The flawed script – it veers into improbability at a bat mitzvah – hardly matters: the acting is superb and Scarlett Johansson’s direction makes it linger
January 9, 2026 11:45
Christmas came and went. When Jack, my late husband, was given the coveted Christmas episode of Coronation Street to write, his private joke was to have one of the characters, usually Stan Ogden or Albert Tatlock, sigh and say of Xmas: “Well, far away as ever now…”
Well, it is, but it will be Christmas Eve again before you can say Ozempic – and I will still be battling to get back into a size 14. On Christmas Eve, we stumbled upon the film Indecent Proposal on TV. It was as good as I remembered it and the usual discussion ensued afterwards about whether the payment of one million dollars paid by Robert Redford’s character to the woman played by Demi Moore for one night with him was immoral. As ever the consensus was how much we would have paid Robert Redford.
Earlier that day, for contrast, we had a late lunch at the Ukrainian Cathedral in Mayfair with Bishop Ken Nowakowski and six or so of his married priests, their wives and children. It was a feast comprising 12 vegetarian Ukrainian dishes. There were mugs of borscht, braised mushrooms, pierogies, pirozhkis, banosh and – a bit of a struggle this one, especially after Chanukah – garlic doughnuts, all provided by the priests’ wives.
We were two of four Jewish guests, Elizabeth and Stuart were the others. I was glad they were there because my joke about lions and Christians was received with bewildered faces by everyone save them.
“It was the day of Christians and Jews fighting the lions in the amphitheatre and they were not faring well. A little Jewish slave goes in to fight and whispers something in the lion’s ear. The lion skulks away and the slave is freed. Afterwards, the slave is asked what he had said to the lion and he shrugs. ‘I just said, ‘Would you mind saying a few words after you’ve eaten?’”
The feast was held in the beautiful vaulted hall in the bishop’s residence. The priests sang beautifully throughout and the children mounted the dais voluntarily to sing carols. It was utterly lovely. The previous evening, we had hosted Yonatan and Ina Markovitch, the rabbi and rebitzen of Kiev, at home for a delicious Chinese meal (courtesy of Kaifeng). Their resilience breaks your heart. Ina and her team provide food for 100 Jewish Ukrainians every day. Because of the brute that is Putin, they have between three to seven hours of power per day, and in her region, that can start from four in the morning. Therefore, she has to rise at 3.30am to cook and then keep it warm by wrapping it in an Ethiopian knitted wrap. And that is just the tip of it… Here am I, wondering if I have good enough presents for my grandchildren – for a festival we don’t even celebrate – and their lives are enriched by an hour of hot water. And they are laughing at my stories, happy to be with us and share simple pleasures away from the sound of round-the-clock murderous drones.
On Christmas Day, when the scrambled eggs had been scraped out of the pan, the last of the mulled wine swigged and the last guest had returned to retrieve their mobile phone, we sat down to watch something non-festive on television and out of 2,000 channels found what my late father would have called gornisht. One of our brunch guests had mentioned enjoying the film Eleanor the Great at JW3, so my daughter and I cajoled a warm, comfy and recalcitrant David to don coat and muffler and head out into a stiff blast of arctic wind. I’m so glad we did.
It is a flawed film, script-wise, veering off into improbability at a crucial moment during a batmitzvah, but, it sort of doesn’t matter, because it is so brilliantly acted and very well directed – by Scarlett Johansson no less – that I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It is about age, invisibility and loneliness but it touches all of these with such delicacy, and never veers into banal sentimentality.
We were almost alone in the cinema save, unexpectedly, for Anthony and Julia Neuberger and friend and afterwards we all gleefully shared our joy at getting out of the house and away from food. Eleanor wore its Jewishness lightly, which in these times is a rarity, and there are three astonishing performances from June Squibb, aged 92, the Israeli actress Rita Zohar, 81 and the luminous British actress Erin Kellyman. Do yourselves a favour, leave the house for it.
We take so many of our pleasures for granted. On Sunday night we took friends Joanna and Kushi for a birthday dinner at the elegant Brasserie Zédel, which flowed seamlessly into a cabaret in the adjacent room for, Crazy Coqs. I have somehow missed out on rock concerts. I was always doing eight shows a week, staving off a migraine or making a Star Wars cake whenever The Boss, Bob Dylan or Joni came to town. So, I’m still firmly stuck in the era of the crooner and Gary Williams gave us a perfect evening of all the songs we knew and loved from Everybody Loves Somebody and From Russia with Love to Downtown. We sang along, eyes glistening and were home in bed, with my own version of Robert Redford, by 10.30. What’s not to like?
Monday night was another birthday dinner for David’s eldest granddaughter – I’ve married into an enormous family. He has 48 cousins. I have six. This time we went to the Israeli vegetarian/vegan restaurant Bubala, in King’s Cross. It is a tasting menu and I can tell you it tasted tastier than tasty food can taste. As I write this, my size 14 stomach sits seven inches in front of me, resting against the desk and I have taken out a membership for Barrecore.
I am drawing a black veil over my guest appearance on The Masked Singer as a pantomime goose. Sometimes a National Treasure is at leisure and says “yes, with pleasure”, when what she really means is “I’d rather eat my own arm.” Suffice to say what’s sauce for the gander is venom for the goose. On the recording day, some weeks ago now, the weather was torrential as I was led from Winnebago to wardrobe and back to Winnebago and thence to studio, all day until 11 at night, in full goose gear or covered by a black hoodie with PLEASE DO NOT SPEAK TO ME written across the front and a deep visor over my face.
In costume I could only see through a square of gauze in my long goose neck and had no idea how far away the floor was. When I was voted out, in favour of a sprig of mistletoe, I clapped my goose wings together and cried, “YESSSS!” like Patrick Dorgu after that excellent volley goal for Man United against Newcastle. Happy second New Year of our year.
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