On Thursday I was invited to a most Dickensian encounter which made me feel like an extra in A Christmas Carol (easily in my top five Christmas films), I was led through the back streets up and down until we reached the dead yet rather pretty end of Orchard Street (pictured), encased by grand houses in white complete with wrought iron fencing. The night was clear and bitterly cold warmed by the iridescent glow of tea lights shimmering from home made lanterns we sang seasonal carols to our hearts content. Kindly accompanied by cold-fingered pianist, a few passers by and several glasses of warm mulled wine. It was my first taste of Bristolian Christmas and I liked it.
