I meet Judith and Kate at Marylebone Station where we catch a train to Amersham in the depths of Hertfordshire. We are off to meet other friends and exchange Christmas presents in a country pub that feels such an extreme psychological distance from London that it could be on the moon, although it’s actually in something called zone 9. As a zone 4 dweller who periodically gets accused of living in the countryside, it’s rather nice to be able to play the more central than thou card for once.

It feels almost miraculous having got as far as Marylebone. On my way back home from Christmas at my mother’s, I managed to lose my annual season ticket. This was a source of considerable concern, as I had only just renewed it. Fifteen years ago, I had committed the same blunder with similar bad timing. I have never forgotten what a protracted and traumatic process getting a replacement proved to be. It included filling in a multiplicity of forms and being ‘interviewed’ for 45 minutes by two menacing but extremely polite thugs in a cell above Brixton tube station. They proved to be very unimpressed by the string of friends I was able to produce who were willing to testify in public to my high level of general incompetence and inability to function in what is called the real world. Alas these two gentlemen – not to mention their tattoos, uniforms, shaved heads and bulging waistlines – were clearly not going to be satisfied until I admitted that I had sold my mislaid season ticket onto someone in order to finance my crack habit. As I hadn’t actually done this, and was therefore unable to oblige them – although, as a nice middle class boy, I like to be helpful when I can – our relationship never really recovered.

After about a month, London Transport, with great reluctance, issued me with a replacement ticket, on condition that this never happened again. As far as I can see, the only benefit conferred by this exhausting and unsatisfying process was that I gained some understanding into how easy it is to be intimidated into confessing to something that you haven’t actually done. Whatever, I felt sufficiently battered not to lose my season ticket for the next years.

However, after 15 years of competence, I had now loused up again , and I was expecting something much nastier than a Bracknellesque reprimand for carelessness. But it never happened: thanks to the joy of oyster, which means that they can simply cancel the lost card at the press of a button, there was no drama, no threats, no hassle: they merely said that they would pop a replacement in the post, which I ought to receive within two working days. I guess this shows that sometimes things can actually improve.

No doubt the geeks would claim that this was all the result of technology, but I’d like to think that it indicates something in human existence that deserves a response of moderate optimism. I am reminded of a poem by Sheena Pugh that a dear friend – now a nun at St Cecilia’s Abbey – read out at her sister’s wedding:

Sometimes things don’t go, after all,
From bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
Faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don’t fail,
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
Elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can’t leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
Amiss: sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
That seemed hard frozen: may it happen to you.

I’m not entirely sure about the scansion but the sentiments are admirable,

After a brief taxi ride from Amersham station, we meet up with Tim, John, Susanna, James and Audrey at the Pomeroy for a splendid lunch of chicken, leek and bacon pie and sticky toffee pudding with custard. I do very well in the subsequent present exchanges, highlights of which include

The Futurist’s Cookbook – a strange piece of fascist surrealist whimsy
Some gorgeous desert wine, which will be perfect for New Year’s Eve
An assortment of other food and Italy focused books
Meyerbeer’s Robert Le Diable in Italian
Scented Olive oil

I also learn about a version of Turandot by Schiller, translated into hilarious Victorian doggerel. She is most famous in Puccini’s unfinished version in which the ice princess, who kills every suitor who fails to answer her riddles, finally capitulates to the tenor who sings Nessun Dorma. It’s a rum piece full of sexual neurosis. Turandot is an unattractively vengeful and violent creature who isn’t made any more attractive by her eventual capitulation to the man, kind of frustratingly calls into question her ball breaking attitude which was the best thing about her.

I remember a wonderfully sour version by Brecht at the Hampstead Theatre, where, instead of answering riddles, Calaf had to solve the credit squeeze. These bloody bankers get everywhere. It’s better in theory than in performance – and leaves you feeling irritated. But that, I guess, is what Brecht is all about.

After I get back to Zone 4, I do a shopping list for New Year’s Eve and make a clementine cake

It truly is a classic – easy, light and moist and very satisfying. I’m told it’s also gluten free, but I don’t think that it’s a good idea to pander to food faddists and lesbian neuroses by making a thing of this. Before you know it, you will be intimidated by the vegan nazis into making everything fat-free, nut- free, dairy-free, sugar-free, chocolate-free and taste-free, and will suddenly notice that your food lacks sensual allure.

 

Nigella’s Clementine Cake

4-5 Clementines (around 375g weight)

6 eggs

200 g sugar

250 g ground almonds

1 heaped teaspoon of baking powder

Put clementines in a pan, cover with cold water, and bring to the boil. Cook for 2 hours.

Drain off the water and leave to cool. When cool, cut each clementine in half, remove any pips and place everything else (including skin and pith) in the food processor and blitz.

Preheat oven to 190C and butter and line a 21” spring form cake tin.

Beat the eggs. Add sugar, almonds and baking powder. Mix well. Add the pulped clementines. Mix well. Pour cake into prepared tin, making sure the surface is reasonably level.

Cook for an hour, but cover with foil half way through to stop burning. Cake is done when a cocktail stick comes out clean. Cool in tin on a wire rack.