Falling into Christmas.

Light in the darkness, the smallest square in London.

Winter rain. Leaves plastered on railings, hair plastered on cheeks. The day ends at four, night at five past it.

I am allowing the end of Fall to fall into Christmas. Christmas in October does not suit me, it signifies a long, protracted exposure months away and I know I shall be Christmas fatigued by then.

There are trees early; the floors of Marks and Spenser and John Lewis, revealed as Christmas Winter Wonderland, I swerve and look the other way - not wanting to see the Christmas bride before it’s appropriate.

The second tour yesterday began later than usual. St. James’ Park was spy dark, Churchill’s war rooms lit by a single light, like the entrance to a prison or a thin smear across the interrogation table. All around, since darkness fell and we continued walking, Christmas trees, fully lit, pierced the city. Magical and now, within the right timeline.

Now is the time to embrace the season. The Dickensian Christmas walks are booked, Covent garden Mistletoe shines. Jingle bells and ‘All I want for Christmas, is you’, is welcome. Bells and Holly, mulled wine and Christmas wrapping paper. Sparkles and glistening is my mantra. And succumbing to cookies and mince pies.

Covent Garden Mistletoe

Been a number of years since it was me, the matriarch of the family, who had the home adorned. Children would return for the holidays.

Delving into the boxes of decorations, putting up the Christmas tree, or trees as I could not resist more than one. When the children were little and brought back some ‘interesting decorations’ from school - they got to have their own. Biscuits baked, old recipes dusted and now, all that seems a lifetime ago. Now I go to my children for Christmas, and sometimes it feels strange, the passing of years too fast. I don’t make the Christmas cake or pudding as it used to be. In London, I don’t have a kitchen to prepare in, and in Cape Town, the house lies in wait for the New Year. A touch of melancholy perhaps, but that soon dissipates when I slip into the warmth of Fortnum and Mason, or walk along the Christmas markets on the South Bank. It is a different kind of Christmas - a privileged one - to be able to smell the chestnuts in the square, see so many with baubles and antlers on their heads, merry in the thought of it all.

I get to see fairytale Christmas in London, reflected in the Thames.

Gifts are small this year for everyone. Most are struggling with the rise in prices, but walking along the streets of the city, the gifts of lights and prettiness are free. The early darkness is not too bleak when the sky tinkles brightly.

Time to fall into Christmas. And sometimes, when I do miss the days, the people, the loved ones not here, I am constantly reminded by my guests from afar, just how fortunate I am to have Christmas in London, with my family and present friends.

We ended the tour on Churchill at St. Ermin’s hotel and I decided to walk home, passing the Albert Memorial on the way. It was five pm, but there he was, love of Victoria, glowing in the light.

The Albert Memorial, Hyde Park.