Stop asking me how my Christmas was

IAM officially over being asked how my Christmas went. Especially as it was a mixed bag. I arrived home on December 21 after an eventful evening (met a guy at a party, we fell in love and will positively never see each other again) and landed in Cork with a level-9 hangover.

After a day’s recuperation in bed drooling on myself, I felt better, went shopping, cooked, saw friends and family. Things were looking up until my dad knocked on my door to wake me at 5am on Christmas Eve morning. He was worried because my mum, who had been feeling sick for weeks, had taken a turn for the worse in the night. She was unable to stand or speak and was sweating and shivering at the same time. My dad, who loves her dearly, was not handling this well.

We took her to the doctor, then to A&E. Christmas Day was spent sitting beside her, still in my pyjamas in the hospital as she was hooked up to drip after drip.

The staff were amazing — patient and kind, and one of them was smoking hot — but no one wants to be in hospital on Christmas Day, especially when you haven’t brushed your teeth in 24 hours.

When I eventually went home to shower, change and see if the dog had committed suicide, I decided I could handle Christmas dinner, even a day late, so I started peeling an unnecessary amount of onions and googling ‘how to roast potatoes’. I made bread sauce (edible), stuffing (tasty), carrots (both raw and burnt, which is quite an achievement) and the all-important roasties — which instead of being little pillows of soft fluffy spud were slippery, waxy and tough. Another culinary first.

So yes, I’ll happily tell you how my Christmas was, but you might be sorry you asked.