Is there a more lukewarm ticket than an invite to an office party? In the hierarchy of things that we could do with losing post-lockdown, work dos are surely high on the list. Don’t we all dream of an end to Pringles and tepid Sauvignon blanc on the third floor, closing your eyes as the nauseous soundtrack of Spotify’s “cheesy bangers” plays tinnily from the head of HR’s Bluetooth speaker?
Wouldn’t we all like to live in a world where you never again have to schlep to a three-star central London hotel on a Monday night — the only night your company could afford the “Belle Époque” function room (the irony, at least, is free) — where you get stuck talking to the chief executive’s furious teenage daughter, the only person having a worse time than everyone else?
