Wednesday, March 06, 2019

Work Night Out.

“Oh my God look at this email.” I say to Fussy Colleague. It’s 9.15 in the morning.

“What the hell is that?” She says after a couple of minutes.

Worse then the aforementioned plague upon the office-working life known as the ‘tea-run’ is the waking nightmare of the ‘work night out’. Enforced jollity in a previously unknown environment with people I am usually perfectly happy to say goodbye to at 5.00pm is not something I am a fan of.

Our venue is a Greek restaurant that turn us away 5 minutes before the time at which our table is booked because they are “not open” despite it being ten minutes past their advertised opening hours.

Some time later we are finally seated by the owner. Our host and his moustache, mullet and demeanour that suggests that he is about to kick the living daylights out of anyone who ‘looks at him funny’ are less than welcoming.

Eventually I gaze with dismay at my plate adorned with an undressed salad consisting of lettuce, red pepper and cucumber all so dry it has begun to curl, soggy brown chips – considered cornerstone of Greek cuisine in anywhere but Greece– and a couple of skewers of alleged chicken that may have been introduced to a marinade.

My companions are not so fortunate and receive a meal fashioned into a cone, wrapped in a greengrocer’s brown paper-bag and plonked into a handled pint-glass that they then have to empty onto a plate that they have to request.

The birthday cake we had brought with us appears at the end of our meal without our host checking if the time is appropriate. It is not, so he takes it back to the kitchen with candles still burning and leaves it there until we request it. At which point it is coated in long-extinguished candle wax.

Obviously we decide the best thing to do is get loudly drunk and salvage what remains of the evening.

The next morning:

“Where the hell did they even get my email address?” I say.

I have received a lengthy tirade from the owner of the restaurant sent to my work email address which mentions the excellent (and fictional) relationship the restaurant has long had with my place of work. I had foolishly left a Google review of our experience prompted by my mobile phone when we left. It consisted of the word “Terrible”.

After much head-scratching I discover that my Google account display-name is actually my full-name (because I am clever like that) from which the sender has discovered my place of work and associated email address. A full five minutes – according to the date-stamp of the email, after I had left the review.

People are weird.
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