The whiskers I’m staring up at are curly, white and, at a guess, a hundred per cent acrylic. And let’s be clear about this – hitching a ride on Santa’s horse and carriage definitely isn’t my first choice to get across town to the wedding shop, where I’m going to be staying for the next month.

When I got on the train this morning at St Pancras there was a seventy-five-foot tree in the departure hall, enough spangley lights to illuminate the northern hemisphere and choirs clustered around pianos singing carols. Christmas in London was rolled out in November. I can’t tell you how blissful it was to leave it all behind and arrive in St Aidan to the sound of seagulls, and one wonky tree by the station exit that hadn’t got its decorations on yet. And I know my mum and dad have let our family house in nearby Rose Hill village and gone off to Spain on a wild winter sun-seeking adventure in a motor caravan. But when I smell the salty air and catch a glimpse of the jumble of white painted cottages and grey stone houses winding up the hill into the town here, even though my parents are away it still feels as if I’m coming home.

The bad news is, by the time I’ve jostled my way through the mass of travellers in their North Face jackets, and dragged my rucksack and a suitcase the size of a garden shed onto the pavement outside the station, the last of the line of waiting taxis is a disappearing dot on the horizon. So when a pony and trap driven by Santa Claus himself jingles to a halt in front

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