Christmas, the West End of London and all that jazz.

Christmas, the West End of London and all that jazz.

What a great day for a family day out. The snows had come and gone in a fleeting flurry, the ice had reluctantly gone and it was time for some window shopping in the West End. My wife, daughter, boy friend and father in law had deliberately set out with the sole intention of taking in the festive delights of the commercial wonderland that is Selfridges. Sometimes you just can't get enough of London's stunning department stores. This year, more than ever, the industrious display workers had excelled themselves in much the way they'd always done although that may be open to debate.

So here we are in the middle of the usual spectacle that is Christmas in the West End of London. Now is the time for the customary overblown excess, the harum scarum materialism, the ringing and singing of the cash registers, the hundreds and thousands of shoppers, tourists all hectically rushing, scampering, scurrying, millions of feet pounding along pavements thick with swinging, groaning shopping bags. It's enough to send you crazy if you let it. But this is no nine to five regime.

We witness the same scenes every year and we may never tire of it. Today in the bustling, seething and throbbing West End we find the people of the world, the mesmerising multitudes walking up and down Oxford Street in the most orderly of formations. It wasn't nearly as crowded as it should have been but then there's just over a week or so left and by Christmas Eve it may well be jammed solid and packed. You may have difficulty in finding any space to walk so this could be the time to buy, buy and buy before the doors shut for goodness knows how long.

 These are the people of the West End set, the people who fuel this pre Brexit economy, who fill the aisles of a hundred clothes rails, souvenir and music shops, sports shops, restaurants, cafes, fast food outlets that somehow defy description. Here are the very latest in fads, gadgets, high tech gizmos, frying pans, saucepans, TVs, all manner of high tech mobile phones, sheets and blankets with yellow and purple polka dots, designer cutlery and crockery sets, ovens that can whip up your meals in next to no time. Then there are the jewellery shops with watches that can you tell the time in Hong Kong with just a single swipe of the fingers.

But we were here in the West End to do some intensive market research on life in the West End. We are now ten days away from that good old fashioned Christmas knees up when the families of Britain don silly hats and pull hilarious crackers before diving into another Norfolk turkey. Isn't it wonderful? Our destination was Selfridges but I couldn't help but indulge in some social observation and topical commentary.

We were roughly ten minutes into our expedition when the street theatre of London's West End opened its beautifully decorated curtains. At strategic points of the pavements were situated London's most mellifluous musicians, possibly the finest gathering of instrumentalists ever to assemble in one street. They were all there you know. There was the gentleman playing his accordion, that charming squeeze box that sounds wonderfully European. The shame is though that in two years this may not make for easy listening since Britain will no longer require the services of an accordionist. We're leaving the EU and that's final.

For a moment or two I was suddenly transported to a quaint back street in down town Amsterdam or a pretty market square in Brussels where the sweetest town hall clock strikes up precisely on the half hour and then the hour. But the life of an accordionist looked a lonely and thankless one although our man with the squeeze box did seem to attract a number of admiring glances. There is a jolly, wheezing sound to an accordion that always reminds you of European market squares and busy cafes. But here in the West End it seemed the rarest but most surprising of discoveries.

Oxford Street was always the heartland for millions of tourists from all four corners of the globe. There were the familiar postcards, fridge magnets, badges, mugs, cups, Union Jack stickers, flags and Keep Calm and Drink Coffee signs that always bring them back year after year. Today was no exception to the rule as curious by standers and wandering people watchers strolled up and down that famous West End thoroughfare, enthralled by the Christmas air and ready to embrace the holiday with some relish.

I then encountered some of the best musical instruments ever to play before a captive West End audience. Oxford Street has now become the temporary home for jazzy, funky saxophones, perhaps the most richly satisfying sound ever to grace the West End. On the same street London's celebrated 100 club, a jazz haven for over 60 years now, has entertained those who like their music played to a backdrop of soft and soothing trumpets, smooth and streamlined rhythms, jazzy pianos tinkling sedately in the background and small clouds of cigarette smoke.

Now though the saxophones blasted out the most magnificently upbeat tempos, full of style and suave sensuality, finger clicking numbers that somehow belonged to the 100 club in Oxford Street but were now appearing on the chilly wintry pavements of Oxford Street. There is something so essentially laid backed and relaxed about the sound of the sax that restores your faith in human nature.

Then further along there were the appropriately dressed Christmas tuba players, the eternally smart French horns, the rousing trumpets harmonising perfectly on 'We Wish you a Merry Christmas', Jingle Bells and those standard Christmas favourites that most of us can hum backwards. The music of today had wafted into the London air with its traditional verses and nuanced meanings that send a warm glow down the spine.

And so we end our day back at Selfridge's sampling the rarefied air of this golden Oxford Street venue. We find ourselves at the Selfridge's Food Hall, a gastronomic ghetto where lunch seemed to be the perfect signature to an idyllic early pre-Christmas afternoon. The preferred choice was the salt beef bar. Now for those of us for whom a salt beef sandwich is rather like sipping the finest nectar then you may think there can be nothing like it in the whole wide world. Salt beef is the most logical complement to any lunchtime snack and only matched by its Brick Lane counterpart in both taste and presentation.

We headed for home uplifted by the completeness of the whole Oxford Street experience, the singular magic, the sheer uniqueness of it all, that yearly treat for families, children and adults alike, a place with its very specific appeal to young and old, the magical yearning for even healthier and happier years ahead, the ribboned boxes of Christmas presents and those snowy white windows with sleighs and fairy tale figures.

Still there was the remarkable HMV, a record emporium that some of the traditionalists thought had probably seen better days. There was the horrible feeling that the age of vinyl records would never be available again but I spotted HMV with that famous dog and gramophone and thought I'd gone to heaven. Vinyl had made a major comeback although maybe not on the grandest scale. Now though HMV seems to be hidden away or swallowed up by the larger shopping attractions and those vast brand name conglomerates that seem to tower over the shop.

But I couldn't help but remember the saxophone players with their coin filled caps on the ground. The tunes seemed to echo across the humming, murmuring traffic lanes of Oxford Street. In one shop window a giant red paper mache robin with all the festive trimmings bobbed up and down, bouncing and flouncing languidly without a care in the world. Christmas had made that spectacular return to the West End. All is well in the world and that subtle fragrance of salt beef will linger for quite a while. It's time for another mince pie.