Last night, wandering around Liverpool Street to various Christmas work events, an awful thought began to dampen my normally fizzy festive spirit until my mood was as flat as a five-day-old warm glass of prosecco. Am I enjoying all this, I thought to myself, trudging from party to party making dreary small talk and being careful not to have more than half a drink at each event. Do I even like Christmas, or is it in fact a completely exhausting nightmare?
In the bad old days, when I was in my twenties, parties were a thing of joy and excess. I used to give them my absolute all. Often nights out would involve massive sound systems and waking up in fields with 10 new best friends.
