That's No Way to Say Good-Bye: The Leaving Party Countdown Part 1

You've had the job offer that's too good to be true. And, let's be honest, no-one goes through psychometric testing and expensive interview outfits just for fun. Or do they? Because, wait a minute, you're beginning to have second thoughts. Be honest - you just can't face the horrors of the last day and the dreaded Office Leaving Party. In order to survive, we need to know exactly what to expect - and how to behave - with the most thought-out strategy since the D- Day invasions. This guide is for anyone who finds it difficult to break down when presented with a Spiderman bubble-bath holder.

9am A doleful demeanour is essential on your last day. Not that this should be difficult knowing what you've got to face. Winsomely smirking members of the 'Party! Party!' committee (no one knows the number of plastic beakers and boxes of Kettle Chips you're supposed not to have seen) pretend to have an earnest conversation about paper clips. But the phrases 'edible thong' and 'front seat' percolate in your direction. Mentally re-adjust your alcohol consumption by a factor of ten when you hear their plans for you and the baby oil.

10am Your desk might look like a safety-zone but you soon discover how wrong you are. Colleagues like to prefigure every conversation with comments, veiled and indirect, about your departure, as if there still might be time to warn you of the perils of eating in a different Pret a Manger. You should think of all those illegal dental appointments and try to look guilty. Last-day diplomacy dictates that you should walk around the office blindfolded. Don't be surprised to see at least half the staff in the lavatory signing your three-foot-high day-glo padded card. For your sanity's sake deliberately fail to notice PAs trying to hide bulding envelopes in their bags.

11am It's important to make time to give your replacement an idea of the duties they can expect. Whether you wish to itemise your boss's predilection for giant tubs of Vaseline or the colleague whose breath always smells like the inside of an acquarium is up to you. Spider plant envy creeps in: if only you could be a half-dead plant of indeterminate age, there would be no need for any of this.

12 noon You accidentally hear about mysterious shooping expeditions to Lidls and grow sad: does your revered personal style really count for nothing? Is this all you mean to them? Disappointingly, no sign even of a Marks & Spencer bag, so you won't even be able to take anything back. Who cares if a colleague obsessed with Poundstretcher specials seems to be having the final say in what is purchased. Breathe deeply ...