In a year where personal sacrifice for safety has become normality, I have attempted as much as anybody that I know to restrain the selfish thoughts that creep up on occasion. Yet on a cold Thursday Advent evening, they begin to overwhelm as I am stood on a train station platform. I quiver my limbs slightly in an attempt to fight off the cold and the need for a bathroom break, and can’t help but look across the car park to the dark lifeless pub and feel a twinge of unalterable longing. The pub itself is not a remarkable one. Owned by one of the region’s large family breweries, it had just had a generic refit that removed some of its lasting character to me. But it is a pub nevertheless and, in the season of twinkling lights and compulsory merriment, every pub comes into its own. It is a time for the unleashing of ‘80s decorations that wouldn’t dare adorn people’s houses in 2020; streamers and tinsel clung to the ceilings and light fittings. The hastily dusted off plasti