token lady...

...or beer bitch as one colleague endearingly named me.

Every Friday (well, most Fridays) six of us gather together and drink beer at midday. In full few of colleagues and those poor souls in the newsroom who shake their heads disparagingly and try to shield their envy, we drink.

The ritual's been going on for nigh on a year.

One of us will get impatient. Or thirsty. So they grab the box of pilsner glasses and head towards the common area.

Then we wait until the quorum has gathered, introduce the guest star (rarely are all six foundation members there on any given Friday), make the obligatory Love Boat joke at the guest star and wait for the reveal.

There has to be a reason for the beer at hand. Or it has to be a very good beer.

The reveal is the best bit. It's kind of like a beery version of Toastmasters. It forces you to convince the others that the beer before them is something awesome to behold. Or else you have to tell a bloody good story to back it up.

We've had all kinds of beer. Japanese beer made in Canada, two cartons worth of English beers, your usual Belgian or German suspects.

We've also had home brew and Emu Export, but we only talk about that when we want to dish out some shtick.

And I am the token girl. Sitting amongst some of the funniest, Irish-est, drunkest, interesting blokes you'll know. Some of the time I wish they'd shut up about the bloody cricket (thank goodness the season's over) and other times I laugh so hard at their anecdotes, impersonations and views that I quite literally cry.

We are the envy of the office.

So much some envious women have formed a wine club.

But they don't have a token guy.