TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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The annual Christmas party in Dublin is the most uncomfortable event of my year. It is a long, expensive, boozy lunch followed by more booze and nightclubbing, partaken by a group of middle-class professional, transplanted Dubliners who have known each other for yonks. There are some lovely folks (my brother-in-law and his wife among them) but some are ... odd? with labyrinthine personalities, such as "Nasty" Neasa (so described by her friends), who is quick to air the secrets of others. Among them I usually feel like an interloper, and although I'm vigilant, I seem to manage to put my foot in my mouth, or get into some awful argument with my husband, during which all my insecurities come to the fore. This year's occasion was no different. Sigh. At least one of my best friends was present to be my rock: calm, ironic, and ebullient among strangers.