I decide it’s probably too icy for a repeat performance of yesterday's early morning run with the boys. One of us, probably me, would end up toppling into Martin’s Pond. Its so cold that MD’s football has frozen that hard it’s like a cannonball. Attempting to kick it for him means risking a broken foot. However when I walk for my bus, it isn’t that bad underfoot at all. Still, the extra hour in bed was definitely preferable.
Daughter has, in her words, 'an interesting day' and comes across a flasher on her way to college. It's a bit cold for that sort of thing. Unless that was his attempt to try to warm himself up.
L and Daughter are off to the pantomime at Nottingham’s Theatre Royal, oh no they aren’t, oh yes they are and they’re having Hogsmeade roasties from the Dickensian portacabins first.
Which will probably be a better feast than I get at my company’s Christmas party (for want of a better word) tonight. It’s at Derbyshire's cricket club, in a tent, which is thankfully heated. The outside toilets, however, aren’t.
We stagger there, having adjured to the Alexandra straight from work and having downed three pints of Christmas spirit whilst there. We are greeted at the door by group of Santas in little blue Santa dresses and Keith Loring, who is chief executive and formerly fulfilled a similar role at Derby County. Once inside we are handed a drink by yet more Santas, this time in little black Santa dresses. Definitely prefer the black ones.
Loring, it has to be said, puts in an impressive shift all night, circulating round all night, being master of ceremonies, sorting the wine and even waiting on tables. You would expect your average MD to just flirt with Santa's little helpers, grab a few glasses of wine and then leave early but not him. He probably even changed the loo rolls in the toilets, maybe, and he still had time to flirt with the Santas.
Each table is handed a quiz. Can you name the last fifty Christmas number one's? Of course you can. Anyone can with the help of Wikipedia. I would like to say we got a least forty without cheating. Then after cheating, amazingly, we still get one wrong. In fact only one table gets all fifty right.
For once I’m not on the wine because the keg Old Specked Hen is surprisingly drinkable. Well it tastes quite close to the cask version but that’s probably more an indication of how the cask version has declined since they lopped a whole percent off its strength.
The meal is actually excellent and even hot, which is a novelty for these sort of do’s. The disco, which is actually karaoked by the DJ’s, isn’t. The less said about that the better.
Then it’s a dilemma of whether to hike up to the bus station in subzero temperatures to get the direct bus or endure the slow bus that stops right outside. I take the slow bus. Probably not the right decision, it takes even longer than I remembered.
(Friday 17th December)