When I first moved to the UK, I kept hearing about a mystical period of time between the start of December and New Year’s in which work is put to one side, Thursday afternoons are spent in the pub and it becomes socially acceptable to be hungover in office guzzling Lucozade and emergency Kit Kats.

I am talking, of course, about silly season, that halcyon stretch of four or so blissful weeks where Britain starts locking in for the festive period and adopts a boozy, devil-may-care, we’re at work but are we really at work attitude to the last stretch of the year.

Unfortunately, I developed a full-blown alcohol allergy a few years ago, which means that such half-cut delights are now firmly in my rear-view mirror – and trust me when I say that the festive run-up to Christmas takes on quite a

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