AFTER last week's office party incident, in which I found self being advanced upon by latest technology bore from the printers, I had decided not to bother with any more office Christmas parties.

Was admonished by editor to effect that, by refusing such advances, might singlehandedly be destroying our good relationship with printers and thereby endangering future of entire magazine.

Chose to ignore her and instead heed advice of solicitor from Preston Park.

He told me Christmas work does yield filing cabinet loads of industrial tribunals, after staff find selves unwillingly forced against photocopiers by colleagues who know that any other time of year they'd have no chance but think it's worth a try during the festive season.

So, having made this significant decision to go to no more Christmas parties, I immediately went back on it.

Determination undermined when blond athletic man from Hassocks, with whom at any other time of year I'd have no chance, muttered, as he was getting off the train: "Are you going to the Christmas party on the 7.08 on Tuesday?" and then disappeared along the platform.

Took this to be an invitation and chance to exchange more than the odd comment about lateness of train and poor quality of coffee.

So, spent the week preparing for Brighton Line Commuters' annual Christmas party.

Arrived, for once, in plenty of time, to board the train in question, doing best to look thin and glamorous, even though I'd come straight from work.

Kept look out for both Hassocks and friend, who'd promised to come as well for purpose of sharing cost of drinks and giving moral support.

In event, could see neither. So, bought self drink and, not recognising any of assembled and already raucous throng, sipped it in a sad lonely person sort of way and gave self a get out clause - namely, to retreat to relative anonymity of adjoining carriage, in event of having found no one to talk to in next ten minutes.

However, the spirit of Christmas being in full swing, it was not long before I was befriended - though not by blond athletic man of choice but radiator fitting salesman from Burgess Hill.

He had, without asking, bought me another drink and therefore believed himself entirely entitled to join me and chat about the amazing variety of radiator designs now on offer, while staring - none too subtly - at any chest.

Saved from any further revelations of advances by arrival of moral support friend (with several more drinks) who'd been chatting to extremely handsome Asian man.

She'd decided to abandon arrangements to join me in favour of flirting with him, until he abandoned her by getting off at Horley.

Hassocks, however, remained conspicuous by his absence.

It was not until the next morning, as I was nursing a sore head and wondering if I would make it all the way to London without succumbing to feelings of nausea, that he cruised through the carriage, looking fresh and well and asked if I'd been to the Christmas party.

"Shame I couldn't make it," he said. "Something came up at work."

With that he sauntered down the carriage, leaving me with the awful possibility that it might be another year before I got the chance to have a drink with him...

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.