He insisted he was OK, but he didn’t look it, and when he tried and failed to eat Christmas lunch we knew it was time for a mercy dash to hospital
O
ur family friend has always been a larger than life figure. Witty, unsentimental – and not one to say no to another brandy. At family parties, he’s the one gossiping about the latest scandal to catch up with a local MP, or regaling us with tales of the outrageous philandering of various Sheffield Wednesday players over the past 40 years. He could make anything – a jacket potato, a broken relationship – funny, somehow.
We would often spend Christmas morning with him and his family, before going our separate ways. But, one Christmas, about 10 years ago, when he was supposed to be meeting family abroad, he fell down the stairs, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and broke his ribs. The hospital had patched him up and told him not to fly. So, here he was back with us in Sheffield, making the best of it, but looking increasingly peaky.
The morning rolled on but the anecdotes weren’t flowing as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He tried to make it upstairs for a nap but couldn’t; he tried, gingerly, to eat Christmas lunch, and failed. 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. We thought about calling an ambulance, but how long would that take on Christmas Day?
