The Daily Telegraph Newspaper After-Hours Office Holiday Party is well underway, except this year, things are just a little bit different...

We find Iris just where you’d expect, still working away on a deadline. Her Topo Chico tucked in a tiny Christmastime sweater (with a cheeky bit of Tito’s poured in from under the desk). “Mummy’s little secret,” she whispers to herself, even though her Zoom’s mic is on mute. Just then, she receives a private message from ~him~ and Iris’ world comes crashing down faster than a podcaster’s Shopify page on cyber Monday.

“What’s it like to be the only person committed to their work, while the rest of us are quite literally wanking to internet pornography at this very moment?”

Iris, now 45 and still single, quickly minimizes her next piece;
a listicle of 50 men whom “If you’ve shagged, one needn’t worry about what’s in the vaccine.” It’s Iris’ last assignment of the year, a year that “quite frankly belongs in the bin,” she types and deletes.

Jasper, now 53 (and currently pissed as a titmouse), is flirting painfully with Iris in their private chat while his 4-year-old son, Tackard, attempts to undo his tie while sitting on papa’s lap. “Daddy, you said you’d watch The Office (UK) with me!” Jasper puts the finishing touches on his last direct message, a failed attempt at complimenting her “arse.” He slams the laptop shut before she has a chance to respond. “Textbook Jas!” she utters, before blowing her bangs from her face and logging out of Zoom.

Iris spins out of her old squeaky wooden chair to ask her dog Elton (now 23) what he would like for his supper, “the kibble, or the bits?” Elton covers his eyes with his little paws and lets out a defeated whimper. The opening twang of “That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore” by The Smiths begins playing as Iris “puts the kettle on” for no particular reason.

It’s Christmas Eve, and the Surrey town square is in full holiday swing, families sipping cocoa in their finest Burberry, and red-nosed boozers snatching up the last of the Brandy from the bottle shops. As night falls, Iris’ snow-dusted windows shine with that all-too-familiar glare from the headlights of a 2006 Range Rover Sport. At the wheel is none other than playboy book editor Graham Simpkins, Iris’ widow-zaddy brother. Graham’s once-posh Chelsea carriage now looking more rough than ready, thanks to the rapidly declining world of book sales. (That bloody Jeff Bezos and the rest of the lot at amazon.co.uk aren’t helping matters either). Graham’s adorable twin girls have sadly both passed (nut allergy), and he’s once again found himself three sheets-to-the-wind, rocking up to his sister’s cottage with nary an SMS. But instead of “tee many martoonis” with the new girl on his desk, he’s sloshed off a fistful of black licorice flavored CBD gummies, his current crutch-du-jour.

“Really mate, of all the flavors,” Iris says, after getting a whiff of his anise stained breath. “Let’s at least get you out of these wet clothes,” she offers, while hanging up his Stone Island parka, a gift from recently soft-canceled David Sedaris, one of Jude’s, er, Graham’s many admirers from his literary past. Iris’ attempts at appearing annoyed aren’t fooling anyone, especially her own flesh and blood, as they both know she’s chuffed as a titmouse to have him around. There’s no place she’d rather be than at home in that dusty old cottage, taking care of somebody, anybody, but herself.

The whistle of her kettle calls Iris to the kitchen. She yells with a smile from the other room, “biscuit with your matcha?” Immediately ignoring her question, feet now up on the table, Graham begins scrolling through HBO Max. He rifles through his pockets for a fix, sweet relief as he’s found a loose gummy, “black betties” as he calls them. As he carefully places his already-ebony chompers on the neck of his bear, he yells back “a biscuit sounds lovely sis, now have you seen this Industry show yet?” Iris pauses for a second, and yells back, turning her frown upside down, “I just finished it last weekend, but I’m happy to watch it again!” “I bet you are dear old sis, I bet you are,” Graham says under his breath as he begins to fall asleep.