Beauty writers get sent skincare at Christmas; tech journos, I imagine, whatever is the 2020s equivalent of a Sega Mega Drive. As a food writer, I get gifted food. I’m not complaining — I’ll never go hungry, even if the three-month lead times in magazine publishing mean that I end up eating Easter eggs in December.
But for the past couple of Christmases I’ve noticed an unwelcome PR sweetener. The first one this year arrived at the end of November. I gave the tissue-wrapped parcel a hopeful prod — too big for a mince pie, but perhaps a Christmas pudding? Alas, my heart was already sinking faster than a Delia Smith soufflé. The uneven silhouette of a lumpen trapezium was the giveaway. This, without doubt, was a panettone.
