My hurt, beautiful, beloved city of London. Such terrible, senseless, pointless misery. Westminster Bridge is unnerving at the best of times, overloaded with tourists and selfie sticks and shell game con men, but it does have some spectacular views. Yesterday, the views were horrific, the stuff of nightmares. All those people, all those children. A friend asked if it was selfish to think of one’s own children at times like this. “No,” was my response. Though I can’t. I can’t possibly, for even one moment, think that they might have been there. If I did, I would never let them out of the house ever again. But I haven’t stopped thinking about those French girls. And their parents. Oh, I can’t imagine what their parents are going through. I’ve also been thinking about the group of high school girls from New York City I had on my Cathedral tour on Tuesday. Their teacher did not want them to see Bill Viola’s video installation, Martyrs, that hangs on the end of the Dean’s Aisle. “They are not worldly enough for that kind of reality,” she told me. I am sure I looked incredulous (they were 14 and 15 years old!), but moved them along, as she asked. Martyrs does, after all, deal directly with reality. The reality of a world that is filled
with violence. I wonder how that teacher spun yesterday’s events? Hiding from truth doesn’t make it go away, it just makes it harder to accept. And the truth is that London has long, long been a favourite spot for terrorists. Yesterday’s attack came one day after the accused terrorist turned peace-seeking politician Martin McGuiness died. Before Islamic State sympathizers was the IRA and the Suffragettes before that. Perhaps this explains why Londoners rose to the challenge on the afternoon and have remained sensible since. Keep Calm and Carry On, and all that.
I was on the Tube early this morning. The Northern Line was its usual sweltering crush of humanity. While there was intense competition to give the pregnant woman a seat, when the lady next to her announced that she too needed to sit down as, and I quote, “I don’t like changing temperatures,” no one budged. Kindness in crisis, certainly, but there are limits. And that is the beauty of London. Brave, strong, unflappable, and fantastically matter of fact. So what were Londoners up to this morning? Changing their social media profiles to elicit sympathy?, penning pithy memes to share with the world?, engaging in some sort of cringey piggy backing on someone else’s grief?, group hugs? Like hell. They were getting on. Getting on, with a level of sadness and an even higher level of admiration and respect for the police and emergency workers and heroic passers by, without whom this tragedy could have been so much worse, certainly, but getting on. A quick glance at Instagram proved that my friends were clearly out and about in town…shopping at Borough Market, admiring a tree in bloom, creating something interesting, or, in my case, at the Royal Academy with a good friend, chatting and looking longingly at the Gary Hume prints (which are for sale!!!!). This isn’t to suggest we are heartless, quite the contrary. I think emotions are running deep, and tonight’s vigil in Trafalgar Square will be plenty weepy, but until that time, we will go about our lives and let the Tube station announcement boards speak for us. Those “Thought for Today” get us through the ordinary days, even more so on the extraordinary. My own station reminded us that we are stronger united than divided. Well, we were certainly united in not giving that climate fussy woman a seat. Tower Hill told us that the rarest and most beautiful flower is the one that blooms in adversity. Making the social media rounds (so
don’t know if an authentic station sign) is a message politely reminding terrorists that: “This is London and whatever you do to us we will drink tea and jolly well carry on. ” The wisdom doesn’t stop at the ticket hall, however, as the platforms are plastered with Cabinet War Rooms’ posters of Churchill and his various empowering phrases, such as “we must not lose our faculty to dare, particularly in dark days.” Indeed, Mr. Churchill, indeed. So strap those boots on and go.
I may not have been born and raised here, but I claim London as my own. And I am proud. Shocked and saddened, but unbowed. And carrying on. As are we all.
Instagram: @mylondonpassion
Well Mr. Trump has started out exactly as he promised his supporters he would. Why this has caught the world by surprise is, well, surprising. He is not a subtle man. Nor does that river seem to run to any depth. He blurts something out and then uses blunt force to make it happen. Yet, a mere week into his presidency, his travel ban sent the world into a frenzy. Chaos everywhere. More placards and protests. More defiance, on both sides. So, are we truly at the beginning of the end? And is all this anger productive or simply self-indulgent? I ask these questions honestly, because we are living in a time that demands DEMANDS that everyone we know think the same way we do. It is a time when “news” from Huffington Post and Buzzfeed is considered to be of equal value, if not more so, to that of well established periodicals. Discourse and discussion have gone the way of leaded gasoline. To disagree is tantamount to treachery of the highest order. Disheartening. But the new world order. And not limited to the United States. One only need listen to the current Brexit debates in and outside the Commons….yikes, plenty of bullying and scare-mongering going round there too. This is not to say I agree with any of the current administrations. But, I am not sure I believe everything coming out of the opposition either. Hysteria abounds. It is time for thought, but we live in a world of instant reaction. So what to do? I have absolutely no idea. But I know what I like, and what I value, and that often the timing in my life is exquisitely sweet.
The world is grim at the moment. Having vowed never to discuss politics, I feel I have done little but in the last many months. So it was with great relief that I found THE wardrobe , fur coats a plenty (fake ones, settle down), the one that is the passage to Narnia, last night. It is in Tottenham Hale, by the way, and my daughter Lizzie and I went for a visit. What a gorgeous, delicious night. Ushered through the wardrobe into a grove of snow covered trees and on into Mr. Tumnus’s house, for dinner. And not a single person mentioned an action beginning with B or a person with the initial T for the entire night. Why would they? We were in Narnia. And the Winter Queen held sway. It was cold. Of course it was. But no matter, we had blankets and hot water bottles and chat and food and laughter.
The evening was the brainchild of The Literary Hour, a pop up supper club founded by housemates who decided to combine their love of books with their love of cooking. How clever. They originally hosted the dinners, inspired by a variety of authors including Roald Dahl and Beatrix Potter, in their house. For Narnia they took it up another notch and held it at Styx, a mixed arts venue at the northern end of the Victoria Line. Not a warm place, as it seemed to be open to the elements at every corner, but atmospheric and beautifully decorated with fir trees and fairy lights and a dry ice infused rock centerpiece. Our name places were held in pine cones. The first warming cocktail was served in a dainty tea cup. Initial awkwardness 
quickly gave in to curiousity: have you come to these before, how did you hear about this one, ooh what is in this…so good.
on theatre tickets. Lots of theatre tickets. But in Narnia I fell under a multi-course, foodie spell. It is a magical place, after all. Sardines on toast and goats cheese with honey was followed by celeriac soup and then…..beaver salami. “Yes, you will be eating beaver,” our hostess told us. A silence fell. And then a lot of giggling. Turns out, beaver salami is delicious. A little spicy but delicious. Though we couldn’t help but discuss that it was a rather harsh choice, given how the story goes. Poor lovely and loyal, Mr. and Mrs. Beaver.
the evening. For that was the people we met on the night. Again, we are in tricky times. And our natural retreat is to hide behind a device and shun human contact. Or only speak to those who share our opinions 100%, preferably not face to face but through social media. But not tonight. NO ONE was on the phone, except to take few photos right at the beginning. Otherwise it was just chat, taste, admire, discuss, chat more, repeat. To my left were Charli and her sister Steph. Young, enthusiastic and funny. On my right were Elizabeth and Ian. Utterly charming. 30 years after parting ways, 5 children, a death, and a divorce later, they fell back in love. Newlyweds of 3 years. Never say never and all that.
And so the evening through the wardrobe, in the land that is always Winter but never Christmas, flowed beautifully. We could have lingered for hours, but alas, school and work and tube journeys called us away. But for those few hours, we enjoyed Narnia very much indeed. It got me thinking. Could it really be so simple? Could we improve our lives and make the world a better place by just sitting down with strangers, without phones, and sharing a meal? Talking, laughing, being read to from a beloved, battered old favourite? No politics, no selfies, no point scoring, just stories. Lots and lots of stories. Certainly worth a try. Especially if beaver salami is on the menu!
Saturday. It was rather full on. So much so that I am still fitting it all together in my mind. Because it must fit together. Too many connections for it not to. But where to start? I suppose at the beginning….which would be shortly after 3 am when we were woken to police lights and screaming, lots of screaming. From directly across the street. The road was absolutely filled with police cars and ambulance vehicles. A girl was on the pavement, hand wrapped in something bulky. Officers and paramedics were everywhere. Rushing in and out of the house. Controlled chaos. Eventually the screaming stopped but the police stayed. By morning it was quiet, though officers and their cars were still everywhere. The whole area was cordoned off, including my car, which was now part of the crime scene. Details emerged. Two men in their 20s, both with stab wounds, one dead, the other arrested. And the girl, only 17 years old, with wounds to her hands. Why was she there? At 3 am? The whole thing is so so so sad. And unacceptable.
Later that morning, but still early, just as the police were finishing marking the area with their blue and white crime scene tape, Taylor, the gorgeous Australian girl who lived with us in 2011 on her gap year, strolled up the street, for a 24 hour visit on her way to other cities. What could I say but “welcome back to SW London.” We didn’t stay long in the neighbourhood however, as Taylor needed some art and it was the day of The March. National Gallery and Trafalgar Square. Off we went. Arriving in the square hours before the march even set off, we wandered through the very crowded halls of the National Gallery. Such beautiful old old things. 
My addiction to art is well known, but you may also be wondering why I didn’t actually join the march, just waited for it to arrive. And that is because I didn’t know, and still not sure I do, what everyone was marching for. And when the first marchers arrived, I was none the clearer. Vegans, Communists, Socialists, anti-nuclear, anti-Brexiteers, Environmentalists, and lots of women holding slapdash signs with crude slogans using the word “pussy.” Not funny slogans, just crude. And herein lies my problem. I have never, ever been convinced that the way to equality is through ladette behavior. Proving that I can be as rude and unpleasant as any man isn’t the feminism I have believed in passionately for decades, nor is it the one that I have shared with my girls. Worse still, a group of very little girls, under the age of 10, were holding pieces of paper on which “I am a Pussy,” was written. Presumably by their mothers. Really??? Really?? This kind of things upsets me greatly. The sexualiziation of children does nothing to promote equal rights. It is one of the many reasons I loathe Taylor Swift with her baby doll clothes and little girl persona. A paedophile’s dream. But I will save that particular rant for another day. With all these disparate causes, there was no sense of fun or excitement or indeed purpose. Just lots of milling about. And eventually 
we wandered off, back into the gallery, where we were joined by many many others who had taken place in the march. A protest of it own, if we take Churchill’s words about the arts being something worth fighting for as truth.
real news….and into this discussion my wonderful, wise, former NYC roommate and reporter offered the fact (a controversial word these days) that with news organizations cutting the number of actual reporters on the ground and increasingly relying on talking heads in studios just reading out stuff other people have cobbled together, it should be no surprise that into this gap has come the scourge that is fake news. Or, as it is now being described, “alternative facts.” For shame.
These are unsettling times. It is easy to be weak and cynical and belligerent. And therein lies the challenge. To hold onto the good. The people we care about, even if we only see them occasionally. The art and culture that need, not just support with words but actual bodies in buildings, bottoms on seats. Kindness towards those who are struggling with all the many many ways the world can be cruel. Patience. Understanding. All the hard stuff. But if we do it together, maybe it will get easier. Maybe we will all feel a little less fearful. So grab a friend, or several, an old one, better yet a brand new one, and go look at some paintings, listen to music, stroll through a park in the winter sunshine, talk to strangers, read that book you keep meaning to get to, or read an old favourite to a child, anything that lifts, inspires, gives hope, if only for a moment in time. Because my friends, hope and beauty, in all its variety and variation, is how we are going to overcome.
Yes, I know what day it is today. And so I planned, well…something lovely. Civility, humour, tradition, class, art, intellectual chat, genuine laughter, those funny things I value. A gallery show of Francis Bacon and tea at Dandelyon on the SouthBank (Mondrian Sea Containers) and talk, talk, talk, talk, talk with Samuel, a man who loves and appreciates beauty. And Francis Bacon. A man of passion and style, if ever there was. Ok, Mr. Bacon didn’t join us. He died in 1992. And he was super famous and would have taken tea at Claridge’s. Here are my two stories about Francis Bacon paintings.
The Hague 2001, overdue with my second child, Joseph, bored of waiting, I take myself off to the Gemeentemuseum for the Francis Bacon exhibition. Raw, violent, mesmerizing yes, but something felt off. People are staring. And then the guard approaches and says, “people feel uncomfortable that a woman so pregnant is looking at these pictures. Don’t you think it might upset the baby?” The Dutch are never shy about expressing their opinion on the behavior of others, but this seemed beyond the pale. Shocked, I state the obvious “The baby….in the womb…he can’t see,” and then leave. For the record, Joseph doesn’t make his appearance for many more days, and remains, 16 years later, as unflappable as he was in utero.
And this is the power of Francis Bacon. THE superstar of the 1980s. A man once described as raising the temperature of a room by walking into it. He was charming, could speak at length on any subject, a consummate host and seemed to always pick up the tab. He also had a very dark side. An angry alcoholic who liked men who “thrashed him within an inch of his life” men with demons like his own. Men who took their own lives, by hand or by bottle. Men who would give a punch before a kiss and keep punching. And it was this dark side, these demons, that he painted. Screaming popes in electric chairs, writhing figures in a pleasure/pain twist, his lover George Dyer in the throes of suicide. These are not images that are easy on the eye. Or the mind. Or the heart. But they move you. They haunt you. They make you feel and think. And they stay with you.
time to hold fast to what we love, what we value. And good art is something I value. So is humour. So I started the day by going to gym in the tackiest t-shirt I could find (thank you Miami Beach). Because we all need a laugh. Got a lot of laughs. Then on to Mayfair, Marlborough Gallery, and a series of Bacon lithographs. Wow. We couldn’t decide which one we wanted most. If only….
Next stop, tea. A cocktail tea. On the Southbank. In the beautiful Dandelyon in the Mondrian, Sea Containers. And we talked about art and religion. A lot about religion. Because it is a subject that, more than most, requires passion. And we have plenty. The afternoon slipped by. We talked and laughed and laughed and talked. And talked and talked. It is something we all need to do more of. Phones down, eyes up, hearts open. Love. Because, like Bacon’s paintings, these connections stay. On the mind. On the soul. Hold on to them. Tightly. Forever.
I said I was going to start 2017 as I mean to go on, and so on 2 January, Bank Holiday Monday, I braved the very crowded public transport and went to a place I have been trying to get to for years. The Leighton House. I was joined by my friend Samuel, who I knew, perhaps more than anyone, would appreciate its beauty. Its beauty for the sake of beauty alone. Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine said of the house, in 1893, “For it does one good, in this age of utility, whose motto is “The Money Value”, to enter rooms where beauty takes precedence of utility, and artistic excellence is more highly esteemed than commercial value.” What was true in 1893 is even more true more than 100 years later. Samuel, of Oscar Wilde fame (see post 6, Passion for All), is a man who shares my ability to be passionate, truly passionate, about life. He has also spent the last 9 months travelling in Asia, and like so many before him, feels transformed by the experience. If ever there was a soul open to aesthetic, it is Samuel. And it was wonderful to see him, looking extremely well and wearing a dashing shawl from Nepal. I felt terribly underdressed. But is hard not to in the Leighton House. “I want to live here,” we kept saying to each other. Or if not live, stage some Oscar Wilde there….oh, a plan for 2017, perhaps. But I digress. Lord Leighton and his magnificent house.
in his own lifetime. In 1866, he built a studio/home in Holland Park, a rather plain red brick house from the outside with a series of gorgeous, gloriously decorated rooms on the inside. Filled with treasures he, and later his well appointed friends, collected in travels throughout the world. In particular, tiles from Damascus rescued from old buildings that were being razed to make way for the new city. A mashrabiya from Cairo, middle eastern ceramics, fine furniture and art, of course art. His own art and that of his contemporaries, including the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, those bad boys of the Victorian art scene who lived fast and hard. The house was damaged in WWII and then restored in an appalling manner (strip lighting! laminate floors!) Fortunately, some intelligent citizens took it upon themselves to restore the house to as close to its former glory as possible, including the purchase of original and the commissioning of replica furniture and artworks that were or could have been in the house during Leighton’s time. Leighton was a fantastic party-giver. But the house has only one bedroom. His own. A small, almost monastic room. Come to my fabulous parties, but you cannot stay! Oh how I admire that!
There has been much speculation about Leighton’s personal life. Professionally as both artist and administrator, much is known, and he frequently entertained, including Queen Victoria herself. But he was a private man. Never married. And his narrow single bed does not suggest a secret passion, at least in the form of another human being. But passionate he certainly was. And his passion, as so often happens, has only inspired more passion. One of the reasons I wanted to visit is that on display now is what might be Leighton’s most famous painting, Flaming June. A stunning redhead in a gauzy, flowing orange dress, curled up asleep on a chaise in the med sunshine, a sparkling sea behind, her distinctly female form very much in evidence. Thought very sexy and provocative in its day, in 1963 it caught the attention and heart of a Puerto Rican industrialist, Luis Ferre. He bought it. Such is my love of romance, I wanted to hear that Ferre kept June under lock and key, spending private hours gazing and sighing, letting no one else near it. But in fact, he hung it to the Museo de Arte de Ponce, in Puerto Rico, where it was given pride of place . The painting has since travelled around the world and is here, on loan until April 2017, in the very house in which it was painted. A happy homecoming indeed.
As I walked to the gym, this morning, New Year’s Eve Day (yes, self-righteous, smug) an elderly man was weaving down Balham High Road in the opposite direction “IS are going to get us tonight,” he was shouting over and over. It being SW London, no one gave him a second glance. But I thought “Oh, I hope not, I want see what 2017 has on offer…” We don’t, as a family, have many holiday traditions. But a fancy lunch at SushiSamba, on New Year’s Eve Day, is one. Last 
year, due to the sheer size of our party (relatives) we had to move to the Oblix in the Shard, which was lovely. But the kids couldn’t wait to get back to Heron Tower, again, this year. And so we spent this afternoon. On the 38th floor in the NE quadrant of the City. Buildings are allowed to be so tall here because they don’t interfere with the site line of St Paul’s. So the view….except when it is all misty. Like today. And I tried, several times, to take a “family picture.” Ha ha. That old truth…the more one grabs at something, the more it eludes. Children. Strangers. Plus, the cloud. Never mind, 
we had a divine meal. Just the trip up in the elevator is gorgeous. Food is incredible, wait staff attentive but unfussy, and the entire atmosphere one of exclusive fun. My favourite holiday tradition.
why I am so passionate about London. There is always something exciting, wonderful, interesting, fabulous, child-photo perfect around the corner. Just look.
be actually dealt with in 2017, Article 50 and the Trump presidency to name but two. And to get through these and all the rest, we may need to take the (hard) lesson 2016 gave us and start out the way we mean to continue…and go on. Follow it through. Whatever that is. “Start as you mean to go on,” one of those really annoying pieces of advice that parents and teachers like to give students at the beginning of an school year, and irritating friends work into a clichéd wedding speech. And yet…..how often do we carry through our intentions? Probably not nearly often enough. But living sometimes gets in the way of life’s plans and we have to let things go. But maybe, just maybe, 2016 has used shocking tactics to tell us all to give it a go. Stick to it. Even if it is something small. Something we can hold on to when 2017 takes a dark turn.
I told you last year that I am not one for New Year’s Resolutions. And I am not advocating that, we can only do what we can do, afterall. But maybe we can all resolve to find a little corner of happiness and cling on to it, to take the example of 2016 and turn it on its head. Start with something twinkly and keep on keeping on. So what will mine be? London of course. London, London and more London. What is there left to do???? Loads and loads. My children gave me a beautiful big book called London Uncovered: 60 Unusual Places to Explore, by Mark Daly and Peter Dazeley, for Christmas. Filled with gorgeous photos of places I have been but not yet written about, places I keep meaning to visit, and (oh the excitement) places I haven’t heard of. Shall I dip in here and there? Or make my way methodically entry after entry in order. Or maybe…yes, a bit of catch up. Regent’s Park! The Frieze Sculpture Park in Regent’s Park. I have been trying to get to this since early October!!! I love sculpture. In parks. In London. At the almost end of the year. Work by Lynn Chadwick, Barry Flanagan, Jean Dubuffet, Zeng Fanzhi, Conrad Shawcross and more…wow.
winter sunshine, I remembered something else that 2016 taught us. That life is short and sometimes death comes much much too soon. We shouldn’t wait to tell people how much we love them. So I am adding love, more and more and more love to 2017. London and love. And poetry. I am really going to give it a try (I have been promising this for years.) I found a website of famous poems read by famous people. I have been listening to one a day. And today I got this one. By William Butler Yeats. A Drinking Song.
I have always loved ice-skating. I am not particularly good at it, but I have always loved it. Not the twirly, fussy stuff of Olympic awe, but the fast, playful, adventurous stuff of storytelling. My mother read me Mary Mapes Dodge’s Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates when I was little. Oh how I loved that story. That was the kind of skating I wanted to do. Action packed. One of the very few regrets I have of my 5 years in Holland was that I didn’t learn to speed skate. The Dutch excel at this sport, and I should have taken it up. But instead I had a couple of babies, neither of whom I would trade for all the ability on ice a person could have. Yet the dream is still there. And my beloved London makes sure I get a little taste each winter-time. London has a surprising number of permanent, indoor, ice rinks. A hold over from the GIs. There 
are even plenty of local hockey teams, most named for American Football teams, for the same reason. And while I have spent many a birthday party grabbing small, wet children out of the way of older, aggressive packs of teens, it isn’t quite that same flying along canals experience I had dreamed about. For that I must wait til Christmas time. When London landmarks flood and freeze themselves and offer glorious, beautiful, magical moments on ice. We have gone every year, to many locations including Marble Arch and the Tower of London. But the two best, year in year out, remain the Natural History Museum and Somerset House.
Somerset House skating used to be sponsored by Tiffany & Co., and a great tree stood in the courtyard festooned with ribbons of the trademark light blue. A luxurious tent alongside offered appropriately elegant coffees and cakes and a perfect view of the skating excitement. More recently Fortnum & Mason has taken over the sponsorship and has continued the glamour. In the evenings the tent turns into a bit of a warm disco, mimicking the on-ice action. A friend and I wandered in one night after a gallery party. We were much too old for the “scene,” unfortunately and didn’t stay long. Years ago, still in the Tiffany years, I took a group of young girls to skate in the afternoon at Somerset House and continued on into the Courtald Gallery afterwards. We ignored the priceless Impressionist paintings to gaze out at the skaters below in the now-enveloping dusk. They all seemed to be couples. Young, very much in love couples. “It is the romance hour,” one of the girls said with a sigh. She was right.
We once witnessed a proposal of marriage on the ice at the Natural History Museum. At sunset. In front of the tree. She said yes. We on-lookers went crazy. So romantic. Of course, most of the skates aren’t romantic so much as stoic. Whizzing round and round surrounded by the inexperienced and the seriously wobbly. Dodging crashes and whining girlfriends and frustrated children and the idiotic selfie addicts. It is a popular last-day-of-term treat and I took my youngest and her friends to the NHM last week. It was pre-teen on ice heaven, complete with photo booth. But the landmarks. Oh the landmarks.
Skating under the skyline of London, well, what can I say. It is more beautiful than I can properly express. London never looks more regal than from the vantage point of a skating boots.
Christmas is not my favourite time of year. It never has been. Easter I love, and theologically speaking, that is the better choice. Handel’s Messiah was originally written for Easter. Really, it was. But Christmas hijacked it. And, along with overly-rich plum pudding, has become a “tradition.” “Bah Humbug,” I say. “Scrooge,” you may call me. But I am not Scrooge. I don’t want to be Bob Cratchit, Tiny Tim, the ghost of any Christmas or those dancing relatives either….in fact I don’t want to be any of those Victorians….and there it is! It isn’t that I don’t want Christmas, I don’t want Victorian Christmas. I don’t want Christmas cards (though I have sent them by the tonne in years past), I don’t want Christmas trees (though I have one this year and last year had 4! And I have an enormous collection of historical ornaments that would take several 12 foot trees to display completely), I don’t want overdone meals with desserts no one but me likes or insipid Christmas songs sung by pop stars (groan.) And I really, really, really don’t want anyone to tell me that any of the above has religious significance. Because it doesn’t. The Victorians reinvented what had been a pagan holiday in an effort to make themselves forget, albeit it briefly, that life was pretty horrible for most. I don’t want the desperate shopping (the Black Friday spending binge, is there really anything more repulsive) or the Coca-Cola Corporation’s fat, red Santa, or that hideous recent addition of The Elf on the Shelf (seriously?). And all that peace on earth blah, blah, blah is particularly disingenuous. You only have to look at one photo from Aleppo to see how little we mean any of those platitudes. All the faux seasonal joviality just makes a mockery of the reality of the state of the world.
And it was in this state of unfestive gloom that I took myself up to York, my favourite English city after London, and realized it isn’t Christmas that I don’t want. It is Victorian Christmas I don’t want. But a Medieval Christmas, a proper yuletide festival, like the one I saw in York, with a modern twist, that would be ok. Fun and games led by self appointed Lords of Misrule and Abbots of Unreason and lazy time with family. Greenery, holly, ivy, box, laurel, yew brought in from the cold and lots and lots and lots of flowers. Flowers in red and white and gold spilling out of every container in every corner of the house. A permanently burning Yule log would be great, but probably not such a good idea in a no-longer working fireplace, so candles, a virtual log of candles. And lights on trees. Not trees that have been cut down and dragged into homes to die slow needle-dropping deaths, but glorious living, breathing, gigantic trees covered in electric colour.
And for this, you can ask for no better place than Kew Gardens. In a moment of trying to plan something Christmassy, I had bought tickets to Christmas at Kew weeks earlier, something we had never been to before. I didn’t know what to expect. WOW. I should have known it would be fantastic. It is Kew Gardens after all. 300 acres of growing glory. The gardens are a wonderous, magical, fantasy land of light and shadow. And we walked through together as a family, a long walk, in the dark and the cold, 
looking at beautiful things. No gimmicks, just loveliness. We had a calm, happy, wonderful time.
For shame! The truth is, 2,000 years on we have a lot more Herod in us than shepherds or wise men. And that, my friends, is something we should think about every day of the year. Not just for Christmas.
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