Where's the Christmas magic gone?

Forgive me for obsessing somewhat about Christmas, but my fairy-sparkly-tinselly perspective has been partially dented in light of yesterday evening's antics.

Last night, in an attempt to re-capture some childhood Christmas memories, me, my mum and some old family friends, went to watch the skating in Somerset House, followed by a carol service in Trafalgar Square and then a slap up dinner in China town.

Now don't get me wrong, the skating was hilarious, but for all the wrong reasons. I have never seen a more pathetic bunch of wide-eyed wibbly wobblers. It was hardly Rockerfella New York standard where you get real show offs doing triple salkos. But it entertained me, and we proceeded from there to see the tree and the sing some carols.

When I was tiny, we used to do just this, and Trafalgar Square used to be full of life (people and pigeons- before tyrant Ken got the birds of prey and shot guns in) but then back in the day, there were only 3 services in December. Now, typical of the over kill, instant gratification times that we live in, there are 5 hours of carols EVERY day.

As a result there's a piffling crowd, lacklustre singing (only my mum in her shrill mum's singing voice)and the choir were well, pretty substandard (sorry Derwent Valley).

So there we sat, on the cold steps of Trafalgar Square, getting cold, risking piles, and trying to feel festive. It has to be said, I really struggled. And then, in a split second I found my magic. A teeny tiny little blonde girl, muffled up from head to toe in baby pink snuggly clothes and brandishing some kind of wand, and she was spinning round and round and round and laughing her socks off. And so there you have it. Christmas really is for the kid in us.

And I'm a sentimental t*t. But I knew that anyway.