Spending Christmas in the pub

When it comes to locations in which to spend Christmas, down the pub doesn't sound that glamorous, does it?

On a beach in Barbados, skiing in Aspen, even holed up in a suite at one of London's exclusive hotels all have more of a Hello! ring to them. And yet, given the choice between all of them (not that I actually had the choice, you understand), come 25 December I'd still rather tuck into my sprouts down at my local.

The fact that I have a local is a source of astonishment to most of those with whom I share this information. "What, you go into a pub?" they ask, open-mouthed. It's as if they assume, simply because I have been known to appear on TV, I inhabit a world of non-stop film premieres and awards ceremonies, at which I sip champagne politely and swap designer chitchat with Dale Winton.

Actually, I do bump into Dale fairly regularly and, yes, he's just like he is on the telly, only taller and wears very expensive-smelling aftershave. There was also the occasion I was waved at by Anita Harris in a nail bar in Marylebone, a camp fantasy come true. However, I don't plan to pull a cracker with either this Christmas. Instead I, along with The Other Half (TOH), our baby and a couple of dozen other regulars, will be consuming our bodyweights in turkey down at The Hobgoblin on Balcombe Street.

I didn't always have a local. It wasn't until TOH moved in that I ever felt the need for one. There is something primeval about the British bloke's desire for a regular watering hole. So, we toured the area, sampling the beer and wine - no, I don't drink pints. That's a step too far - and testing out the hospitality. The factor that settled us upon The Hobgoblin was the latter. OK, so Padraig, the chef, did say "Hello, Brian" to TOH whenever we went in for the first month. His name is Paul. Still, the fact that he remembered his name, albeit the wrong one, was pretty impressive.

Initially, I wasn't keen on the idea of a traditional pub. When I was single, I rarely ever went into one. Wine bars were more my thing. If I did go into a pub it was an All Bar One, I was with a gang of girlfriends and we sat at a table, rather than stood at the bar. Pubs seemed old-fashioned, fuddy duddy and they served terrible wine and worse food. But pubs have changed, or they have in London.

I went into a pub in Leeds recently and asked what white wines they had by the glass. The person behind the bar looked at me as if I was mad and said: "It's white wine." Finally, he took the bottle out of the fridge and held it up so I could read the label. It said "white wine". It was delicious, as you can imagine. Even when you can get a half-drinkable chardonnay beyond the M25, it comes in a thimble.

But London pubs really have changed, and so, I have to admit, have I.

I'm not looking for exciting new experiences on a Friday night, otherwise known as pulling. Being in a room full of twentysomethings knocking back alcopops and comparing navel piercings is my idea of hell. A pub for me is now a way to meet friends, have a quiet chat and relax.

I don't go to church, my baby is too young to go to school, so the pub is my village square. It's what connects me to my local community. For example, I needed an electrician the other day. Rather than pull a number out of Yellow Pages, one of the other regulars recommended a chap who comes in at lunchtime, so I got his name from behind the bar and, hey presto, he's taking a look at my kitchen tomorrow.

What makes the London local especially fascinating is the variety of people you meet. Once the office workers have gone, about 8-ish, a sort of UN convenes at one end of the bar. We have a couple of US colonels (one navy, one marines) and a sprinkling of South Africans and Australians. The landlord, Gary Griffin, is Irish and one of the barmen is Portuguese.