The whole world speeds up from the start of November, racing towards the Christmas break at an ever more frenetic pace. Work escalates with scores of projects needing conclusion before year end. A calendar full of annual events gets even more crowded with all of those people you decide you must get together with before the year turns. And just when you barely have a moment to spare, the load escalates domestically with the need to decorate the house, write the cards, do the Christmas shopping and gift wrapping and prepare any festive meals.
There’s no better proof that life has resumed pre-pandemic levels than the return of this blog’s holiday round-up. With me too busy to write about individual events, I’m crowding a madcap range of stuff into one entry.The Bencards entered the pre-holiday season with a mutual case of COVID, clearly picked up on our American holiday but not symptomatic or testing positive until the day after we returned home. It was the second time around for me, the third for my husband. Thus proper returns to work didn’t happen until early November, making the office load that much heavier when we picked it back up. Our only completely clear weekend between vacation and Christmas disappeared beneath tissues, hot drinks and a flood of cough syrup.
And then the race was on.
The Lansdowne Club’s annual Winter Ball had a Versailles theme this year; ironic or appropriate as class divisions widen and we head into a winter of discontent? Only time will tell, but the tall wigs, free-flowing champagne and metallic fabrics made for a splendid display. The theme of French profligacy continued the next night at Le Comptoir Robuchon for a belated celebration of my birthday. Any menu that dominated by champagne, caviar, lobster, foie gras and truffles is either calculated to extract as much money out of its diners as possible, or to make guests feel very special indeed. Or both. I confess to having severe guest guilt after seeing the prices on the menu, but it was a lovely evening indeed. The restaurant is an homage to the late chef Joel Robuchon, named “chef of the century” by Guide Millau in 1989, and features many of the classics he made famous throughout his restaurant empire. Tournedos Rossini and truffled ravioli led the celebratory menu choices, but the surprises of the evening were an extraordinarily beautiful bread basket and the appearance of Fixin on the wine list, the little-known Burgundian red that is our favourite.
And then the race was on.
The Lansdowne Club’s annual Winter Ball had a Versailles theme this year; ironic or appropriate as class divisions widen and we head into a winter of discontent? Only time will tell, but the tall wigs, free-flowing champagne and metallic fabrics made for a splendid display. The theme of French profligacy continued the next night at Le Comptoir Robuchon for a belated celebration of my birthday. Any menu that dominated by champagne, caviar, lobster, foie gras and truffles is either calculated to extract as much money out of its diners as possible, or to make guests feel very special indeed. Or both. I confess to having severe guest guilt after seeing the prices on the menu, but it was a lovely evening indeed. The restaurant is an homage to the late chef Joel Robuchon, named “chef of the century” by Guide Millau in 1989, and features many of the classics he made famous throughout his restaurant empire. Tournedos Rossini and truffled ravioli led the celebratory menu choices, but the surprises of the evening were an extraordinarily beautiful bread basket and the appearance of Fixin on the wine list, the little-known Burgundian red that is our favourite.
Best customer service, however, belonged not to a fancy restaurant but to His Majesty’s Passport Office. Granted, I had to spring for the premium package to ensure a renewal between my return from the USA and our late December departure to Copenhagen, but you don’t always get what you pay for in government services. Happily this was an exception, arriving early for the appointment, being processed immediately, getting out before my original slot even came up and having a new passport (black, demonstratively non-European) delivered into my hands in less than a week. Can whoever shaped them up move over to the NHS?
Joy continued across town that night when my team won the 2022 Corporate Communications Award for best use of corporate content in the UK. The winning project, a video news magazine called Tomorrow, Today, was very much my baby from its inception, so I couldn’t be happier. I could have done without the venue in a far corner of Bayswater, however. Porchester Hall is a Grade II* listed architectural gem (Edwardian in style though built in the 1920s), but beastly to get to if you commute through Waterloo. I really should have booked a hotel; I had to disappear almost as soon as we had the award in our hands.
Joy continued across town that night when my team won the 2022 Corporate Communications Award for best use of corporate content in the UK. The winning project, a video news magazine called Tomorrow, Today, was very much my baby from its inception, so I couldn’t be happier. I could have done without the venue in a far corner of Bayswater, however. Porchester Hall is a Grade II* listed architectural gem (Edwardian in style though built in the 1920s), but beastly to get to if you commute through Waterloo. I really should have booked a hotel; I had to disappear almost as soon as we had the award in our hands.
My husband’s Twickenham debentures kicked off this autumn, so rugby dominating the weekends on either side of that award ceremony. (Debentures are somewhat like season tickets, but you buy the rights to purchase your dedicated seats at face value rather than the tickets themselves; then buy the tickets.) Japan was a definitive English victory, a good day out with friends and a rotten journey home. Train delays adding unwanted extensions to evenings are, sadly, becoming normal. England v. New Zealand plummeted downhill as soon as the opening light show and haka was over, and by half time it felt like it might have been a better evening if we left early. But England scored three tries in the last 10 minutes, making it perhaps the most exciting game of live rugby I’ve ever seen. It ain’t over ‘til…
Sadly that weekend was over by Sunday morning as I boarded a train to Birmingham for the Confederation of British Industry’s annual conference. It’s one of my company’s biggest sponsorships of the year and producing it without enough staff had sucked every ounce of workplace energy from me since our return from holiday. I did manage to meet up with a colleague for a couple of hours to stroll through Birmingham’s impressive German Christmas Market. Low on traditional shopping booths, abundant with mulled wine, sausages and other holiday comestibles. The architecture of the pop-up village is impressive, full of towers, chalets, arches and whirling carousels of Christmas figurines to equal a proper German venue.
Sadly that weekend was over by Sunday morning as I boarded a train to Birmingham for the Confederation of British Industry’s annual conference. It’s one of my company’s biggest sponsorships of the year and producing it without enough staff had sucked every ounce of workplace energy from me since our return from holiday. I did manage to meet up with a colleague for a couple of hours to stroll through Birmingham’s impressive German Christmas Market. Low on traditional shopping booths, abundant with mulled wine, sausages and other holiday comestibles. The architecture of the pop-up village is impressive, full of towers, chalets, arches and whirling carousels of Christmas figurines to equal a proper German venue.
That bit of free time grabbed, we headed off for 48 intense hours in corporate hotels and a rather odd conference centre at the top of a shopping mall (The Vox). For conference highlights … live with Rishi Sunak and Keir Starmer … check out my LinkedIn article.
That Thursday was Thanksgiving, and while I am exceptionally grateful for my job I could have done without having to commute into London that day. Although I did bring a pumpkin pie to my team meeting in thanks for the marvellous folks I work with. Our club’s traditional Thanksgiving dinner could have made the day celebratory, but we have a new chef who decided not to carry on the annual event. I rushed home and threw together turkey cutlets, proper dressing (none of this frightful British stuff made with bread crumbs), sweet potato mash and spinach. I’d held back two slices of pie.
The best thing to be thankful for that week, however, came on the Saturday when a friend who’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer celebrated his 70th birthday. At the turn of the year, none of us thought he’d get here. To see him hale and hearty, toasting life in the private dining room of Tylney Hall, was a reminder of what’s really important in life.
Another work week sped by full of deadlines, reorganisations and video calls. But this is the time of year when people you work with thank you for doing business with them, so it also featured a farewell dinner for a beloved colleague going to pastures new, champagne at Claridges and the Cezanne exhibition at Tate Modern. In my agency days Claridges was my go-to spot to take visiting clients. Its combination of art deco elegance and quiet sophistication is rare amongst its showier London siblings. The afternoon tea that used to be my default booking has more than doubled in cost in the two decades since, and I’d find it very hard to justify more than £100 each for sandwiches, scones and pastries, whether I was spending my own money or considering it a marketing expense. We stuck to the bubbly, though a cheeky egg and cress sandwich might have appeared on a tasteful silver salver.
The Cezanne retrospective across town is a must if you’re a fan; it’s certainly the biggest collection of his work I can remember. I confess he leaves me cold. The awkward abstraction of his portraits frustrates me and his still lives leave me hungering for the precision of Dutch masters. But his landscapes … especially those from the Provençal mountains … are exquisite and can transport you instantly to a place of warmth, sand, sea and golden light. A very useful mental journey in a gloomy London winter.
The Cezanne retrospective across town is a must if you’re a fan; it’s certainly the biggest collection of his work I can remember. I confess he leaves me cold. The awkward abstraction of his portraits frustrates me and his still lives leave me hungering for the precision of Dutch masters. But his landscapes … especially those from the Provençal mountains … are exquisite and can transport you instantly to a place of warmth, sand, sea and golden light. A very useful mental journey in a gloomy London winter.
The next weekend saw us packing our bags and heading to Leicestershire for one of our last pandemic-delayed trips. Our friends and former neighbours had moved north just before the rise of COVID; we were scheduled to spend that Easter with them before the first lockdown prevented travel. Anticipation made everything the sweeter, and meant that we got to see their fabulous late Georgian house remodelled and decorated instead of in progress. It’s like something out of a Jane Austen novel. But so is the heating. Always worth remembering that visiting any historic home in England in the winter requires many layers of clothing.
This part of the country is saturated with stately homes, picturesque estate villages and gracious historic towns. Though only an hour from London on selected fast trains, it feels deeply rural and like stepping back in time to an older, simpler England. Our friends’ village of Buckminster sits at a high point for the region, a bit like Stow-on-the-Wold with its expansive views, glorious walks, gourmet farm shops and heritage sites, but almost empty of tourists. Unsurprisingly, I loved every moment and was calculating when I could return before I’d left.
This part of the country is saturated with stately homes, picturesque estate villages and gracious historic towns. Though only an hour from London on selected fast trains, it feels deeply rural and like stepping back in time to an older, simpler England. Our friends’ village of Buckminster sits at a high point for the region, a bit like Stow-on-the-Wold with its expansive views, glorious walks, gourmet farm shops and heritage sites, but almost empty of tourists. Unsurprisingly, I loved every moment and was calculating when I could return before I’d left.
The sightseeing highlight was Belvoir Castle, decked out in full Christmas glory. It is a magnificent spot at any time, a Recency fantasy of a castle built upon medieval foundations, ancestral home to the Dukes of Rutland and home to one of my favourite podcasts, Duchess. Many stately homes now open their rooms to show off holiday decorations, but this is the first I’ve visited that tells a story. This year was Cinderella, with different scenes from the story interpreted through decorations throughout the house. Gloriously, the step-mother and step-sisters were all bling, characterised by metallic pinks, yellows, greens and golds, while Cinderella’s storyline was all whites and at one with nature. (Here was the English upper classes’ abhorrence of coloured, garish Christmas lights writ large. My husband was smugly satisfied.) Whether tawdry or sophisticated, the decorations were fantastic, you got to see the house at the same time and a live choir brought life to the heart of the tour. Well worth every penny and, unlike most Christmas-themed attractions in London, something you could actually book the day before you wanted to go.
Back in the capital, the highlight of the next work week was the office Christmas party, with coupes of Prosecco, buffets of nice things to eat and dessert cocktails. Everyone had slipped into formal wear, looked fabulous and was ready to party. American friends reminded me that company-funded Christmas parties are not the done thing there, and that alcohol has been banned from almost all corporate events due to fears over misconduct and the ensuing law suits. I valued that newly-refreshed passport more than ever and hummed God Save the King under my breath. It’s been a challenging year in so many ways and work … so little mentioned in this blog … has been harder, longer and more stressful than it’s been in almost a decade. The party was a reminder that you don’t put up with the BS for the salary. Or the big brand. You do it for your colleagues. And I work with probably the best and biggest assemblage of superstars ever gathered under one corporate umbrella in my professional life. The party reminded me that these are the people I work for, and the people who make the tough times worth suffering. Because with them at your side there will always be glorious times. Awards. Sparkling wine. Fellowship and caring. And that is worth a party.
Back in the capital, the highlight of the next work week was the office Christmas party, with coupes of Prosecco, buffets of nice things to eat and dessert cocktails. Everyone had slipped into formal wear, looked fabulous and was ready to party. American friends reminded me that company-funded Christmas parties are not the done thing there, and that alcohol has been banned from almost all corporate events due to fears over misconduct and the ensuing law suits. I valued that newly-refreshed passport more than ever and hummed God Save the King under my breath. It’s been a challenging year in so many ways and work … so little mentioned in this blog … has been harder, longer and more stressful than it’s been in almost a decade. The party was a reminder that you don’t put up with the BS for the salary. Or the big brand. You do it for your colleagues. And I work with probably the best and biggest assemblage of superstars ever gathered under one corporate umbrella in my professional life. The party reminded me that these are the people I work for, and the people who make the tough times worth suffering. Because with them at your side there will always be glorious times. Awards. Sparkling wine. Fellowship and caring. And that is worth a party.
Under normal circumstances, burning the candle at both ends would have continued at least through Friday the 16th of December. But British unions had something to say about that. Rail strikes throughout next week meant that my journey home on Thursday the 8th … after the girls’ trip foursome had celebrated Christmas with Michelin-starred Quilon’s Southern Indian tasting menu … was probably my last day of commuting into London for the year.
I confess to a monumental sigh of relief.
The enforced isolation of two Christmases in pandemic lockdown was frustrating. It seemed counter to all of the merriment and “togetherness” that the holiday season represents. But, I have to admit, it was a lot less exhausting.
I confess to a monumental sigh of relief.
The enforced isolation of two Christmases in pandemic lockdown was frustrating. It seemed counter to all of the merriment and “togetherness” that the holiday season represents. But, I have to admit, it was a lot less exhausting.
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