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This individual has long been known as a bigger-than-life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to another brandy. During family gatherings, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the shameless infidelity of assorted players from the local club during the last four decades.

It was common for us to pass the morning of Christmas Day with him and his family, then departing for our own celebrations. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, with a glass of whisky in hand, suitcase in the other, and sustained broken ribs. He was treated at the hospital and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

Time passed, yet the humorous tales were absent like they normally did. He maintained that he felt alright but his condition seemed to contradict this. He attempted to go upstairs for a nap but was unable to; he tried, cautiously, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, my mum and I decided to take him to A&E.

The idea of calling for an ambulance crossed our minds, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Worrying Turn

When we finally reached the hospital, he had moved from being unwell to almost unconscious. People in the waiting room aided us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of institutional meals and air filled the air.

Different though, was the spirit. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit all around, despite the underlying clinical and somber atmosphere; tinsel hung from drip stands and bowls of Christmas pudding congealed on tables next to the beds.

Positive medical attendants, who certainly would have chosen to be at home, were moving busily and using that charming colloquial address so particular to the area: “duck”.

A Quiet Journey Back

When visiting hours were over, we headed home to chilled holiday sides and Christmas telly. We saw a lighthearted program on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

While our friend did get better in time, he had actually punctured a lung and went on to get deep vein thrombosis. And, even if that particular Christmas isn’t a personal favourite, it has become part of family legend as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, I couldn’t possibly comment, but its annual retelling has definitely been good for my self-esteem. In keeping with our friend’s motto: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.