Lord.

Tonight was the work party. A holiday party for a whole branch full of introverted policy analysts, planned by the older colleague who likes to think of himself as a mad man, and who held as an ideal for the end of the evening the promise of some threats of sexual harassment complaints.

So instead of what you'd expect (and frankly, what you'd hope for), say, a gathering at a pub where folks can chat and have a drink or a snack, it was at a dance bar, with a really, really, really loud band playing British pop from the late 60s early 70s. So loud that all we could do was stand there with our drinks, surreptitiously checking our watches, which, unfortunately, still read 3:30 PM.

During the break between sets, my friend excused herself on a mission to the washroom and left me in the company of two directors. One wondered if there hadn't been some rule broken - a woman going by herself to the washroom.

I cast an eye around the room and said that I thought she'd probably be ok in this crowd, and then explained that a good part of the reason women go in groups is that as gazelles separated from the herd, we're much more likely to feel others' hands upon us - their eyes watching greedily as we walk past...

What? Said the other, Really? This happens? It's times like these I realize I've just not been doing my job as a cheetah. I mean, I'm just standing around like a giraffe. I've really got to step my game up.....

Hee. Awwww, eagerly feminist fella - that's ok. really. The Mad man would be happy to use up your share.