I didn’t spend last Christmas Day with my relatives. A nasty chest infection had spread through my family home, and unsure I’d be able to secure a festive-enough hazmat suit, we decided to celebrate when everyone was feeling better.
This meant I woke up on the day in an empty house, in an empty city. I went for a walk around a silent, tracing-paper version of London, the overwhelming megalopolis muted and drained of colour. Apart from the house of Australians next door. Their place was in full colour, loud in both the carols blaring through the windows and the Hawaiian shirt-Santa hat combos they wore.
I found a note taped to my door. It read: “If you’re home, come to our orphans’ Christmas.” This was an annual tradition for the Aussies. Unable to afford the peak-rate airfare home, they spend Christmas with each other and other “orphan” friends. Here, dinner’s whatever everyone brings, and the wine list is selected from the back of the booze cupboard. Cherry B wine and miniature bottles of tequila? Why not?
But with no public transport running, the cheer is available only for those in walking distance. That would be easier if you lived in the city centre. Like here, in this soon-to-be two-bed in the iconic Centre Point building. The open-plan flat provides plenty of room for lonely festive wanderers, while the views could rival any Queen’s speech. Who needs a fireplace when you have a sauna?
