SOURCE: "Melancholy Pleasures," in The Times Literary Supplement, No. 4420, December 18-24, 1987, p. 1405.

It is ten to eight in Illyria, snowing, and Christmas is well under way. There are plenty of drinks and jokes, a tree and presents, as well as songs and hangovers. The twelve days of Christmas pass; there is more snow; time untangles the lovers' knot and Malvolio swears his revenge: it is still ten to eight on the grandfather clock. So many things have happened: the usual family rows and disagreements, barely suppressed jealousies and resentments, choice specimens of bad behaviour and semi-private romantic intrigues are all remembered through a haze of drinks which satisfy various appetites; Christmas has come and gone again, but clock-time for once has stood still. Illyria is not hot and sunny, but neither is it really cold. It has that warm dampness that comes with snow—a place somewhere between...