I blame Alan Jackson

Last weekend I was at yet another one of the semi-formal conferences that my own sub-sector of web development specializes in. They’re cheap to attend, but at the same time you can’t expect too many corporate perks.

That’s fine, though, as it means more of the attendees are there for better reasons than an expense account. It does mean that lunch is usually in a paper bag, though; dinner is maybe a few sponsored snacks and a free drink to kick things off.

Factor in the fact that these things tend to happen in colleges or university buildings, vacated for the weekend, and you can imagine that it all makes for a vibe of quondam students getting together years later for communal denial of their adulthood (I’m actually going to a college reunion dinner in a few weeks’ time, but more about that later.)

There was a “multi-agency sponsored whisky tasting” on Saturday afternoon, but you can stop picturing something high-flying, in favour of plastic cups, with admittedly good single malts poured into them. Sadly, a calendar clash meant I couldn’t make it (and you know how much I like my whisky.)

However, the next day at a late breakfast, I was chatting to one of the harder drinkers when, rabbit-from-hat-like, he produced the remaining, almost entirely full bottle of single malt from the day before’s tasting. Well, what’s a boy to do? And so, consistent with the rest of the weekend, I embarked on my first pre-lunchtime tear since ceasing to be a student.

I would have written about this much earlier, but I’ve had a post-conference cold ever since coming back. The germ-killing properties of strong alcohol have been thoroughly exaggerated, it seems.

This entry was posted in body, cliques, commerce, diary, drink, employment, entertainment, experience, intoxication, made_our_own_fun, occupation, person, privilege, society. Bookmark the permalink.

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