THE ROYAL ALBERT HALL

"It's like doing a gig round your nan's house," the comic Phill Jupitus once said. I can see what he means. Though plush and accommodating, the Royal Albert Hall does carry a kind of old-fashioned atmosphere with it. There's a sort of prestige that you can't really escape as you wander around the circular corridor, or sit between those grand old pillars beneath that extraordinary roof.

The interior is so famous, I need hardly describe it - the enormous organ, the choir seats either side of its gigantic pipes, the stage where the orchestra sits, the tiny arena and the stacked boxes which curve so delicately around the building, the velvet curtains and the Victorian arches, rising under those acoustic booms that hang mushroom-like from the ceiling. It's one of the most famous concert venues in the world.

Today, there were two sparkling Christmas trees behind the fancy red chairs of the London Concert Chorus. Blue floodlights illuminated the stage, catching a jet-black Steinway, a golden harp and an assortment of stringed instruments and music stands. A silver glitter ball hung delicately above, just catching the light like a disco moon. This was the scene which greeted us for the annual Christmas Carol Singalong.

"It really gets you in the mood, this," said my sister, clutching her champagne flute. She was talking about the atmosphere rather than the inch of sparkling Moët in her glass, but I was left with little doubt that the two things were connected.

They come every year. Her husband used to work at Buckingham Palace (put that eyebrow down - he was a junior health and safety officer) and as a perk he managed to swing tickets to this event some years ago... in the royal box. You have to admit, that is quite a perk: champers and carols in the royal box. While no longer eligible, ever since, he's hired a less prestigious 8-seater box at the Royal Albert Hall and invited his family along for a festive sing song.

That's how we ended up there today, drinking Moët and Chandon. It all felt rather grand, rather posh for the likes of me, anyway.

I've started to wonder whether I've become a bit de-sensitized to Christmas carols. Last year I cycled through twelve different events throughout December, playing and singing the old favourites; this year I've done four with maybe two to go. Is it possible that I'm a bit, well, fed up with them?

"How do you store them all in your head?" asked the Vicar last night at Beer and Carols. Today, as I sat clutching an A4 booklet of things we've all been singing forever, I wondered whether the answer to that question should have been, "Well actually, they're like house guests who turn up every year and refuse to leave." I don't think I could forget the chord shapes if I tried now. They're embedded.

So much so that I saw the music flash past me today as the London Concert Orchestra played their splendid arrangements. F, Gm, Bb, modulation, rallentando... lines and notes flew by, each progression shaping itself into a pattern that made my fingers twitch into position with inescapable muscle-memory.

It's not really a problem. I do actually like these grand old tunes, and some of the words are like gold drops from heaven - even if we sing them glibly without thinking sometimes. I love the descants and I love the bass-lines and I love the volume and joy that these things bring (though I admit, this is the third time I've rambled on about it). Yep, some of them probably do seem old-fashioned. Let's face it, the notion of 5,000 people gathering to sing together is in itself, quite an antiquated thing, isn't it?

Somehow though, in that grand old hall, between the velvet and the marble and the furniture and the fun, it all seemed to fit really nicely together and it was entirely appropriate.