It may not be cool but I have the hots for a mug of mulled wine - Susan Morrison

It's regarded as deeply naff these days. Foodies curl their upper lips in disdain at the mere thought, but I care not a jot. I like the stuff, particularly when drunk outside, just as darkness falls and the Christmas lights take centre stage.

Susan’s very own seasonal tradition is to find a quiet spot at Edinburgh’s Christmas market – not so easy these days, she admits –  and warm up with a mug of Glühwein while admiring the view

It's my very own Christmas tradition. Every year I take a little moment to myself. I find a quiet corner up at the Market - harder to do these days, I’ll admit - cup my hands around a mug of mulled warm wine and admire the view.

It started twenty years ago when the market was most definitely German. It’s just ‘Christmas’ now. Not sure why they binned the Teutonic branding. They’ve still got the same stalls selling wooden festive decorations, enthusiastically sized sausages and lumps of pink salt that light up when you put tealights in them. Never quite understood why our German cousins were so keen on glow-in-the dark sodium chloride, but totally on board with their concept of warmed-up spiced plonk.

These days every supermarket from Waitrose to Aldi stacks its shelves with heat-and-drink bottles, but back then it was a new thing. We’d just got our heads around the idea of pubs selling decent chill-and-drink wine by the glass, so the notion of hot stuff drunk outside blew our little minds. You got a mug as well, if you didn’t go back for the deposit. I think we’ve still got one lurking at the back of a cupboard.

It’s mildly surprising that Scots should be startled by steaming booze in a mug. After all, we're really no strangers to boozed-filled steaming mugs, particularly at the office Christmas party. And, lest we forget, we gave the world the hot toddie. It's the same idea, although we gave it the particularly Presbyterian twist of being for purely medicinal purposes only. To be fair, it does seem to cure many a wee sore throat. In fact, almost miraculously. Why, it's almost like the tonsils weren’t inflamed at all.

On that Christmas long ago, the whole market only took up the space outside the Gallery. The gardens were in darkness, and no-one shrieked overhead on that mad demonic flying chair. The tree on the Mound was chic in white bulbs.

I was shopping alone. Infinitely preferable. Even further back in time, I used to invite my husband to join me. Rookie error. It was like dragging a dog to the vet. He used to stand outside shops looking like a particularly depressed Bloodhound. Yorkshiremen under attack, or in a retail situation, can generate a forcefield channeling "Wet Sunday in Scarborough". People used to pass him and unaccountably burst into tears. I got the hint and left him at home.

That year I crossed over to the market just as snow was coming down, and thought, by jiminy, I shall treat myself to a Glühwein. It was utterly lovely. Two things happened. One, I warmed up, and two, the spiced booze hit my brain. Fuelled and infused, I hit the shops like Mrs Genghis Khan with a credit card. The presents were amazing that year, if a bit eccentric.

Everyone should have their own little Christmas tradition.