Oh holy J— you, fuck, what time is it? You’ve come to abruptly in your own bed, the last 14 hours completely blank, and you’re… fine? Your head feels… fine? You get up and go to the mirror. This can’t be right, can it? You look… like, fine? You don’t understand this: you snorted yourself awake in bed, you’re wearing your pyjamas, your skin is bright and hydrated, you don’t even have a headache at all. This is better than most days. What’s gone on?

This Mary Celeste feeling of uneasiness chases you in on the commute (eerily empty buses and trains: people seem to be looking at you but they can’t, can they? Surely?) and when you walk through reception: people are smiling at you, aren’t they? Is there something sinister to the smiling, or—? Cold sweat then hot sweat breaks out down your back. Nobody is telling you anything.

“Good night?” your line manager says, and you say the only thing you can say, which is: “From what I remember of it.” A light chuckle. “Steve will be out to see you in a minute.”

Not Steve the… hold on, not Steve the guy who started the company 20 years ago? He’s never once spoken to you except one time you tried to go into a toilet cubicle after him and he just shook one powerful CEO-y finger and said: “I wouldn’t.” What’s he want with you? Are you… being promoted? Is this… an end-of-year appraisal? Is he… giving you a bonus? Does everyone get this, or just you? You haven’t really done anything to earn a bonus this year, but they don’t know that, do they. You did that spreadsheet. They liked the spreadsheet.

You have 25 more emails than you normally do this morning and every single one of them is a captionless photo of you gurning behind them in various group photos, inside the photo booth the company hired for the party, drinking tequila straight from the bottle, and… full flash, eyes like saucers, staring at the back of a toilet cistern at a small knobbly pile of yellow-white powder. Good. Positive.

“Do you know why I called you in here today?” Steve says. His legs are crossed and every stitch of him – up close like this – is heavier and CEO-ier than you’ve ever seen someone be. His watch is some chunky huge-faced brand you’ve never heard of (you have worn the same black plastic Casio for two straight years that still has an odd skin-like smell since you wore it once in the shower). His suit jacket seems to be made of a material thicker and heavier than alligator skin. Up close, he is immaculately groomed in that rich and powerful way: clean wet shave, every hair clipped perfectly neatly, smooth pink nails, flawless skin. Maybe he had a facelift, you think, idly. If I was rich like him I could lift my face up onto my back.

“Do you remember what you did last night?” he says, curtly, and you shake your head no. “Well, you made a damned fool of yourself.” It turns out you called three separate people a “wanker”, one person a “talentless wanker”, you reached over and poured your own pint at the bar (it was a free bar) and then, inexplicably, did a bump in the middle of the dance floor ­– full view of everyone there – while they were doing that, “We’re all of course thinking of Alan” speech they did for the guy in accounts who started chemo this year. “And then,” Steve says, and the beer fear is really rising up within you now, “and then you unzipped my fun and jolly Santa onesie, to the mince, and pulled my cock out in front of all and sundry.” Ah. You don’t remember that but it sounds like you. Should you clear your desk? “Your desk has already been cleared.” Ah. Fuck. Don’t tell mum about this over Christmas. It’ll just ruin dinner for her and you.

YOU HAVE FAILED AT THE OFFICE CHRISTMAS PARTY