WELL, how was it for you? Me, I'm all carolled out. I've presided at ten carol services here in the City of London since December 5. These were mainly for Livery Companies, charitable organisations which had their origin in the medieval trades guilds.

From the beginning of the month the Christmas tree lit the church porch and the crib was lovingly decorated. Here come 200 movers and shakers from the City for their carol service. The lights are dimmed and the exquisite soprano begins the solo first verse of Once In Royal David's City. The robed procession moves slowly up the aisle and the congregation joins in the second verse, producing a warm swell of sound that fills the Gothic space. Except it isn't quite like that...

The accomplished choir has prepared thoroughly and they sing the sublime traditional carols, I Saw Three Ships, and Christina Rossetti's heartbreaking poem, In The Bleak Midwinter, to the matchless tune by Harold Darke. Not a dry eye in the house. At least that's how it used to be when I came to the City nearly ten years ago. Now a good number of the congregation talk among themselves. So when the ravishing line asks: What shall I give him, poor as I am? it is to the background chunter of "rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb".

You would think that seven City men who have enjoyed long careers at the top of their professions would be able to read a few verses apiece from the English Bible. But most of them can't. They read without understanding, stressing minor words like unto. They can't read audibly either - not even through a top-of-the-range PA system. All rush and babble. Not many years ago, they would have made an effort, prepared the reading, so that they could make a fair show on the night.

Puzzlingly, they all say on the way out how much they have enjoyed the service. So what was it they enjoyed? Not the music, for many whispered small talk all through it. Not the meaning of the lessons, for generally these were articulated as if they had been English as a foreign language. No - the enjoyment is only sentimental. It is the idea of the carol service that appeals to them, conjuring a faded childish nostalgia. The result? Alas, not the Word made flesh - only a lukewarm and vaguely detached emotionality.

But rejoice! All was redeemed at the last carol service of all. This was for EDF Energy (the London Electricity Company as was). The firm puts on a lavish day in town for its retired workers. They shop, enjoy a slap-up lunch and then roll into St Michael's in the evening for carols, mince pies and wine. Four hundred of them this year. I should say these were not posh people like the liveried classes, but working folk like my dad, who worked as a fitter, and my mum, who served in a shop in the 1950s. But boy, they knew their manners! They knew how to behave in church. They sang the congregational carols lustily and listened entranced to the choir.

They didn't chatter among themselves and there was no shuffling about in the pews. Now I don't want to re-open class warfare, especially not at Christmas, but it's instructive to note which of all my congregations at Christmastime knew how to conduct themselves. They got more out of it by so doing. It was lovely - what my mum used to call "a proper going on".

* Peter Mullen is Rector of St Michael's, Cornhill, in the City of London, and Chaplain to the Stock Exchange.