I always draw the short straw to a chorus of ‘Bad luck’. A reiteration of last year and the year before, and the year before that. Throughout the day, my ‘C’est la vie’ chimes on a constant playback loop. My expressionist shrugs repeat themselves as a well-practiced and perfected dance of indifference. My colleagues consolatory slaps on the back reprise their attempts to comfort whilst in their hearts gladness reigns. Already their minds are joyfully foreseeing the day from morning rumpus with its colourful collage of wrapping papers through to the evening chaos of tinsel fall. Their stomachs are no doubt churning in anticipation of indulgent pudding treats and excess chocolates as we head over to the canteen for our customary bland sandwiches. By knocking-off time everyone knows. The last act of solace is complete. By tomorrow everyone will have forgotten again until next year. Except me.