Christmas parties, late nights and wine: ’Tis the season to be jolly careful

The Christmas party season is not all “ho, ho, ho”. All too often, it’s more like “no, no, no!”, especially the morning after the night before.

In the more carefree days of my early twenties, when London still glittered with pre-crash joie de vivre and familial responsibilities were beyond the horizon, the whole of December seemed to be one, long, drink-fuelled bash. More often than not, by Christmas itself I was knackered and merely wanted to hide under a duvet.

Looking back, there are any number of moments which now make me cringe, sometimes with embarrassment, often with horror. One in particular stands out.

The evening had begun with drinks and dinner: the attendees were all media and PR types. Fast forward four hours, and a few of us had ended up in the Met Bar in Mayfair, a haunt once beloved of Cool Britannia-era celebs.

I had, I confess, had a skinful and, after pulling some terrible shapes on the tiny dancefloor – including a move so precise that I whipped out a colleague’s contact lens without touching her eye – decided I needed to walk it off.

Not for the first time – nor for the last – I headed out into the night, determined that the most sensible course of action was to walk the four miles home, rather than to hop on a bus or hail a cab. In truth, there was more weaving than walking.

The earliest stages of the journey are lost in the mists of time, although I remember exchanging pleasantries with some rough sleepers near Victoria, who kindly offered me a slug of their high-strength cider. Did I take them up on it? I can’t be sure that I didn't.

Meandering on, I came to the Thames, crossing at Chelsea Bridge. I felt then as if I was starting to sober up; certainly I was glad to be south of the river, halfway home.

But within a couple of hundred yards of the bridge I tripped and hit my head on the kerb. I got half up and sat there for a moment, rubbing my temples and feeling distinctly uneasy.

I have thought about that fall frequently in the years since, every time I read about a party-goer who took a tumble and never recovered. And I have, in equal measure, cursed myself for the utter stupidity of my actions, and thanked my lucky stars that I did myself no more harm than a sore head.

It wasn’t long afterwards that a police car drew alongside, attracted by my apparently erratic movements.

“You alright mate?” asked a concerned PC from the passenger side window. “You look a bit lost.”

In fact, while I was manifestly not alright (and would feel a heck of a lot worse in a few hours’ time), I was definitely – and defiantly – not lost, my homing instinct having been unaffected by the gallon of wine I’d consumed.

I half thought about accepting the officers’ offer of a lift home, but decided that would be a cop out, having come so far. I assured them all was well and pressed on, passing them again a little later as they made an arrest just south of Clapham Junction.

It must have been after 2am when I made it back to my flat. True, my head hurt, I was freezing cold and could feel an almighty hangover brewing. But I’d made it home; a warm bed with my girlfriend in it was just a few steps away, and this ludicrous journey was at an end.

I prepared to sneak in as quietly as I could, feeling in my suit for my keys. Nothing. I turned my pockets out. Still nothing.

I looked around, hoping desperately they might be lying on the floor close by. No such luck.

I sat on the doorstep for a full 15 minutes. I even dozed off briefly.

Then I rang the doorbell, and hoped for forgiveness at Christmas.