Faux jollity. Over-drinking. Unwanted kisses. What's so great about New Year's Eve?
Yanks don't do Boxing Day. Innit shame.
I love Christmas in London. The crowded, neurotic shops of Kensington High Street, the old, familiar bells of St Matthew's in Bayswater calling "come" to Midnight Mass, the sober tone of the Queen's Speech and the cold comfort of a James Bond flick. Not only do I love Christmas in the U.K., I miss it in mind, body and soul just like any other expat.
You buy a Fraser Fir Christmas tree from Home Depot. You dress it up with baubles; you untangle the string lights; hey presto, it's Crimbo in an instant.
Eggnog. No plum pottage. Ditto mince pies or brawn (alas). Which church in the hood does midnight mass again? Welcome to the festive vulgarity of Christmas in Trump's America.
To be or not to be a Scrodder. That was the question at Holland Park School during the 1980's and 1990's.
