To the Garrick, for a festive feast with my dear ex-husband and offspring. My daughter and I decide to make the pilgrimage from Turnham Green by taxi, owing to a combination of torrential rain, vulnerable blow-dries and high heels. Schoolgirl error: we could have flown to Manchester in roughly the same length of time – and at a fraction of the price. Thank you, Sadiq Khan. What a splendid job you’ve done turning London into a giant car park.

We eventually arrive, half an hour late, dodging the garish rip-off rickshaws blaring headache-inducing yuletide tunes which now infest the West End (again, take a bow, Mr Khan), and enter the wood-panelled sanctuary. Up the back stairs we go – no longer a strict requirement for female guests, but they do have the advantage that they take you via the ladies’ powder room, with its old-fashioned dressing tables and three-way love-seat (rather racy, I’ve always thought, but then you know what these theatrical types are like). Besides, my daughter has never been, so I want her to experience the glorious old-world eccentricity of it all. As a budding feminist and keen student of anthropology, she’s fascinated to witness the inner workings of the patriarchy. As we head for the bar, a flock of florid besuited gentlemen in pink and mint club ties passes obligingly by. I wonder what the collective noun for members of the Garrick should be? A bluster? A harrumph? A claret?

Son and dear ex, not having travelled quite so far, are already ensconced in green leather button-backs. As we cross the threshold in there’s an alarming shout: ‘It’s that Sarah Vine!’ I turn to see Kwasi Kwarteng, sitting with his lovely wife Harriet and a third party who turns out to be their vicar, positively overflowing with festive cheer. That’s the joy of somewhere like the Garrick: you never know who you’re going to bump into. On that occasion, not just the former chancellor and his spirited spiritual guide but also, and in no particular order, Sting (yes, Sting), the heavenly Lord Howard of Rising, and the ‘baby doctor’ himself, Lord [Robert] Winston.

As it happens, my daughter and Lord Winston have a connection: I had her at Hammersmith hospital, where Winston did much of his pioneering research into IVF. Indeed, she was a very small part of that research, having been born on her due date – apparently relatively unusual. This prompted a delegation of students to present themselves at my bedside while I was still in a morphine-induced stupor (it was an emergency caesarean), wondering if they might perform a series of tests on the infant. Foolishly I acquiesced. I’m not sure either of us has ever quite recovered.

Something needs to be done about the overuse of sequins at this time of year. The shops have been overflowing with them, from Primark to Prada. A smattering is fine – but unless one is Claudia Winkleman or Ru Paul, wearing them top-to-toe is the evening-wear equivalent of double denim. Besides, the shiny plastic discs can’t be good for the planet. Forget plastic bags, what about the dangers to marine life from discarded office-party boob tubes?

To the George IV pub in Chiswick for Christmas Day lunch. Not quite the Garrick, indeed not the Garrick at all, save for the outdated décor. But I long ago gave up on Christmas lunch, since my children enjoy eating it even less than I enjoy cooking it. Besides, in the past I’ve had some very decent pub Christmas lunches. The atmosphere is always convivial and, I find, tends to defuse any simmering family tensions. Not so the George IV. Charming staff – but easily the most revolting food I’ve ever had the misfortune of paying £85 a head for (plus drinks). Sadly, I had pre-ordered during the three days my daughter decided to become a pescatarian in November, after watching a TikTok video about chickens. This meant she was having turbot instead of turkey. When it arrived, wet and glistening atop a pile of overcooked veg, she looked as though she were about to burst into tears. In the spirit of the season, I swapped with her. There is no sacrifice I won’t make for that girl. Although maybe next year I will dust off the Nigella after all.

My daughter, having seen Saltburn, declares it the perfect family film. We duly watch it, eyes on stalks. A lifetime in journalism and politics has rendered me pretty unshockable, but even I am forced to concede that the graveyard scene is Too Much. I can’t get ‘Murder on the Dance Floor’ out of my head. ‘Darling,’ I say to her. ‘Explain?’ She looks at me, unfazed. ‘It’s about a dysfunctional family, mother. I thought you would feel right at home.’ I blame Lord Winston.