philosophical musings and secondly that sausages are not, as previously thought, manufactured out of noses, ears, eyes, lips, trotters and arseholes in a factory somewhere grim. Nor are they stuffed full of salt, preservatives and all sorts of other little nasties which make them taste unbelievably good. No, they grow in fields! Fantastic. And that is what the supermarket is about: honest, wholesome, good-tasting and natural food. We already know that Jamie Oliver doesn’t advocate processed food like turkey twizzlers. So, in another ad exec’s words, ‘simples’: sausages cannot be processed food. Jamie ‘lovely jubbly’ Oliver can’t possibly be misleading us, because he wants the nation to be healthy and happy.

There you have it – sausages are natural food found in fields somewhere on what looks like the South Downs. I don’t know about you but I reckon I can save a fair packet if, instead of buying sausages, I just go and forage for my own. Read more by Naomi.

Grumpy Young Women Abroad: Got milk?

NAOMI SAFFERY

Grumpy in America

So I am in the land of the free. The nation that claims democracy as its best friend. Liberty as its foundation and freedom of speech its God-given right. Well, that’s all well and good. But this idealised state of existence, I assure you, goes right out of the window when it comes to milk.

I am a citizen of Britain, therefore my fuel is tea. It’s my staple; it’s what I live on. Without it I become a wizened husk of a human – stark mad and foaming at the mouth. Whenever I travel I either take my own teabags or spend the holiday in a state of tormented despair. This time I took a risk and relied on the American love of all things British, in particular tea. They even had a party for it, right?

Anyway, I tracked down the golden brew and proceeded to empty the required pack of sugar, and then I looked at the range of milk on offer. That’s right, not just milk, but a range. So, what do we have here, I muttered to myself? Something called “2%”, something called “half half”, something called “skimmed” and, of course, the nut/water mush they call “soya milk”. Erm, so where’s the milk? I had to ask.

Where’s the milk?
It’s there.
Yes, but none of that is actually milk.
Whaddya mean?
I just want normal milk.
For your tea?
Yeah.
We got lemon.
I’m British, I take milk.
Right, well there’s the milk.
Yes, but none of that is normal. For example, what is “half half”?
Half cream, half full-fat milk
OK, well where is the whole milk?
What’s whole milk?
“Full fat” to you.
We don’t do that.
Right, I’ll take half half then.

Cue my look of amazement as I dump the fatty concoction into my tea.

Seriously, the madness when it comes to milk consumption. Why is normal milk so taboo? You can get milk laden with cream but not just ordinary, from the udder, milk.

 

And it’s not just our dear friends across the pond who cannot let people enjoy whole milk. Oh, no. We have it too. The number of times I am in a coffee shop and hear someone ask for a “skinny” coffee beggars belief. Have I missed something here? Because, in my world, unique as that may be, drinking watered-down milk in coffee is not going to render you a size zero EVER. And giving a drink the suffix “skinny” is not going to render you a size zero EVER.

If you are going to spend a ridiculous sum of money on a hot drink then you may as well do it properly and go all out. Why deny yourself the creamy pleasure that milk provides? I promise you all that drinking a – gasp! – full-fat latte does not mean that you will wake up in the morning 10 stone heavier. It just means that you won’t sound like a complete pillock as you don’t have to say “skinny” before the product name. It’s just a latte. No skinny, no bull shit.

It’s a free country, right? So let’s embrace our liberty and enjoy milk that isn’t just greyish water or half coronary-inducing milk or a random percentile milk. Let’s have it just as the cow intended: from a bottle saying “whole”. Read more by Naomi.

Out with the cold, in with stupidity.

NAOMI SAFFERY

Spring has sprung and I should be full of the joys ... but I am not. After a winter of distinct discontent and dark dreary days mired by recession, freezing temperatures and general hard bloody work, I was looking forward to enjoying – nay, revelling – in the mellow and sublime British springtime. What form does this revelling take, I hear you cry. (Those who know me understand that I am not a natural partaker in revelry.)

Well, it might include strolling past daffodils in the park, sitting outside a cafe sipping a cosy hot chocolate as I watch the world roll by or going for a brisk walk along the Thames. But all my attempts in this direction have been thwarted by the sheer annoyance that has risen up within and turned my innards into a writhing mass of knotted irritation.

This particular strain of annoyance was triggered when I was waiting for my friend on a pleasant springtime Saturday morning. As I stood outside Waterloo Station, I saw the most incredible sight: a trio of girls were walking out with no coats on. Not only had they failed to adorn their bodies in the vital warmth provider that is the blessed coat; they also had short sleeves and bare arms. By the time my friend arrived I was incredulous and spitting a rant on the subject of the madness of the British public.

But just consider for a moment the fact that this sight was not a one-off. Later that week I saw a woman hurrying past me with no coat and showing bare arms and legs. You might well hurry, lady, I thought to myself, but speed ain’t gonna keep you warm.

I keep seeing people behaving as though we are in the midst of a heat wave. I just cannot fathom why we go through this year after year. The moment a weak, struggling ray of spring sun descends upon Britain, the public goes mad. They discard their clothes and all rational thought along with them. They step out and display their pasty limbs which, frankly, should be kept firmly covered until there is no danger of goose bumps making their legs and arms look like chicken skin.

Is it just the British who suffer from this over enthusiasm for the sun? Are we the only nation that has no concept of temperature? Why are we so keen to display our flesh? It is unsightly, undignified and distasteful.

I will be keeping my coat firmly on my back until the temperature is at least in double figures. In the mean time, I am trying to avoid the ugly sight of pale chicken skin, so I am limited as to where I can go. The park is out. The riverside walk is out. And I can kiss daffodil-gazing goodbye. Please, people, I want to see the spring. Put your clothes back on. Read more by Naomi.

Image: Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Has anyone actually successfully used a self-service checkout?

NAOMI SAFFERY

A couple of years ago I had an epiphany in my local supermarket. I was standing in the cereal aisle pondering the merits of muesli over porridge when it dawned on me: the weekly supermarket shop is the event of my week. My social life took second place to it and I positively bounced out of the office on ‘supermarket night’, as I coined the experience.

“Why is this?” I hear you cry. How is it that this young woman could find enjoyment in zig-zagging up and down aisles filled with prunes, pasta and pantyliners? Well, long ago my mum used to take me along with her to ‘help’ with the weekly shop. I would gaze at the forbidden fruits, marshmallows, bags of ‘funsize’ chocolates and out of season strawberries, instructed that I was “only” to go and get the loo roll “and nothing else!”

So, then, as a grown-up, I found I had free reign. This did often mean that I ended up with completely mismatching ingredients – but you would be surprised at how enterprising this made me in the kitchen. Nothing made me happier than opening the fridge the next day and having ‘options’.

The supermarket was my playground. Until the self-service checkouts moved in.

Now, I am not anti-change. But I am anti-inconvenience and definitely anti-stupidity. In order to fully offload the sheer devastation and outrage that I feel, I have to go back to the start.

A few months ago four self-service checkouts were installed. What a good idea, I thought to myself – people with baskets can use those while I, with my trolley load of random produce, will merrily use the old checkouts. Very convenient and efficient.

But then the self-service checkouts multiplied. Six more were installed, replacing three old checkouts. The scales were tipped and the queues rampaged out of control down the aisles. The people manning the remaining tills couldn’t cope.

Panic and mayhem ensued as the self-service machines started accusing shoppers of placing “unexpected items in the bagging areas” while repeatedly begging confused customers to “place items in the bagging area”. I watched as an 80-year-old man had to wait for 10 minutes to be IDd for his bottle of whisky as the self-service machine couldn’t see his age.

I almost wept. Gone were the halcyon days of my ritualised supermarket experience. Now I was scanning my goods in a panic so as to not be caught out by that ever-threatening “unexpected item” which could throw the whole thing off course. The queue backed up behind me as I fumbled with my wallet, the machine repeatedly screaming at me to “take my items”, just to reinforce the sense of panic.

“I got a response. I won’t go into detail, but I had to pour myself something large and strong as a result.”

I thought it would change as we all got used to fewer checkouts and more self-service machines. It didn’t, and I snapped. I donned my ‘Angry of London’ cap and sat down to write an exhaustive email to let them know exactly how they had failed me and shoppers throughout the land. And yes, I was hoping for some vouchers.

I waited for the response – after all, they would be worried, I was a valid customer who should be listened to. I had threatened to take my custom elsewhere. If anything, I thought, it would get me 20 quid off my next shop. But, no.

I got a response. I won’t go into detail, but I had to pour myself something large and strong as a result. Here is a particular sentence which amused me (once the drink had taken effect): “They have appointed checkout captains who are there to help at the checkouts.” Oh, well, that’s alright then. We now have ‘captains’. Thank god, because I was worried we might be left to the mercy of a shop assistant.

They added (and here is where I really wanted to shove their patronising email where the sun don’t shine): “I hope that the next time you visit our store you notice a huge improvement in our service. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

Oh, do you? Do you really? You want to see me again do you? Cut the personal touch rubbish – this isn’t Open All Hours. What you actually want is for me to have no contact with anyone at all, hence the self-service checkouts which, my friend, negate any notion of ‘our service’; you have put the ‘self’ in service. So it’s about me now, and I am going to put loads of “unexpected items” in your bagging area – unless you send me that voucher. Read more by Naomi.

Image: Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

On the buses

NAOMI SAFFERY

Is it just me or are London bus drivers the dregs, I repeat DREGS, of society?

Every day I trudge along to the bus stop to catch the bus to work. I stand at the bus stop, knowing, just knowing, that the bus will take half an hour to arrive. I live in central London; the buses are supposed to be every five minutes. How is it then that my bus runs so late, every single day of the year?

Not only does the bus run late but the bus decides to change destination half way through the journey. I say “the bus decides” because a woman’s automated, robotic voice blasts out of the speakers announcing the destination change because, of course, the driver can’t actually talk to the passengers.

This drives me apoplectic with rage. My eyes start bulging, my forehead throbs, I start breathing heavily as I tell myself that today is the day that I will make the driver answer the little old lady’s question about where to get off for the museum.

But no, I sit there in a state because whatever any of us do I know that it is no good. He won’t answer; he just turns his head slowly and pushes the button: “The Victoria and Albert Museum,” the woman’s voice menaces at the little old lady.

But, this rudeness is nothing compared to the sheer audacity of the bus driver who decided he was a little parched and fancied a nibble during his ‘arduous journey’. He pulled over next to a newsagent, alighted and went in. He left behind a seething mob of commuters packed into his bus like caged animals whilst he toddled off in the middle of rush hour to get himself a packet of crisps and a fizzy drink.

I don’t know what staggered me more, the fact that he did this or the fact that he conducted himself in the obligatory bus driver silence throughout the whole criminal act.

My mouth was agape with fury and I looked over at my fellow, stressed, tired passengers and in that moment I realised that this was the final straw. The fight had left them as they were so used to this sort of behaviour that it now seemed normal to them. Where has customer service gone? No, scrap that; where have basic manners and human decency gone?

I was late for work that day – and I was late for work the day that the driver turned us all out as if, yet again, he was changing destinations. Only he wasn’t changing destinations, and we watched as he went on his way leaving us all behind at the bus stop, in the rain. One woman had the balls to scream after him “You are so evil! That was a wicked thing to do” – but I don’t think he heard. The whole thing was completely inexplicable as he could not tell us what was going on (because bus drivers don’t speak) and the button didn’t have a woman’s voice behind it for that particular scenario.

I decided to do something about the shocking state of London’s buses. So, I went onto London Transport’s website. Can someone please tell me how I can speak to a real person on the phone as I have emailed and emailed again to no response?

Do you think BoJo will sort it for me? The Mayor’s wonderful bus which is ‘going green for London’ doesn’t work when it is really cold – as it has been recently; funny that, seeing as it’s winter and all – they conk out and, again, there is no woman’s recorded voice to keep us informed. So the bus driver resolutely sits in silence as he is blocking traffic, we sit in resigned silence as we notch up another late entrance into the office and I feel trapped in a nightmarish dream that I am going nowhere.

I now stand at the bus stop and hope with all my might that the bus to come around the corner will be the knackered, old, polluting tank of a bus which is certainly not green. Funny, at least I know I will have a chance of reaching my final destination – even if the bus driver can’t tell me where that is. Read more by Naomi.

Image: www.hamleys.com

New Year's Eve: A Night Out with The Bondage Family

NAOMI SAFFERY

Despite my best efforts, New Year’s Eve did not pass me by completely unnoticed. I really believed that this year I could stay in and fall asleep on the sofa with my face in a pizza box having sunk a bottle (or two) of rosé blush, but I was beaten down by some well-meaning (I think) friends who convinced me that it would all be glorious. Just one snag: we would be getting a train all the way into the country to ring in the new year. “Well, that’s lovely,” I said, as I envisaged myself in a cosy country pub with the log fire burning, the champagne flowing (this is a fantasy remember) and the pianist playing mellow jazz in the corner.
Fast forward to 10.30pm and I am hunched over my vinegar - sorry, ‘white wine’ - in the Bricklayer’s Arms, locally known as ‘The Bricks’, and we are now settled in a little corner booth with a good view of the woman on her own who is so pissed she can’t lift her head off the table and the family who apparently encourages their children to wear bondage gear. I kid you not.

Happily, my friend notices a sign advertising that they have put on a free buffet - joy! And as I am the lucky girl who has been nominated to negotiate my way through the crowd, I set off on an interesting journey into the back room. I say interesting, as when I pass The Bondage Family (as I now like to call them) I notice that the teenage daughter’s thong has studs for décor – and her netted top so delicately reveals that she has a matching bra. Do I phone the Social Services now or after I have collected my free food? Tricky.

Anyway, I make it to the buffet table and am confronted with carcasses: some sort of bird, a thing that used to be a sausage before becoming charred beyond all recognition and, as the landlady comes over to explain, deep fried prawns “for the vegetarians”. Oh, goody.

“I had it all so carefully planned! It was so simple: order my half Veg-a-Roma half Mighty Meaty, slump into my pyjamas and resolutely refuse to acknowledge the dashed hopes that were flying out with 2009. But no, ‘you can’t stay in on your own!’ (oh, really?)”

I make it back to the vinegar/wine with a plate that resembles a scene from Saw and tell myself that I must get into the party mood. So, 11.30pm and I am now swaying to the sound of my friend singing American Pie very loudly - and then it hit me. 2010 was about to arrive. Shit. I hadn’t achieved my resolutions for 2009 and now I had more to pile on to the festering heap that constituted my ambitions, my hopes, my aspirations.

He moves onto You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ and the despair openly floods the backwater bar as I mentally clutch about for the slippery answer to that universal question that the disappointed ask themselves: “where did it all go wrong?”

How did I end up here? I had it all so carefully planned! It was so simple: order my half Veg-a-Roma half Mighty Meaty, slump into my pyjamas and resolutely refuse to acknowledge the dashed hopes that were flying out with 2009. But no, “you can’t stay in on your own!” (oh, really?) “you have to come with us” (why?). So I am sitting in The Bricks with my best friends and now several shots of sambuca and the failure that was 2009 is right there in front of me and I have to face it because I don’t have the pizza, the pyjamas, or the rosé blush to take my mind off it. I don’t even have the log fire, the champagne or the mellow jazz. Just The Bondage Family and the woman who still can’t lift her head off the table. Actually, by this time I am not sure if she is conscious anymore.

2010 arrives with my friend leading the united chorus of Auld Lang Syne (I hate Burns; patronising pastiche poet) and I throw the sambuca down as I say goodbye to the excitement and adventure that was supposed to be 2009. I link arms with Bondage Dad and compliment him on his dog collar as I welcome in yet another mediocre and monotonous year which will be spent in an office in front of an Excel spreadsheet.

And just as I feel like putting my head on the table and despairing of my sorry predicament, the woman opposite lifts hers and she gives me a thumbs up. Staggered, I reciprocate and wonder if things are going to be that bad this year after all.

But then she leans to one side and vomits all over Bondage Mum’s coffin-shaped handbag. Welcome to 2010, then. Read more by Naomi.

Image: www.freeimages.co.uk