Do you believe in aliens?
I wouldn’t say they’re top of my ‘things I believe in’ list, along with chocolate bars should grow on trees, cheese should be free, and George Michael should be my friend.
But I am starting to query these little green men. That’s how I imagine aliens to be, small with funny coloured skin.
Because how else could you explain these out of body/out of the ordinary/bizarre sentences and situations which have recently occurred in my life?
That’s why I’m suspicious. Not wishing to sound paranoid but I’m wondering if they’ve entered the polka dot home at twilight, somehow invaded my sleeping body, and messed around with my thought process.
This would explain the industry awards party where I was not the last person standing/wobbling at the bar.
And what about the fact I would now rather stay at home and make a moussaka, than gallivant around London and the joining counties?
Last but not least, this must be the reason why recently I uttered the following words, “No, I’m not coming to the office Christmas party this year.”
After I’d finished uttering these words, I nearly looked around in surprise and said, “Who said that?” Because these words have never before left my lips. I did not think I was ever capable of saying no to an office Christmas party.
Back in the days when aliens had not broken into my home and experimented on me, I loved office Christmas parties.
The tales I could tell you. I laugh and I cringe at the memories.
There was the year I lent back on the wall, only to find there was no wall, and I fell off my chair. This was also the year I actually quoted, “Do you know how important I am?” when I was refused entry to the after party at Kensington Roof Gardens.
Not forgetting the time my colleague and I thought it would be funny to place chocolate fingers anywhere and everywhere, including the gents toilets, bosses bag/coat. My boss was not impressed when they melted in his pockets and rucksack, into a gooey, chocolate mess.
And how about the time I wore a blonde plaited wig all night and during my journey home, spoke in a Swedish accent and pretended my name was Heidi.
I’ve fallen over on dance floors, conducted surveys in the street where I’ve asked strangers, in an animated fashion, if they preferred George Michael or Elton John. I’ve sang Wham! songs to cab drivers, recited words from Eric The Banana Man to commuters, and I’ve got the wrong train home.
Oh it was all immense fun at the time.
Until those pesky green men tampered with my brain.
It must be their fault, why else would this be happening to me? Saying no to the office Christmas party, being sensible at an award evening, staying in to cook mousakka.
It couldn’t possibly be anything to do with growing up…could it?
Nah, I’ll keep blaming those aliens.