Career choice opened the door to a more spectacular English life

It was in the Banqueting House in Whitehall that my career choice was validated.

The story starts earlier and further away, on a December night in 1985 in Evanston, Illinois. I'd just aced my British history final exam. Realising that I loved the drama and personalities of the island kingdom's story more than anything else, I called my mother and told her I wanted to stay in school to get my master's degree in the subject. Mom blew a gasket. She was a teacher, you see, and immediately saw a career in history as the path to a low-paying, unappreciated career in education. Journalism was already a disappointment from the legal career she'd wanted for me. But teaching history? Horrific. "Make England your hobby, for heaven's sake. Make your career something that will earn you some money."

Now slide forward to 1998. I've followed a career in corporate communications and through stubborn persistence have gotten a post in my company's London office. On this night I'm representing us at a fund raising dinner at the Banqueting House. There's a conservative MP on my right and a government minister on my left. Luscious food is coming out of the kitchen. A chamber orchestra is entertaining us with 18th century favourites. The windows through which Charles I stepped to his execution are open, allowing a gentle breeze to come in with the whir of traffic on Whitehall. The throne of England with its canopy sits behind me, symbolically indicating the presence of the Queen, and above us Rubens' magnificent ceiling stretches. Such dinners for the country's great and good were exactly why James I had Inigo Jones design this room, and we were using it for its original purpose. When normally, it was just an empty shell gawked at by tourists.

And then it hit me. Mom was right. Had I been a historian, I no doubt would have known this room well. But would I have been invited to a glamorous dinner that brought the past to life? Hell no. Taking the corporate track was consistently getting me into places, in ways, that I'd kill for as a teacher, but no doubt be denied.

I think of that validation every time I visit this magnificent room. It is one of the most gorgeous spaces in London, and one few people have made the effort to see. Last week it was perhaps a touch less majestic than usual, as it was filled with trader's stalls for a charity Christmas market for Children in Need. Such craft fairs have become a staple of Christmas here, and offer a way to buy unique gifts from specialty producers. I had gone specifically to visit one of my favourites, Shibumi, a maker of frock coats and waistcoats in marvellously flamboyant floral silks with vivid linings. (See what I'm wearing in the photo of the post just before this one.)

This is the season for markets in a variety of historic locations. At the southeast corner of Hyde Park, just were the Great Exhibition once stood, you'll find "Winter Wonderland", a mix of gift stalls, food and amusement park rides. It looks great, all festive lights and authentic Germanic stalls. But the crowds, at least when we went late on a Saturday afternoon, were claustrophobic. A better bet is the market at Winchester, tucked into the cathedral close. The Gothic walls looming above the traders remind you that such markets have been taking place here for 1000 years or more.

Of the three markets, shopping was probably best at Winchester. Although all had roughly the same stuff. Fashion trends are clearly favouring hand-blown or fused glass jewelry, and silversmiths. Scarves and hats are copious, as are booths selling clever and colourful wooden puzzles for children. Winchester offers the best balance of Christmas decorations, clothing, jewelry, food, toys and random gifts, and this is where I got most of my shopping done. Had I become that academic, I might have visited these markets but I doubt I would have spent much. Like everything in dear old Blighty, unique and hand-crafted gift items are pricey.

Another history-drenched event enlivened the first weekend in December: The British Military Tournament. There's certainly some chance that Ellen the history teacher might have made it here, as it was big on celebrating the past and open to any paying member of the public. It was obvious, however, that the majority attending had some link to the armed forces. This is a revival of a similar event known as the Royal Tournament, last presented in 1999. It's a blaze of pomp, circumstance, marching bands and sparking uniforms. In the old days it was funded by the Ministry of Defence as part of official PR outreach. Despite great popularity, it became too expensive and time consuming to continue. Now it's back as a privately run affair to benefit military charities.

My partner, who has cause to know these things, said it wasn't as impressive as the old show. I, having little to compare it to and easily impressed by gold braid, tall hats and pretty horses, was delighted. The highlight of the show for most people was the gun race. A re-enactment of a part of the Boer War when the Royal Navy had to get guns inland to relieve a siege quickly, participants have to race a gun (as in, a medium-sized cannon on wheels, with a big, wheeled box of ammo behind it) over walls, disassemble it to swing it, and the whole team, over a chasm, reassemble it, fire a few rounds, then go back the way they came. It's impressive.

But for me, not as jaw-dropping as the musical drive of King's Troop Royal Horse Artillery. More cannons, but this time it's heavy rigs carried behind a team of six horses, arranged in pairs and with a rider on each pair, dashing around at high speed. No brakes on those gun carriages and nobody steering them, so it's a feat of extraordinary skill and quite nail biting as the various teams weave patterns and get far too close to each other for comfort. There were other mounted displays, several marching bands and a re-creation of a typical exercise in Afghanistan (complete with a model of a Chinook helicopter dropping from the ceiling to pick up the injured). In general, a big affirmation of the accepted wisdom that the Brits do pomp and circumstance well. One of the factors that made me love their history so much, no doubt.

The final quintessentially British setting of recent weeks took me to the Lansdowne. One of the great London clubs, headquartered in a Palladian townhouse just off Berkley Square designed by Robert Adam, it's unlikely my professorial alter ego would have gotten in here unless she'd followed Simon Schama into TV academe. (Which, frankly, I would have been damn good at.) Fortunately my boyfriend is a member, so I get to enjoy the fruits of his lengthy association. In this case, for a champagne tasting.

Now there's a way to celebrate the holidays. Black tie. Lovely company. The managing director of Laurent-Perrier in the UK talking you through five of their champagnes, chosen carefully to match each course of your meal. (Should I win the lottery, their "Grand Siecle" would become my house brand.) Good food. Like the Banqueting House, the shades of history nearby. In the Adam-designed round room, now the bar, the Americanophile Lord Lansdowne sat down with Ben Franklin and Robert Adam to hammer out the peace treaty that ended the revolution. And just like the Banqueting House, a lovely merger of the historic environment with a social event of the elegance and sophistication to match the building's original purpose. I might have made it to this dinner as a history teacher. But I think my strike rate for such things is a lot better as a corporate hack who made English history my hobby.

Thanks, mom.