For me, Christmas officially started last night. I can’t remember how many years I’ve been attending a seasonal performance of Handel’s Messiah; or how many years I’ve been inspired to write about it. Back in the day, when children were too old for the pantomimes that I never took them to, we went to Messiah. I think I might’ve been about four years old the last time I went to panto and, having been scarred for life, I never subjected my offspring to such puerile offerings. The poor deprived things had to wait for grandparents to take them. I think it was a long wait. Actually, they might still be waiting. Oh no they’re not.

I once had a thing for Oxford. In truth, I once had a thing for a man who lived in Oxford, but, like all the others, he faded into oblivion. But Oxford didn’t: happy days hunting the Snark in the Botanical Gardens; walking into random college chapels and listening to choirs; open-air Shakespeare above the Said Business School. Thus, for a while, Christmas wasn’t complete without a family trip to hear something culturally festive. The day comprised a visit to the Oxford indoor market to remark upon all the dead animals hanging from the exterior. Next, Debenhams of which the Oxford branch was always far superior to any other. Hot chocolate in the Turl and, finally, off to the cheap seats in the Sheldonian for the grand finale. Allelujah.

It was a bloody disaster. Barbara and I sat entranced and my children managed to get chewing gum stuck in someone’s coat collar and the whole row got involved in the removal of said gum. Everyone was too preoccupied to stand up for the chorus and the kids said they liked the Oxford trip thank you but could we please do something else in the evening. After that, we finished off our subsequent days out with attendance at Christchurch Chapel for the carol service, readings courtesy of Jean Marsh and Robert Hardy. Sadly, Robert Hardy is dead now and Jean Marsh, like the rest of us, is really old.

Latterly, via some ad hoc attempts at atmosphere, I’ve moved on to the Lighthouse in Poole where, each year, the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra and Chorus do a turn. The venue isn’t pretty but the acoustics are wonderful. Generally, I go alone but, once again, Barbara was present. The chorus comprises 125 this year and there are no words to describe them. However, we were greatly distracted by the conductor, Laurence Cummings, who managed to play the harpsichord whilst simultaneously organising the orchestra and chorus.

Laurence is a flamboyant type. He’s also rather small. From the front, we both recognised him as Pierre, who once, in another life, ran a bed and breakfast joint in Provence. From the rear, jumping at the harpsichord, legs and arms waving, he was Elton John. Never has there been such an interpretation of Messiah. The normally staid crowd loved it, as did we.

And after, being old but happy, we avoided the throngs by taking a circuitous route and went smugly home for a cup of tea. Happy days.