Mistletoe and wine

It can only be January. Office chat on the first day back from the Christmas break consisted of diets, fitness ambitions, outrageously increased commuting costs and forward holiday planning to aid the long haul to the month's end.

Complementing this internal hum was a rather alien noise emanating from outside the office walls. It's a loud and eerie whistling which I had heard and puzzled about a few times before someone enlightened me as to its source. It apparently comes from Manchester's tallest building, Beetham Tower, which comprises a Hilton Hotel, swanky apartments and the very trendy Cloud bar with its sky-high views and prices to match. A little internet research has revealed that the noise results from winds hitting the glass blade feature on top of the tower, and that some locals are calling the building 'Manchester's tuning fork'.

Anyway, whatever you name the sound I found its intermittent bursts coupled with the lashing rain and pitch black office exterior all excellent reasons to remain chained to my desk for the day. This is jolly good news when one considers my Outlook calendar reminders, as I have a ridiculous number of significant tasks which are all earmarked for completion this Friday, the deadlines being either court-imposed or suggested by various claimants' solicitors.

There is one firm in particular which keeps making threats to issue proceedings against our client. The latest one makes a total of eight or nine over the last few months, all along the lines of unless we do x, y and z by a particular date, they anticipate receiving instructions to go off and issue proceedings. Alright already. I'm sorely tempted to write back telling them that actions speak louder than words and suggesting that they simply bring it on, but that would perhaps be unprofessional.

Another recent tactical attempt to leapfrog up my to-do list saw a declaration of impending extended absence from an Antipodean lawyer who was heading home for Christmas and had made it a personal mission to tidy up our mutual file before stepping on the plane. I tried to make contact just before the festive season only to hear a voicemail message announcing that the absence of almost a month had begun. It would certainly be a lovely break, but to consider it in a glass half empty way the piles of correspondence which would mount up in your absence and the chunk of annual holiday entitlement spent on that one trip make it a little less appealing.

Hop and away

Last month was ridiculously busy on every level. My firm hosted all sorts of events ranging from a very informal and enjoyable meeting with clients in Manchester's Christmas markets to partake in festive treats of gluhwein, sausages and pancakes, to the hugely impressive annual client party at London's Guildhall. I've never attended an event there before and thought the venue was amazing. There were various entertainers present including a magician in whom I feigned polite interest, as I usually find them tedious, but his act was very polished and also amusing. So I felt terrible when I unintentionally destroyed his new trick by picking the 'wrong' playing card and ruining his grand finale to my little group of clients and colleagues, but he quickly recovered his composure and moved on to work the room. The bubbly flowed and the canapés were fab, which all made for a fun and successful evening.

Our team Christmas do was also down in London. We had an area in a restaurant which was to my eyes filled with 65 mainly unfamiliar faces, as I only started here in September. The Secret Santa game helped me to establish the identity of many colleagues as names were shouted out and all manner of gifts appeared ranging from a tasteful ladies' scarf to a giant space hopper which featured in many of the photos circulated the next day. I had to buy for a young woman in London whom I had never met, but I learned on enquiry that she appeared in TV's TOWIE and has her own Twitter account. With my local team's assistance I contacted her friends who came up with the perfect gift of a pink, sparkly computer mouse. Argos had them on offer so it squeaked under the maximum £10 limit. Result! My own Secret Santa gift somewhat bewildered me as it is a matching Cliff Richard diary and calendar set, and came with a little badge featuring my first name spelt wrong. That is one of my bugbears and gave it away as I'd been ranting to a colleague just days before about people not taking the time to check on the spellings of others' names. I'd also told the same colleague that my ideal calendar would feature David Beckham, but I guess Santa can't always deliver everything we request.

Away from all of the festive frivolity I returned to my university city of Sheffield for the first time in many years for a without prejudice meeting last month. I can't believe that none of my friends had seen fit to advise me of the Roxy nightclub's demise. I had to stand outside and compose myself before entering the claimants' solicitor's office which is opposite the formerly hallowed ground, which is now Sheffield's O2 Academy. A plaque to commemorate some of the best nights out ever should be erected forthwith.

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