Where did my weekend go?

Seriously, is it really Monday again? Yes, it is. And it ain't just any ol' Monday. 'Tis the day of the work Christmas party, so understandably, I am OVER THE MOON.

Friday of last week was spent not really knowing what I was doing. Someone decided it'd be a good idea to crack open a few bottles of wine to celebrate the fact that we were 'getting closer to Christmas'. I may not like this time if year, but I do like an impromptu drinking session at my desk at 2pm, so I threw myself into the festive spirit. The last three hours of my afternoon were spent with 'red wine teeth' and telling all and sundry that I wasn't in the mood for work.

After work, I headed out to the Retro Bar (enjoying en route an altercation with an extremely infuriating and antagonistic ticket guard at Charing Cross station as apparently, pre-pay Oyster cards do not work at that station. Then tell Ken Bloody Livingstone to stop forcing commuters into Oystering up if you can't actually use them in Zone 1! Oh, and PS Ken, with regards to all the posters on your tube platforms: telling passengers not to verbally or physically abuse your staff ain't really going to solve anything if your staff seriously lack customer service skills, compassion or common sense. Train them how to deal with people's problems, as opposed to screaming and shouting at us and then when we get understandably riled, telling us to 'complain to the manager if we're not happy'.) with Sammy Jo to meet Doormouse as we had an ex-co-worker's gig to attend. We sank 4 drinks there and then popped back onto the underground to mooch on over to West Kensington, if you don't mind.

The gig was great and the co-worker really did have an amazing voice. When it was over, I headed back to Doormouse's pad as we had 4 bottles of wine burning holes in our bags. At Westminster station waiting for the Jubilee Line train, a feasibly handsome young man came and stood on the platform next to us and proceeded to cruise the pants off of Doormouse. We were deep in conversation and he quite literally stared, smiled and winked at DM. We all got on the packed train and they spent the next three stops cruising each other while I carried on talking shit. At London Bridge, The Honey got off the train, then turned around on the platform, waiting for DM.

Luckily for me, Doormouse is not the kind of chum to ditch you for a guy, but he was well in there. We stayed on the train and analysed and over-analysed this man's actions all the way home and all the way through the 4 bottles of wine until the clock said 5:30am.

The rest of the weekend was something of a hung over blur and now all of a sudden I'm back on Monday morning and wearing my best new party shirt ready for the 'fun' of the party this evening. My aim is to pace myself with the free drink, but I'd put money on me being the first one drunk, the first one on the dance floor and the first one to miss the last train home from Kings Cross.

But the one nagging thought that refuses to budge is: While I am supremely happy that Doormouse was within an inch of some man action (he's been barren for almost as long as I have), I am thoroughly annoyed that I was not the one being cruised.

Where's my hot, mysterious stranger looking for some tube action?