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I hate parties. I always have. I especially hate fancy dress parties - you know the sort. A lot of thinly disguised people all pretending not to recognise their dearest friends.

When the invitation arrived, my heart slithered slowly to the soles of my feet. And stayed there. I did not want to go. But you know how it is, it's the social event of the year, so, if you don't go, your career is going to suffer and your wife is never going to speak to you again.

I must admit, the flares Andy set off to guide us all in were quite spectacular, if a little bit over the top. A real attention seeker, he couldn't possibly miss out on a chance to show off. Everyone for miles around must have seen his light show. Still, even I have to grudgingly admit it was probably worth the not so small fortune he must have laid out on it.

So, here I am, mingling with the throng and grinning ferociously at all and sundry in the way that only people who are having a lousy time at a party do. That's me in the corner. No, not the amorous Ali Baba, or even the silver-suited space-man guzzling potato chips as if he'd never seen them before. I'm the one wrapped up in the bed-sheets, trying to look like Julius Ceasar having a good time. If the Rubicon was anywhere near here, I'd be tempted to cross it.
Cleopatra, that's my wife, is doing some sort of shimmy with a chubby astronaut. She's flirting coyly, pretending not to know that, underneath the fishbowl helmet, lurks the lecherous personage of Andy Steiner. My boss.. Good old Cleopatra. She's looking out for my promotion prospects, making sure that we'll be able to afford that new fitted kitchen this year.

Oh, oh. Looks like trouble. I think the greedy space-man is getting rather tipsy. He's just knocked over a glass of punch on mine host's best Persian rug, tipping a fair quantity of the lurid, foul-smelling brew over Wonder Woman in the process. Probably Dick Evans from accounts - he never could hold his liquor.
Wonder Woman (alias Jean Bligh, personal Secretary to good old Andy) is giggling a bit, so I guess Dick'll get away with it this time.

I suppose I'd better summon up the courage to dance with Andy's wife, Bev. Well, Cleopatra's doing her bit. I'll never hear the end of it if I don't do mine.

Somewhere in this heaving mass of monks, squaws, Charlie Chaplins and gorillas there must be a rather overweight slave-girl, wispy eastern costume straining to conceal (or should that be reveal?) her ample curves. I clocked her when we came in.

If I were Andy, and there are times when I am truly glad that I am not, I think I'd insist that Bev came wearing purdah. Great. A temporary reprieve - Bev is honouring another member of staff, clutching him in an embrace from which he will be lucky to escape with all his ribs intact.

It looks like Ed Willis from sales. No-one else is quite as tall as he is. In that suit, he looks like a silver streak. Come to think of it, there are quite a few of those silver suits about tonight. The boys must have got a job lot. For the first time today, I can feel a genuine smile on my lips, a warm glow in my guts.
Heck, maybe that's due to the four (or five?) double whiskies I've just downed. Well, you don't think I'd risk any of that poisonous-looking punch, do you?

I've lost sight of Cleopatra, but, in this crowd, that's not so surprising. The fact that good old Andy seems to be missing too is only a coincidence, right? Anyway, there's no shortage of company. Why, I could strike up a conversation with any number of space-men.

My head feels kind of muzzy. Perhaps the number of spaced out spacers I'm seeing has something to do with alcohol consumption. I'm nursing my fifth (sixth?) whisky now. And I'm usually no drinker. But I need something to get me through this tacky party, don't I?

We've got fireworks still to come. Won't that be a treat and a half? Jean Bligh has been promising everyone a really spectacular rocket display, like a flying saucer firing its retros. Hey, Space-man, do flying saucers even have retro-rockets? Maybe that explains why there are so many space-suits running around - sort of in keeping with an unstated theme.

Oh well, there goes my promotion. Julius Ceasar has no connection with space, so I've failed the test. What test? You mean you actually thought this was a party? Right. But wrong, too. Good old Andy is forever setting these traps. Every 'social' event is just another obstacle course on the road to the top (or the bottom) of the company's heap.

I guess Cleopatra will just have o wait another year or so for that fitted kitchen after all.

Sorry, Pal. I didn't mean to bump into you. Yes, Maybe I could use some fresh air……

Hey, that whisky must really have gone to my head. I mean, fireworks are usually pretty naff, but that flying saucer thingy looks really good. It's bigger than I remember, from when we came in.

Ed? That is you, isn't it? Ed is climbing into the flying saucer, silver suit shimmering in the moonlight. Slowly, silently, the whole kit and caboodle rises into the air. I can smell the acrid stench of the rocket burn, but it's so beautiful, with flashing lights darting all around the rim. I've never seen special effects like it.

The silver disc is just hanging there. For a moment, it looks as if there is someone else inside. Isn't that a rather chubby astronaut, raising his hand in a kind of salute? The Queen behind him turns her back, and the saucer is gone. I feel strangely sad and alone, even now when everyone is pouring out into the garden to watch the display.

'You've missed the best bit,' I say. Wonder Woman's tinkling laugh sounds brittle on the night air.

'But darling,' she says, squeezing my thigh. 'The fireworks haven't started yet.' She's wrong. For me , the fireworks are all over. Silently, I raise my glass and toast the empty night sky. I feel as if I have just missed out on something more than a chance for promotion…..p Ah, well. Maybe I'll have better luck at next month's 'Vicars and Tarts.'

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