Writing at Christmas in London

Every week, I leave the cozy quiet of my home office (affectionately known in my household as the Writing Cave) and take the train into Central London for a day of writing at a library. I do this because working full-time as an author is a wonderful but often solitary affair, and leaving my house gives me the chance to occasionally see the world and interact with people other than my husband and the postman, lovely as they both are.

There is no time of year where I enjoy this trip into the city more than December as Christmas approaches. London is a city that embraces Christmas with a full-throated shout. I had thought that New York City, where I lived for nine years before moving to Britain, dresses itself up for the season, but there is something unique about the way that London adopts the trimmings and optimism of the season, pulling on its bows and lights and evergreens early in anticipation of the final burst of joy at the end of the year. Seven years later, I still fall in love with it each December.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Born and raised in America, I think of the fall and winter in distinct periods of time marked by distinct milestones. In September, you go back to school and falling leaves crunching underfoot, crisp mornings, and football games become the background of the season. Then there is Halloween with apple and caramel scenting the air and spooky stories read under cozy blankets. Thanksgiving follows on a month later and, even in my now-expat family, the focus turns to food and family. Finally, after everyone emerges from the Black Friday and Thanksgiving weekend malaise, it is time for Christmas.

There are no such seasonal barriers in Britain. Despite its growing popularity, Halloween still isn’t the universal holiday here that it is in my childhood. (We have had no Trick-or-Treaters in our current home despite being cleaned out of candy in an hour at my last flat.) Outside of us American expats who insist on celebrating Thanksgiving, turkey is not a tradition in November. There are no real calendar barriers between back to school and Christmas here.

Every year in September, conversation turns to how early Christmas things arrive in the shops. The family WhatsApp fills with photos of minced pies and Quality Street piled high in Sainsburys while the days are still warm enough to be considered summer. However, as autumn slowly takes over, lights begin going up along high streets, and pubs begin to advertise spaces for Christmas parties and bookings for Christmas dinner for those who don’t wish to cook. 

Being a blend of American- and British-born people, there is a great debate in my family about when it is acceptable for a Christmas tree to go up. For the past three years, my husband and I have observed a first weekend in December rule, which suits me just fine. It is when London’s Christmas preparations go from background noise to a carol sung at full volume by a choir. Christmas trees go up everywhere, lights blaze on high streets, supermarkets sell boxes of Christmas crackers, and mince pies and mulled wine seem to pop up everywhere. 

Even now, as I write this in a library once patronized by Charles Dickens and Virigina Wolfe, I am surrounded by Christmas lights strung on balconies and a tree covered in glinting ornaments dominates a corner of the book-lined room. Later, on a break for tea, I’m sure I will wander into the flagship Waterstones on Piccidilly and find myself surrounded by shoppers looking for gifts. I’ll take the train tonight, squeezing into a seat around shopping bags and tissue paper. When I finally reach home, there will be a mince pie waiting for me as we light our advent candle and open the door of our chocolate-themed advent calendar. Under the tree, presents will be stacked up in anticipation of our Christmas celebration. And, as I relax onto the sofa with a blanket pulled up around me to stave off the evening chill, my thoughts will turn to the season that is still to come and the new year stretching languidly ahead of me.