He bowed slightly and shook each one of us personally by the hand, remembering every name.
"A very merry Christmas to you and your family and keep up the good work," he said.
"And a very merry Christmas to you, too," we replied, before attacking the food and drink, both of which were in plentiful supply.
As I recall, through the haze of memory, the company supplied some of the feast, while the rest came from a kitty which we had set up about three months before. An Indian market trader whose name, I think, was Sood, gave us some cardigans, which we were to distribute among the elderly of the town.
All in all, it was rather a nice occasion, though there was a certain amount of chasing young women around the table, while manoeuvring people towards a sprig of mistletoe, dangling from a hook left in place from the previous year's celebrations.
Whenever the calendar allowed, the party would be held on Christmas Eve, so that the red-webbed eyes of the hangover at its most pernicious were revealed to the family at the present-opening around the tree.
The green-faced sprint to the loo would be noted by all, as the turkey roasted slowly in the oven.
"Never stray far from porcelain," was a tip given to me by a veteran of the Christmas party scene, who would tap his nose in a deliberate manner when delivering this wisdom.
The combination of meat pies of dubious provenance, trifle, several pints of cheap wine, followed by a vigorous round of the hokey-cokey, could disturb the steadiest innards.
