But she only wrote down our tea order rather distractedly (hot cocoa, Chelsea buns, four different sorts of sandwiches, and lemon cake) and then rushed away.

I stared around us. Christmas parcels were piled in every corner, pushed under tables among tired shoppers' feet. Above the steam from the teapots and the waft of the fresh buns there was a sharp scent of pine from the boughs hung up in the corners of the room—it was all wonderfully festive, and I loved it.

I felt my stomach rumble. We had been eating little bits of things, cake and mince pies, all day, but although they were delicious I was longing for butter and toast, or potatoes with a thick stew. I wanted the certainty of a proper meal, proof that ordinary life was carrying on outside our strange little bubble.

Tea had been set out on the table, ready for our arrival. It was simple but delicious: muffins, ham, boiled eggs, and toast and butter, with Christmas cake for dessert.

The fire was blazing, and in front of the fire guard were propped two bulging stockings. I could see bars of chocolate and fudge, packets of Turkish Delight, and tangerines in silver foil. Next to them were piles of presents, beautifully wrapped in tissue paper and ribbon. The room was festooned with green, spicy boughs, and breakfast was laid out on the low table next to the sofa: muffins and bread ready to be toasted, and eggs and bacon still steaming.