OPINION
IN 2014, I had the gayest Christmas ever. There were seven of us sitting around my table, of so many nationalities it was a bit like the start of an elaborate Seventies joke. A Frenchman, a Spaniard, a Ukrainian and an Australian. All gay. It’s a universal language, alleviating any etiquette problems that might otherwise occur.
The three British people were from all corners of the north, so there was no sense in pretending we had any greater ownership of, or belonging to, the capital on this hallowed, jolly occasion than anyone else present. That’s the thing about living in London: everyone feels like an immigrant. It encourages the warmth of outsiders co-existing.