Down by the riverside at Chanukah and Christmas.

Down by the riverside at Chanukah and Christmas.

You could hardly have imagined a more idyllic sight. London was wearing one of its glamorous dresses, a wondrous combination of Victorian brocade, sparkling sequins, a debonair swagger in its step, a beautiful rose in its suit lapel and a handsome glance across the River Thames.

Last night the Jewish Police Association held its annual Chanukah, a warmly observed tribute to the Jewish festival of lights. Nestling comfortably next to Old Father Thames, policemen and women from the whole of the Jewish community gathered together for an evening of civil pleasantries, food, drink and Israeli dancing of the highest calibre.

Not a million miles away from Westminster, that bearpit of indecision and political warfare, most of us had found a welcoming sanctuary where we could all gather our thoughts, look at life from a completely detached viewpoint and retain absolute impartiality. But it was now our eyes were held spellbound by the magnificence and timelessness of it all, London at her most aristocratic and distinguished, a London that by night has rarely looked so stunning, so light, so at peace with itself.

It suddenly occurred to you that had you taken a stroll along the Embankment roughly 40 or 50 years ago London would not have looked nearly as good as it does now. The view across the River Thames last night was one that would have been regarded as unrecognisable to the human eye compared to the one we saw last night. London was a blaze of colour, a surge of electricity, a powerful force for good, good looking, so refined and wouldn't you like to know what was going on in its mind?

We made our way onto the viewing platform on the New Scotland Yard balcony and gazed across that famous old stretch of water, serene, historic, contented, smooth, flowing, fluent, completely unhurried and totally unaffected by the crazy amateur theatrics going on in the nearby House of Commons. In fact this whole scenario could hardly have been in such stark contrast to the mad turbulences and tantrums ripping up the seats of democracy and driving some of us deep into the land of irritation, annoyance and just utter indifference.

For once it was good to see the River Thames in its most flattering light, a rose tinted vision of old fashioned romanticism, glowing health and some of the most astonishing colours your eye would ever behold. Decades ago London was a city of dull dowdiness and gloomy, glowering greyness when everything looked miserable, depressing, dispirited, drained and debilitated.

On frequent excursions to the West End it almost seemed as if London's once vibrant life force had been sucked out of it, a London was that desperately sad and forlorn somehow hoping that one day it would feel much better about itself than might otherwise have been the case. The City of London, certainly on a Sunday during the 1970s, was  a mass of soulless, dreary looking financial buildings that bordered on the grotesque. To some extent that may still be the case but the monochrome quality has now been replaced by something altogether more exciting and much more pleasing to the eye. London's charm offensive had done it again.

Move further into the heart of the West End and we found ourselves slap bang in the middle of a spectacular light show. At the heart of it all there was the London Eye, that glorious structure that dominates the whole of the River Thames, an architectural wonder that can never be mistaken for anything else. Lit up in the most dazzling red, the London Eye looked for all the world like a giant car wheel.

For several moments or two you were reminded, quite obviously of that childhood fairground of youth when all the kids would scream at the tops of their voices. But last night the London Eye looked as though it had closed down or stopped, a motionless wheel. Perhaps it was just emotionally exhausted or just fancied a break from the toils of the day. Maybe it was on strike, a militant and non conformist wheel who refused to be told what to do and preferred the quiet life.

And yet for the best part of the evening the London Eye just stood there, waiting for something or just gearing up for the imminent festivities. Beside it, there seemed what can only be described as a necklace of lights strung together fetchingly on the river wall. Then there was the Shard, even in dark anonymity, a moody swirl of pink, black and red shadows teasing the eye with its subtle changes.

To my far left you could see what resembled the biggest red thermometer you're ever likely to see on London's South Bank. So it was that we began to find why a thermometer was stuck by the rivers edge. It was one of two fairground attractions, a ride that took you spinning and soaring into the air in seats that were suspended way above the ground. Here was London re-discovering its childhood.

Somebody had told me about the Christmas market that was presumably doing a roaring trade. Next to the market was the most divine looking children's fairground that looked as if it had been borrowed from an obliging fairy tale or nursery rhyme. In the distance there were quaint mini merry go rounds, tiny carousels and chocolate box rides for the children.

Next to the London Eye there was a building that appeared as if somebody had punched a thousand holes into it with a hole puncher. Tiny portholes peeped out of the darkness, a building with the strongest foundations and one that may well have been in the same place for hundreds of years.

It was difficult to see but my wife pointed out the Walkie Talkie and then much to my delight The Festival Hall, still the home of classical music which  had undergone the most remarkable transformation. From what I can remember the Festival Hall had always looked under the weather. poorly and terribly jaundiced. Now though it had come to life, a yellow and green fluorescent glow of light that shone vividly and prominently in the dark winter murk.

But then your eyes were transported to the other end of the Embankment. Deep in the heart of Westminster where parliament passes legislation and plenty of hot air, there was Big Ben. Sadly and deeply regrettably Big Ben is out of business at the moment and looks as though it may be out of action for quite a while. You see the problem is that Big Ben is in urgent need of rest, loving attention and extensive rehabilitation. He's looking a bit peaky and under the weather, all those huge coins that keep him stable and level headed are beginning to look a bit rusty and, quite frankly, Big Ben needs some very private time to himself.

So it is that Big Ben is swathed in big white bandages from bottom of the top. The doctor has seen the patient and the diagnosis is that he's got to take it very easy. He's been there for a number of decades and a clock can only take so much. We did suggest that it take a long holiday just to get away from it all but he would insist that there was nothing dramatically wrong so it's best to leave this grand looking time piece alone for a couple of years at least. We all understand.

We also noticed that they were carrying out much needed structural work on the House of Commons. There are moments when some of its inhabitants may also be in need of urgent counselling. Wrapped around with yet more bandages, the House of Commons doesn't quite know what to do with itself at the moment. The mainstream political parties are like stags locking horns with each other, angry and antagonistic to the bitter end, bombarding personal insults and invective at each other and generally accusing each other of total incompetence.

Now though the House of Commons looks as though it might be in need of a full makeover since it has been there for as long as anybody can remember. The white canvas sheets smothering this political monument looked almost ghostly in the dark but both externally and internally it is a building in severe pain and suffering horribly in every sense of the word.

So it was that we made for home suitably impressed with the evening's entertainment. We'd heard another rousing speech from Metropolitan Police boss Cressida Dick, heartwarming seasons greetings from leading rabbis and Israeli dancing that warmed the cockles of the heart. The dignitaries came and went and the sweet memories of another Chanukah could once again remembered with a quiet relish.

 As one religious festival makes way for another the sense of the year's concluding chapter drawing closer had now come very obvious. It was comforting to know that the River Thames can still show itself off to the rest of the world in a most favourable light.  Shortly, Big Ben will be summoned briefly for the New Year's Day ringing session and the nation will usher in 2019. Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells. Jingle all the Way. It is indeed the season to be jolly.