Work party

So last Friday I had my first work party, which was rather odd. I've been gainfully employed as a local journo for all of three weeks now, long enough to bid a heartfelt farewell to dole letters.

I ended up on a table with three presumably single women. Midway through the entree, their slavering over a particularly juicy piece of manmeat became too hard to ignore. He was hot, in an affected kind of way - lipstud, hair fluffed and ponced, midweight American accent. Two drinks into the bar tab and he was being undressed mentally by every double-X chromosome at the table. The feistiest woman extracted his name from a passing waitress by pretending she knew him from someplace. You like the look of him, yeah, I said and she waved her wedding ring at me. Just playing. Jimmy, she said and he came over a trifle cautiously. Jimmy, we met somewhere didn't we? A bar, perhaps?
Then, impatient, my fellow journo butted in. It was in her dreams, wasn't it, she said and leered. To give Jimmy credit, he defended himself well. It was probably a nightmare, he said, retreating at speed. Poor Jimmy.

Then there were the table of aged patrons who had clearly scalped a number of younger women. They were between 40 and 60. The older they were, the more attention to their hair. I couldn't stop glancing at the queen of them all, a 60+ woman with the gushing blonde hair of a 25 year old. Crags and hollows, her crumpled face clashed violently with her hair. I wondered why she did it. Perhaps she couldn't afford to stave off age properly, with surgery and tucking and flesh repositioning. Perhaps this was phase one. It was all rather odd.