Arabella Byrne

We longstanding residents of Oxfordshire have had a lot to put up with in recent years. First, there were the Beckhams with their faux flat-cap invasion of honey stone Great Tew and queasy talk of 'Golden Beez' honey. Then came Hollywood proper in the form of Ellen de Generes in her quest for ‘Engerland’: a Frankenstein vision of romcom The Holiday and indeterminate fantasies about the Old World. Last, came Maga as American Vice President J.D. Vance’s motorcade howled through the village lanes of Dean last summer. But frankly, we ‘aint seen nothing yet.

Woodcote House, an all-boys’ independent preparatory school of 76 pupils, closed its doors for the last time on 4 July last year. Asked by the editor to write an elegy for the school, I set about making enquiries. Many ran cold. The website had been shut down. Requests to friends who lived in Surrey fizzled out. Not a year after the closure of the 150-year-old institution, all that remained were digital embers: a sad Instagram post in which former parents and friends of the institution mourned its loss; an online Telegraph article detailing the headmaster’s final letter to parents in which he cited the ‘buffeting headwinds’ and a ‘drop in pupil numbers’ of the independent school sector in the aftermath of Labour’s VAT raid.

It’s that time of year again. No sooner have you recovered from Christmas than the posh start talking about their skiing jaunts planned for the February half-term. But let’s use the term posh advisedly, because – make no mistake – skiing is now anything but. Where once flinging yourself down the Cresta Run may have been a solid-gold toff signifier or ‘the Sloanest sport’, according to class anthropologist Peter York, now it simply means that you’re rich. No snow cannon pumping out snow on the low slopes can fool anyone. The fact that ski resorts are now melting before our eyes seems to be where this social morality tale ends. Skiing and British class have long been caught in a complicated embrace.

My husband and I share a bank account, and I don’t care who knows it. This detail lumps us in with many Boomer couples who have typically shacked up together financially – for better or worse, richer or poorer – for the duration of their married life. As (geriatric) millennials, our joint bank account therefore renders us something of an anachronism, but we’re used to this by now. We are outdated and unfashionable in our approach to many things, including (but not limited to) childcare, housework and car management.

In news that will surprise no one, it emerges that vegan children are thinner, shorter and – dare we say it – sicklier than their counterparts. A recent study by the University of Florence details how children who follow a vegan or vegetarian diet are deficient in vitamins and minerals and consistently exhibit a lower BMI than their omnivorous peers. Although children who follow a vegetarian diet consume more fibre, iron, folate, vitamin C and magnesium than omnivores, the only way for plant-based children to grow healthily is with a carefully planned regimen of supplementation – think pills with your brekker every day until you leave home.

A close relation of mine is taking Ozempic. I shan’t name them or give anything else away other than to say this: they are set to ruin our Christmas lunch. They know it, and we know it. Welcome to British Yuletide 2025 – a country where more than 1.5 million people are estimated to be using GLP-1 agonists such as Ozempic, Mounjaro and Wegovy, with the vast majority (90 per cent) obtaining the drugs privately. NHS analysis of Ozempic hotspots reveals Leicester, Thurrock in Essex and the Wirral to be where users congregate. Clearly, they haven’t done an analysis of private users in Oxfordshire where I live.  This being so, we are locked in a curiously modern etiquette conundrum.

Sometime in mid-October, my husband and I begin our annual deliberation: should we host a village Christmas drinks party? The conversation is almost invariably instigated by my charming husband who, mindful of all the invitations we have shamefully yet to reciprocate, feels that we ‘ought to do it this year, at least’. Almost invariably, I am the voice of dissent.  The arguments I give against are motivated by two competing – but not entirely dissimilar – emotions: vanity and concern. Vanity because I worry that my house is neither big enough nor grand enough for the sort of event I have in mind (think something along the lines of a reception at St James’s Palace, complete with hot and cold running staff and Old Masters jammed on to every wall).

Every few years, an obituary for the Sloane Ranger appears. In 2015, the Telegraph proclaimed their death. In 2022, Peter York himself, co-author of The Official Sloane Ranger Handbook, wrote a devastating piece in the Oldie on the ‘End of the Sloane Age’. In it, he cast existential doubt on the species altogether: ‘By 2021, there seemed to be every possible shade of Sloane around in London. But were they really Sloanes at all? It looked as if the only way for a Sloane to succeed was to UnSloane themselves.’  You might think that if York himself had called time, then the death knell must have well and truly sounded. But no.

All I seem to do these days is stand in the school car park having anguished, if largely pointless chats: the Mansion Tax chat. But let’s call it the Mansion Tax Mumble, since none of us seem willing to disclose the actual sum we paid for our houses. Soon we may not have to, since if your house is worth more than £2 million it will become perfectly obvious: you may never move again. It may even become the ultimate status symbol. Anyone planning to sell a house at £2.1 or 2.2 million will have to forget it since no estate agent will bother; no viewings, no clicks, no calls. All you can expect is an apologetic, spivvy estate agent from Savills to tell you that the market is ‘sluggish’ before refusing to take your calls.