And I have to admit I do take great pleasure in the opportunity it gives for self-indulgence. In my almost 60 years on this earth I have enjoyed my fair share of seasonal jollies; even some of the annual staff dos at work. But I'm not too happy about the times one - or more - of our junior employees has vomited in my car as I drove him or her home. I recall one particular staff party at the Marsa Sports Club some years back. My boss had chosen the venue because he reasoned it was pretty central, so would be easily accessible to all. Now, those who know the club will be aware that even though there are bus stops in the main road outside, there is also an extremely long drive leading up to it once you alight from your bus. Most of the secretaries, typists (Yes, we needed them in those far-off times), did not have cars, so we who did offered to either drive them to and from their place of work or at least to and from the bus stops outside.

I volunteered to ferry four of our ladies in my, then, little Toyota. And so it came to pass: Getting there was no problem... getting away afterwards was another story. Angelina swore it was Josephine who threw up first; she claimed it was the sight of that lady's regurgitated prawn vol-au-vonts floating in a puddle of recycled spritzer that started her off. Whoever was responsible I never ever really got the stench of festive puke out of that vehicle.

That was the time when our boss used the occasion to make an embarrassing speech exhorting his employees to strive harder in the coming year: "So we can have the chance to break even." What a load of cobblers; you don't enjoy two exotic foreign holidays a year on a company that only breaks even. I don't know who he thought he was kidding; but nobody seemed to care as long as the free booze kept flowing and the plentiful nibbles kept circulating.

Now I don't want to give the impression that getting drunk at the staff Christmas party was the exclusive preserve of the female contingent. A year or two after the episode just described, the office jollies comprised a lunchtime booze and canapés do at a St Julian's eaterie. It unfurled in a fairly typical manner right up until just after the boss's droning speech; which was the cue for everyone to get back to the office. Which most people did... apart from Gilbert, that is. Gilbert was the youngest member of staff and, up until this moment, a quiet, reserved kid who was kept busy as a junior accounts dogsbody. But... just as the party was breaking up Gilbert, a large, fleshy lad, decided to take exception to the offer of a lift back to the office from one of his superiors.

Not only did he take exception, he let fly with a volley of expletives that would have made a marine blush: "Why are we xxxxxxx leaving? I want another xxxxxxx drink. Get out of my xxxxxxx way axxxxxx!"

At which he aimed a right hook at the jaw of Mr Attard from purchasing. Fortunately he missed, but it took four of us to pour Gilbert into a taxi to take him home. That was the last time that firm ever threw a Christmas bash.... Surprise, surprise.