If you're going to dance in the club, wear shoes.

Cats should never be allowed to dance with hardcore kids.

The day that I get married, there will be dancing.

Just don't expect me to bust a move.

Such an intrepid pronouncement can only mean one thing: I tried to dance, or at best, boogey, the other night. At a club. Someplace I normally avoid like a bad case of stinky tofu. My 'dance moves' can be best described as a cross between a fish out of water and a person who just underwent hip replacement surgery. A professional dancer would probably hyperventilate at the mere sight of me swinging my hips to the beat. And speaking about beats, I'm still partially deaf from all the club music. How do people do this week in, week out? Shouldn't they be wearing hearing aids by now?

But why was I in a club in the first place, on my own volition no less? Because my company just had its annual dinner and yours truly was also part of the organising committee. (Massive credit should go to the other three members for they were fantastic to work with. You know who you are.) Company outings tend to be a case of jack-in-the-box, you never really know what might pop out. And on that night, what popped out may even be too hair-raising even for the seasoned party-goers. It was so surreal, so much so I thought to myself that this is like a warped episode of The Office (the original one), replete with me and my friends acting like total dunces.

It's kind of strange watching your colleagues, especially your seniors, letting it all loose and I mean that in the nicest way possible. Earlier in the day they were busy fine-tuning the memory settings of a particularly lousy system but now they're trying to get as much food and drink. Managers who have the most sedated countenances ever were shouting and heckling and toasting like there was no financial crisis put the younger ones in their place. Heck, even the nerdier (for lack of a better word) persons were unlading the crazies on the dancefloor.

Goes to show that even the sturdiest can have a loose screw. Or two. Or three.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: I can't do the limbo rock for nuts.