It's about now that you start reading pieces in the papers about the dos and don'ts of the office Christmas party. The advice is usually aimed at junior employees and is of the "don't photocopy your bare cheeks, get sick in the boardroom or tell the boss what you really think of him" variety.

If you can't tell the boss what you really think of him at Christmas you'll never do it, but the papers are right. Stick with the peace and goodwill and forget about the account that he stole from you. I'm a veteran of a lot of different company Christmas parties and, at some point, somebody always initiates a deep and meaningful discussion with the boss that they regret the following morning.

My only tip to survival is to remember that - even if you do decide to tell your boss exactly what you think of him - you have to remember that your boss is not your friend. You may think that he or she cares deeply about your future career, you may have faith that when push comes to shove you are both batting for the same team, but I can assure you that you are most definitely not.

Because when it comes to saving his skin or yours, the boss looks after number one. Hardly earth-shattering, I know, but you'd be surprised how many people forget that once they've shipped in a few Slippery Nipples or designer beers. In a haze of alcohol they offer their thoughts to their boss - "strictly between ourselves" - on the incompetence of the chief executive, forgetting that the two are members of the same golf club.

This is the first year since I started working that I wasn't eligible to attend an office party. So, in the spirit of the season, the man (who has been at two already) and I went out for our Christmas office lunch last Friday.

We laid down strict guidelines - basically I wasn't going to pretend to do any work when I got home and we weren't going home after lunch anyway but were going to divert to the pub. We had a great time (although somewhat less raucous than my first Christmas office lunch, at which I seem to remember food got thrown around the place and we got thrown out) and we arrived home some time around 9 p.m. - which meant that it was an eight-hour lunch. Hurray! It's ages since I've had an eight-hour lunch.

In line with my current view of taking public transport whenever possible - in other words, any time I travel along the coast - and because I fully intended to imbibe a fair bit of alcohol, we caught the Dart to Howth.

Last week I took the Dart to Killiney and enjoyed looking at the snaking line of cars at the Merrion Gates as we whizzed past during peak traffic. My only difficulty was that you had to keep your wits about you because there are no lights worth speaking of over the station names and if you started to daydream and forget where you were you could easily end up in Greystones.

I'd take the train a lot more only it's somewhat difficult to plan a journey by Dart because, as well as no lights, there are no timetables.

I'm always surprised when I hear the English complain about their rail service because any time I've ever travelled by train over there it's always arrived or departed within five minutes of the stated time. However, the guy at Clontarf Road Station informed me that the Dart can beat the UK every time since, without a timetable to go by, the trains are never late.

According to him, a timetable hasn't been printed for a year. According to the guy at Killester, it's two years. At least in Killester they've a printed poster in the station giving times, and the display board on the platform works. There's no schedule printed up in Clontarf and the display board is, coyly, out of service.

Additionally, if you travel between suburban stations later in the evening, you can't buy a ticket. I don't have an ethical problem about getting a free ride on the train but it's bloody bad business. I suppose Iarnrod Eireann has done a study that tells them that the number of people travelling between suburban stops as opposed to the city centre isn't enough to warrant having a person selling tickets at each station, which makes sense.

But why aren't there ticket machines? I don't think they've even got them in Connolly where you have to queue to buy any sort of ticket.

We just missed a train from Clontarf to Howth and it was a freezing half hour later before the next one arrived. (We nearly went to Malahide by mistake since the only indication that the next train was going there was a piece of paper in the driver's window that most people missed.) However, giving credit where it's due, the scheduled four o'clock departure from Howth left exactly on time, which meant that we were nestling in Harry Byrne's pub a mere 20 minutes or so later. Letting the train take the strain would be fantastic if only you knew when it was due. We arranged the great day out to coincide with the builders' Christmas night out too, which meant that they didn't arrive at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning bearing gifts of hammers, drills and cement mixers. All in all, quite a successful party.

Wim Duisenberg must be banking on a similar success over at the ECB. With more and more commentators now of the view that the euro is finally making a shaky recovery following two dismal years of trading, the annual knees up at the European Central Bank might be a bit more raucous this year.

There's always a silver lining during the festive season.