Whose company needs a crowd?

The Christmas company meal is a fine old Spanish custom which brings with it a welcome opportunity to dust off the old glad rags and share a platter or twenty with your work colleagues in a convivial setting. Well, that's the theory, but the truth is that these occasions can become a bit of a minefield if you don't keep your wits about you. Here, then, are a few handy tips to ease you on your way, garnered over decades of experience.

First of all, be punctual. These things have a tendency to bend to the will of latecomers and it's set in stone that the person who lives nearest will arrive last, huffing and puffing and muttering something about mislaid car keys. A prompt kick-off will ensure that they miss their delicious starter and so buck their ideas up for next year.

Next, seating arrangements. Although there are approximately eight hundred and thirty-six of you on a five-mile-long table, all of your social interaction for the next two hours will be limited to the two or three people in your immediate vicinity. In order to make sure you're sitting next to the magical thinkers in the room as opposed to Mike from accounts who likes nothing better than to hold forth on the pros and cons of fixed rate mortgages, you'll need to think back to playing musical chairs when you were eight-years-old and use similar tactics. Saunter around the room cunningly eyeing the chair distribution plan before employing your rump in the manner of Kenny Dalglish in his pomp in order to oust Mortgage Mike and engineer your presence amid the most interesting company.

At this point the rotund middle-aged colleague who ushered everyone to their places at the start by wafting her hands about manically will almost certainly begin to hand out menus like they're hymn sheets at assembly. This is because she's an ex-school teacher and just can't let it go. Generally speaking, this person will be harmless enough but if she insists on asking if everyone's sure they've been to the toilet before the food arrives, somebody really ought to have a quiet word.

After the feast, the denouement. If the boss is paying the bill you're off the hook. However, if the bill is going to be split evenly and anyone says anything like "... but I didn't have any Brussel sprouts" hoping for a discount, it's totally acceptable for everyone to hurl handfuls of leftover tiramisu at them until they've learned their lesson.

Finally, the farewell. After two hours, you may at any point stand up purposefully, offer a general goodbye to all present and take your leave in a brusque yet polite manner. Your Spanish counterparts will inevitably indulge in their customary three-hour farewell routine but don't get drawn in - your blood pressure is already sky high after all that salted beef and needs no further provocation.

There you go - easy. Happy chomping.

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