An apocryphal story, one of my favourites, has been doing the rounds in diplomatic circles for decades. Late one Advent in the middle of the Cold War, the British ambassador to Washington received a call from a local news station, and answered it himself. “Your Excellency,” said a voice at the other end of the line, “what would you like for Christmas?”

“I couldn’t think of accepting anything,” he dutifully replied, but the caller persisted. “You have been so kind to us this year; do please tell us.” Trying to clear his desk and finish signing the last of the embassy Christmas cards, but also not wanting to cause offence, the ambassador gave in. “Fine. What about a small box of crystallised fruit?”