6 December 2026
Sunday. U. has written in his diary that I have lost myself to office parties. He is not wrong, and he is not invited.
An office rang this week asking to bring fourteen. Fourteen! To one sitting! I explained that my table at Northbridge seats six and my table on George Street seats eight, and that no amount of goodwill, or folding chairs, will make fourteen.
The answer, the gamesmasters tell me, is to divide them: a table here, a table in another room down the corridor, everybody starting at the same time and comparing stories afterwards over something stronger than water. I drew them a diagram. It had arrows. They were grateful in the tone people use for diagrams with arrows.
For very large parties there is a whole team who plans such things, with spreadsheets. I admire spreadsheets. They are seating plans that have been to university.
Meanwhile I have redrawn my own plan for the festive weeks and laid crackers at every setting. The jokes inside are dreadful. I have not improved them. Some suffering is traditional.
— B., your host
