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.
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