The Worshipful Company of Glovers, never knowingly under-gloved, presented me as Lord Mayor with a seasonal portfolio of manual enhancements: a baseball glove for nostalgia, a golf glove for precision, and barbecue gloves for that most perilous of civic duties—turning sausages without revealing manufacturing secrets. The presentation was a masterclass in applied leather economics: diversification, resilience, and a reminder that, in the City, one must always keep a firm grip—preferably with reinforced stitching.
Enter Clive Grimley, Master Glover, who, in a moment of transatlantic mischief, encouraged me to exchange bat for … bat … as he then proceeded to ‘bowl’ one of the Mansion House Christmas tree decorations. The result was less MCC coaching manual, more avant-garde interpretation. As a diplomatic Lord Mayor I tried to adopt a stance suggesting a thoughtful merger between baseball readiness and cricketing uncertainty: front foot negotiating with back office, elbows hedging against volatility, and eyes fixed somewhere between the bowler and a distant derivatives market. It was, in short, a posture of strategic optionality—unlikely to trouble the scorers, but certain to delight the shareholders of good humour.
As the festive season approaches, one is reminded that gloves, like governance, are about fit, flexibility, and knowing when to take them off. Or, as Charles Dickens might have it, “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year”—though perhaps with rather better technique at the crease, and always with the right gloves for the right occasion.
