It's Christmas Eve and all is well.
It shouldn't be as it is the night after the bus drivers' 'office party'. It was a fine affair. It started well. £20 in the kitty and the drink flowed. Fine buffet food, with a Thai flavour as the publican had learnt to cook on a beach near Phuket. Great company. The 80 year old and 86 year old bus drivers came. They had only recently retired, but the stories were still fresh in their minds and we all sat in silence and listened to the days of proper snow and hard bus drivers.
Then the evening degenerated. The publican went off to the chapel to sing some hymns. She obviously knew. The drink began to loosen tongues. The humour became sharper and more funny.
"I'm worried about these two bald bus drivers sitting next to each other at the bar," said another driver.
"Why?" asked one of the bald drivers.
"Because from the back you look like a baboon's arse."
"Lucky I'm not there with them too," interjected the boss. "Otherwise they might mistake us for the sign on a pawnbrokers."
And so it went on. One of the drivers who happened to be a farmer had been seen in a photograph in the local paper of him amongst many other farmers, bidding at the auction mart. The boss had posted the picture in the office and asked each driver to place a X over the farmer they thought was the bus driver. A variation on Spot The Ball. Needless several crosses were placed on the sheep going round the ring. It was presented to the farmer driver at the office party.
The stories kept coming. But I left to jeers early. I got off lightly. My head was in good condition this morning. As I left, my near equal height colleague gave me a smackeroonie on my earhole and I disappeared back out into the Alpine climate.
My breath froze and I thought, how blessed I am. There are not many Christmas office parties like that.
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