Jews can have full-on Christmas addictions too… if you shake us, do we not jingle?

As lockdown November shuffles to its end, a magical, tinselly feeling has begun to descend. I’ve begun humming Silent Night while out jogging and furtively browsing Yule logs online. For I am, to my very mincemeat, a Christmas addict with all the trimmings… a full-on nutcracker fiend and sugarplum-junkie.

Because I’m Jewish, some people seem astonished to learn that I’m so devoted to Christmas. But Jews, like everyone, can absolutely appreciate the twinkly, jolly magic this time of year… if you shake us, do we not jingle?

True, I leave the religious stuff to other people (though I adore Carols from Kings), but I’m all in for champagne at breakfast and Nigella’s potatoes and the Queen’s Speech. I love snoring through an old James Bond with a paper crown slipping off my head and my hand in the Quality Street tin.

And yet… I do draw a line. I obviously won’t go to church but I also don’t put up any decorations or a tree. Whenever I find myself reaching for the baubles, my internal rabbi raises his eyebrows.

It’s just my choice and I’d never judge anyone for going Full Santa’s Grotto (or indeed — like some American Jews — skipping the whole day in favour of a Chinese meal). I’ve got a very fabulous friend who is more Jewish than Chanukah, whose house becomes 99 per cent tinsel at this time of year. When all is said and done, I say enjoy the sparkle wherever you can.

As the Gay Best Friend to literally dozens of women, I am always ready to be a listener, shrink, concierge and cheerleader. In those various roles, I’ve heard hundreds of stories about how my friends have negotiated this strange and gruelling year. It’s easy to forget just how different some people’s experiences have been… there’s many who’ve had it unbearably hard, but also some have done rather well. They’ve created wonderful businesses or won promotions or completed amazing projects. Interestingly, what I’ve heard from the successful ones is that it’s actually been tougher for them to tell friends when things are going well.

I suppose it makes sense. There’s always a thriving market for tragedy; some commiserating out of genuine kindness, some to inflate their own egos or to acquire a bit of juicy gossip. Success is often a harder sell. We need to remember that while it’s often easy to sympathise with disaster, oddly it’s sometimes harder to be there when our friends are thriving. True friendship involves both.

In other news, before lockdown hit I got myself the most insanely, eye-poppingly beautiful personal trainer. He’s also incredibly charming, ludicrously clever and — it’s actually worth mentioning twice — jaw-droppingly handsome.

And yet, when I was around him there was zero tingling in my tingly bits — just the same awestruck sensation I get when I gaze at my gorgeous girlfriends or the Mona Lisa.

But despite that, something strange would happen: while we were training, I found I was feeling weird and creepy whenever I looked at him.

It didn’t make any sense, until I realised it was the sensation of other people judging me. I could feel a hundred eyes rolling as I watched him demonstrate 20 impeccable squats. They’d all assumed I was sweatily perving.

Once we start hard training again, I’ll just have to learn to stop caring… either that or take a megaphone and announce regularly that he’s not my type. I’ll see how I feel…