Penelope Lively’s notebook: Coal holes and pub opera

I have been having my vault done over. Not, as you might think, the family strong room, but the place beneath the pavement — the former coal cellar — pertaining to an early 19th-century London house. The vault opens onto the area — mine is the last generation to know that that is what you call the open sunken space between the basement and the pavement — and has been given the latest damp-proof treatment, plus shelving and smart lighting, so that I can use it for storage. Others use their vault more creatively: a couple next door had theirs excavated several feet and made into a troglodyte bedroom. No, they said, they couldn’t hear feet overhead, but wheeled suitcases could be tiresome. A far cry from the original purpose which, again, I am old enough to remember — at my grandmother’s house in Harley Street in 1947 — coal being shot down through the pavement hole, counted in lump by lump: rationed, black gold.

One advantage of old age is that you no longer do Christmas. I dealt with my 40th and last turkey some years ago, stepping gratefully aside for my daughter to become the one expiring in the kitchen while everyone else is sipping champagne. Never mind, her day will come: she has two daughters herself. This sounds as though only women can cook Christmas dinner. Not so, I’m sure, but it does seem to turn out that way in many households. The retirement role is to appreciate, be thankful, and make an offer (which will be refused) to help with the washing up.

I shall be handing out a CD as one of my main Christmas presents: the Marian Consort’s Christmas with the Shepherds. The Marian Consort is considered one of this country’s leading young vocal ensembles — six singers who specialise in Renaissance sacred music.