In the bleak mid-winter, illness will ruin your Christmas

We idealise Christmas – of course we do. Family, presents, good food, church bells, roaring fires inside, softly falling snowflakes outside: a time to rejoice in the good that we see, to borrow a festive phrase.

The reality doesn’t always work out like that. Familial rows, gifts you don’t want, overcooked sprouts, stifling central heating and walks in the rain: the Christmas we get we deserve, to borrow another.

Illness besets many a winter holiday. As a child, I habitually developed a cold on or around 23 December; the come-down after a tiring term at school. In my late teens and twenties, pre-Christmas parties would take a similar toll and have the same consequences. I think I’ve got a sniffle coming on as I write.

Eight years ago, Christmas Day had started well. There was a covering of snow on the ground from an earlier fall; our daughter Beatrix was just about old enough to know something magical was happening; we had sung carols heartily; a goose was in the oven and the fire was lit.

As we ate lunch though, I started to wonder if I was quite alright. I didn’t fancy any pudding, nor a third glass of plonk. Maybe it was just a bit stuffy in the house, I thought. Once the washing up had been done, with Beatrix angling for a trip out in her buggy, I decided to take her down the hill to the park. Fresh air would do me good.

Wrapped up against the bitter chill, boots and buggy wheels crunching over the crisp snow, we made our way along the pavement, Beatrix gazing up from beneath blankets, her head hatted and hooded. Most folk had sensibly stayed indoors, or had got their Christmas walks out of the way in good time. The park was empty – almost desolate, but icily beautiful.

I put a rug on the toddler swing and then slotted Beatrix in, before adding another blanket. She was too small to hold on properly but I pushed her gently back and forth, a small bundle of furry onesie swinging in the fading light. I realised quickly that I was sweating, though the exertion was minimal. Beatrix stared at me, unconcerned.

The half kilometre trudge back up the hill, skidding occasionally where the snow had compacted to ice, was slow. Beatrix continued to gaze contentedly from the warmth of her buggy; I sweated ever more profusely. By the time we reached home, it was almost dark. I gathered up my bundle of child and struggled vainly to collapse the pram with one hand.

Inside, all was warm and calm. I handed over my composed child to her mother and announced that I was going to bed. When I woke a few hours later, drenched and shivering, I realised that the heavy colds I’d characterised as flu in the past were nothing of the sort. This was the real deal, full-blown.

In my delirium I told my wife I thought perhaps I was dying. She, being a good nurse, assured me I was not – and suggested that next year I get vaccinated.

Perfect Christmases are wonderful. But they’re not always as memorable as the ones that turn out to be turkeys.