Ever been talked into going to a party, or some other late-night extravaganza, and realised pretty much as soon as you walk through the door that you really should have just gone home? Well, I have. Many times, and it's very rare that you can just act upon this going home impulse. It appears rude, I guess, to the person who has talked you into going there. Even if you don't know them so well, or even like them that much.

I had my work Chrismas party tonight, at a fancy hotel in Pitt St. To tell you the truth, I was much more enamoured with the piano bar in the lobby than the party in general. Which is why, after about two hours at the party, I ended up back in that old bar. Even though the jazz had ended and they'd started playing hideous elevator music. A colleague and I discussed the intentions of a lone man in a business suit sitting at the next table. I think that he was hoping to become some lucky lady's sugar daddy, perhaps. He didn't succeed, poor fella: last drinks were called, and there he was, still sitting there by himself.

Which is round about when I somehow was convinced to go to this nasty old party. There were two choices for those who wished to 'kick on', as they say: Candy's Apartment in Kings Cross, or said party. My first choice was the Kings Cross option, simply because more people seemed to be going there. But I missed the boat. Everyone who was going there somehow evaporated into thin air while I was finishing my last gin and tonic. So I tagged along to the party in Surry Hills, with one lovely friend, and another girl who seemed to be quite nice but quickly grew tiresome. We climbed several flights of stairs to get there, and were rewarded with a roomful of arty types exclaiming over the art that cluttered the walls, and dancing in an exuberant manner to the fairly average tunes dribbling from the speakers.

I knew that I didn't want to be there when I caught sight of a girl who I went to high school with, who I see out occasionally; she only ever speaks to me when she wants cigarettes. My urge to leave was further justified when a hairy man in an open shirt attempted to convince my lovely friend and I to go to an event that he is hosting next Thursday. I didn't pay much attention to what he was saying, as I was too busy planning an escape route, but I believe that the words 'artists' and 'integrity' were in there somewhere. After ten minutes I mumbled my excuses and jostled my way through the exuberant dancers, back down the rickety stairs, onto the street, and into a taxi.

And I'm mighty disappointed that there were no scandals at my Christmas party. According to every trashy women's magazine that I have ever had the misfortune to read, this is what SHOULD occur at such events. My suggestion to my colleagues that we each select a target and go create our own scandals was met with disinterest.

At least I was wearing a smashing frock.