An abundance of activity rolls non-stop through Christmas

Christmas Eve, 11:15 pm. I'm sitting in the second row of St. George's chapel at Windsor Castle, enveloped by comforting Gothic architecture and soothed by the angelic voices of the boys' choir. It's peaceful and calm, as if the whole world has ceased turning on its axis for a little bit so that everyone can concentrate on their spiritual well being. It was, I think, the first such moment of peace I'd had in ages. As ever, the Christmas season was a roller coaster ride of work hard, play harder twists and turns that didn't run out until that clerical interlude.

The Friday before Christmas was typical of the seasonal routine. At my desk first thing checking emails and sorting through the usual round of political issues. On the train by 10:26 in order to make a Harley Street doctor's appointment at noon. My last visit to my plastic surgeon ... I am, officially, complete. I was a bit sad to say goodbye; he's been a dependable and steady authority figure in my life for 18 months. I don't get many of those...

Then off to a photo shoot at Health and Fitness magazine, who will be including me in a feature on breast cancer in an upcoming issue. I've organised and accompanied executives on scores of photo shoots in my years as a PR executive, but have never been the subject myself. This was a high end affair, with a hair and make up artist there to spend 40 minutes on me before I ever got in front of the camera. A full make over in the middle of the work day ... This was one of those surreal times when I found myself thinking: I can't believe I get paid for doing this. I did, of course, mention my benevolent employer frequently in the interview, so hopefully making the effort pay off for us all.

As I was looking absolutely fabulous, I was relieved I had something better to do than return to my desk. Off instead to Maze, where I met one of my colleagues from the publishing industry for a catch up on work issues, mixed with a delightful late lunch. Having reviewed Maze once already in this blog I won't go into details. Suffice it to say that the experience was just as wonderful as my first time, and the place definitely belongs in the top 3 restaurants at which I've dined this year.

Since we started to so late, we didn't push back from the table 'til 5. Giving me an hour to kill before meeting my mother and a friend for a pre-theatre dinner at 6. (Yes, perhaps not the best planning.) I felt as stuffed as the proverbial Christmas goose, so I took a meandering stroll from Grosvenor Square to Green Park. This area, called Mayfair, is one of London's prettiest parts, especially at Christmas. Mostly Georgian and Regency in architecture, it retains many old shop fronts and period details. Christmas lights are tasteful, garlands drape festively over narrow shopping streets, the darkness allows you to peer into the brightly lit drawing rooms of gracious mansions now used as offices; this is as close to a Dickens scene as you're going to get in modern London.

Next to Waterloo, where I met my mother and the news that British Airport Authority staff were planning a strike on the day next month I'm flying off for my Caribbean holiday. Bastards. God Bless American Airlines, who changed my outbound flight to an earlier date in between planned strike actions. Now I just need to arrange to work in New York for a couple of days before catching the Barbados hop.

Crisis averted, we moved across the street to the Waterloo Bar and Kitchen for our pre-theatre dinner. Still completely sated by the lunch that I'd barely started digesting, I only managed a plate of smoked salmon, for politeness' sake. But the reports from my Mom and Hillary on their meals were excellent, and all the dishes coming out of the kitchen looked good. I'll have to try this place again in the future. When you commute in and out of Waterloo, finding good restaurants in this area is essential.

On to the pantomime at the Old Vic. Despite living in the UK for 13 years now, this was my first outing to this classic British tradition. Not having a child to take, it wasn't until famous wit and Renaissance man Stephen Fry wrote one that I was inspired to get tickets for myself. Panto is a rather odd combination of musical theatre, fairy tales, burlesque and double entendre. The shows are drawn from a familiar short list: Cinderella, Jack & the Beanstalk, Aladdin, etc. Though the plots are traditional, the jokes are rewritten every year to reflect popular culture. For example, our Cinderella's ball was a reality show in which the winning princess would be chosen by audience phone in. There's a whole audience response factor that almost reminds you of attending church; everyone knows what to do and automatically gives their responses ("He's behind you", "Cake!") when prompted.

Most bizarre to American eyes is the tradition of cross dressing, which the Brits don't see as sexual ... simply funny. There's always a big, brash female role played by men in drag, and the young hero is often a woman. In our case, though Prince Charming was comfortingly male, the wicked step sisters (dubbed Dolce and Gabbana) were men. Radio personality and writer Sandy Tostvig played the male roles of narrator and Lord Chamberlain. Yes, it was funny. But if you didn't grow up with it, definitely a bit strange and very foreign.

Roll on the weekend, filled with Christmas prep. We were at Waitrose for the big grocery shop when the store opened at 8am on Saturday. By the time we left 90 minutes later, every cart was in use, the whole shopping area was packed with people and my account was £200 lighter. In a country where a fresh turkey breast costs £29, it's not as difficult as you'd think to wrack up that kind of grocery bill.

Back to work on Monday. With most of the world taking holiday I had one phone call, no meetings and hours of quiet. Which meant that I actually cleared my 484-item email backlog, ending the day with everything filed neatly and my to do list waiting for me on the 27th. (I've always considered it one of the tragedies of modern communications that we now get so much stuff that reading and sorting mail has become a major accomplishment.)

And thus back to Monday night at Windsor Castle. Our fantastic seats were due to Mom, who's always been fanatical about getting in line early for such events. We were sixth in the queue and stood outside the Henry VIII gate for an hour and 10 minutes for the privilege of being amongst the first into the chapel. It was worth the cold: services at St. George's deserve a good view as well as open ears.

This is the night for full pomp and pageantry. The choirboys are in their vivid red gowns with white ruffs around their necks. Ushers in red and black cassocks with rich black tassels and braid work, straight out of Jane Austen. And the celebrants wear white and gold robes stiff with embroidery, metallic threads glinting beneath the lights. All the best props are out ... towering Georgian candlesticks polished to a reflective peak, solid gold chalices engraved with the monograms of previous kings. In front of the altar, a beautiful manger scene sculpted from terra cotta in a modern, middle Eastern style. At the start of the service, the manger was empty; the vicar of St. George's makes a big show of placing the baby in the manger as part of the entry procession. Throughout, one of the best choirs in the land delivered on some of the richest and most majestic music in church tradition. All within one of the finest architectural settings possible.

I am ambivalent about religion. The intellectual in me finds the stories on which it's based unlikely at best, and at worst sees in it the root of most of the world's wars and prejudices. On a night like this, however, I am reminded that it can also bring out the best in mankind, from soaring Gothic fan vaults and delicate melodic counterpoint to the crazy idea that we should all be nice to each other. Thus I'm not particularly bothered whether we're here to commemorate something that really happened, or a bundle of myths whipped up by Middle Eastern radicals for their own political ends. The drama, sounds and sights of the ceremony create a marvelous sense of stillness and inner peace. After the madness of the holiday season, this is just what the doctor ... or the deity ... ordered.