The disco ball sparkles, and the incessant bass pounds while he sings about Monroe.  The accountants throw shapes on the dance floor strung out by lasers.  A badly-timed conga is picking up passengers, spilling Mister Greene’s drink. The salesmen are conspiratorial; a photocopied bottom, panties absent, must belong to someone here.

And the mistletoe has gone missing.

Meanwhile, in the store cupboard, the managing director lets herself go. She sits like a man, legs apart, dangling it over her naked bottom half. She will scream and bawl as the graduate trainee gives her an early Christmas present.