Rule One

When you've worked for the same people for six years, and schmoozing is part of the job description (hey - it's a journo thing), there's one golden rule to not forget.
Rule One - your office/the event/the swanky restaurant they go to and where you grudgingly shuffle along to is not your home.

This evening, there was a big conference dinner (yep, another night of much food, no gym!). I went along, because although schmoozing's not technically in my job description, they do drum you out of the journalist's union if you have an opportunity to schmooze, and pass it up. It's kind of an unwritten rule - first day of journo school, they give you your magic bile-pencil, your moralectomy and your iron liver.

Anyhow, so I went along. And it became quickly obvious how much of a picky prick I've turned into since...well, I can't pretend this is only since I started Disappearing, but I'm ignoring reality for the sake of the story (they teach you that on day two of journo school - watch the Levenson enquiry if you don't believe me). So basically, just the picky prick I've always been, thrown into sharp relief by the ease and accommodation of everyone else around me...mild-mannered sonsofbitches as they are.

The starter was salmon and horseradish. I almost threw it across the room like a toddler. The veggie option was a cheesy sweet onion tart. Yum. They brought me the veggie main. It was some sad looking mushrooms in pastry. They brought steaming succulent lamb to almost everyone else on the table. I had to be physically restrained from flicking mushrooms at the waiter till they showed me the protein. Dessert...dessert was a glorious orange chocolate fondant. I pulled it to me like a lover...bent low over the steaming, rich, gooey glory of the pudding...

...and sniffed like a cokehead doing a line.
There were a series of blinking eyes all around the table. The buzz of conversation didn't stop, exactly, it just suddenly seemed a lot further away as everyone on my table peered, wordless, as the dessert-sniffing pervert.

"Ahem..." I said. "Anyone want a second dessert? Barely...erm...used..."

Strange to relate, no-one was that keen. It sat there, inches away from me, for the next half-hour, till a disconsolate waiter came and took it away to the Underworld of Unloved Desserts.
It was replaced a few moments later by a steaming hot cup of dark black coffee.
"Erm, excuse me," I said, snagging the waiter. "Do you do de-caff?"
"You need to leave now sir," siad his look. "Before I kill you with this coffee spoon and a sharpened biscotti."

See - bad things happen if you forget Rule One.
Sigh.
On to tomorrow, and the end of this conference madness.