I’ve had enough of Sadiq Khan

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).