Tidings of comfort as the vaccination programme advances, but shortage of joy. That’s my summary of a season in which there’s no Spectator Christmas bash for the first time in my 29 years on the magazine; in which my panto-dame ball gown hangs forlornly as a decoration in the foyer of the theatre where social distancing has made it impossible for us to mount a show; and in which I can’t even offer my customary restaurant tips, because there have been so few opportunities to eat out anywhere and, apart from a brief French escape in July, no chance at all to travel abroad.
Nevertheless I count my blessings, the greatest being is that I’m still here writing for you. And I can at least offer a blast of Christmas past that combines elements of all the above: gastronomy, conviviality and slapstick comedy, plus the City name-dropping that is this column’s more conventional forte.
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