My son crashed through a window on Monday. . . and showed me what really matters at Christmas

Potatoes. every year i forget something crucial, so it was that on christmas eve, when most sane people are settling into their third eggnog, i was shoulder-to- shoulder with all the other Yuletide inadequates, frantically scrabbling for the last bag of King edwards in Waitrose.

I had just secured my bounty when the mobile rang. it was my 14-year-old son. ‘Hello,’ i said cheerily. ‘How are things?’

He replied with a howl of anguish. it took me several minutes to establish the precise details of his predicament, but in essence it appeared he had tripped over the christmas tree and fallen through the plate glass French windows.

I asked him to switch his phone to FaceTime and was confronted with a white-faced child with a huge gash on his shoulder — about 10cm long and deep enough so you could see the bone and tissues. on the same arm, a strip of flesh was hanging, like something out of a horror movie.

I put down the spuds and ran. it took me about ten minutes to get home, by which time he was sitting on the stairs with the front door open, shaking and covered in bloodied kitchen towels.

His lips were blue, and the hall was looking distinctly Quentin Tarantino. Both French door windowpanes were jagged, gaping holes. carpet, presents, tree were all covered in a fine spattering of blood.

On my dash back i’d managed to call an ambulance. While waiting for it, i remembered a distant firstaid course and did my best to apply pressure to the gaping wounds.

His main concern, bless him, was that i would be cross because of the broken windows and ruined carpet. By the time the ambulance crew arrived the situation was a little more under control. My daughter had mopped up a lot of the blood and Will had calmed down considerably.

in fact, the crew seemed more concerned for my husband, who was gasping for air having sprinted back from the Tube station. Not until they saw the lacerations did they realise we weren’t timewasters. Their eyes widened, the nurse visibly gagged and not long after we were on our way to a&e.

i won’t bore you with the details of the next seven hours, save to say that we were looked after brilliantly at the hospital by staff who stitched the boy up a treat.

We emerged late into a cold, crisp christmas eve, my son excited at the prospect of some thrilling scars with which to wow the girls, already sharing the gruesome pictures on Snapchat.

This time of year seems to always go hand-in-hand with disaster, from exploding ovens to explosive rows (i remember one Vine family christmas when relations were so bad i actually had to put my father on a plane back to italy). But even by our standards, this has been rather a shocker.

it’s not just the what-ifs that haunt me. That, had he fallen an inch to the side either way, he could easily have severed a ligament or, much worse, an artery. or if had i missed his call — as i often do — i might not have got home in time. it’s the fact that, when it comes to christmas, we really have lost the plot. it has become such a silly, stressful, over-hyped time of year.

We agonise over finding just the right present, sourcing the perfect turkey (bankrupting ourselves in the process), over-eat, over-drink, over-think the whole damn thing.

But at the end of the day, none of it really matters. What’s important are the ones you love, and their health and happiness.

in striving so hard for the material things it becomes all too easy to overlook what’s really important. To take for granted the things that are truly precious. AND

life — the life of those we love — is so fragile. it can turn on a sixpence, whether by natural disaster (the terrible tsunami that has claimed so many lives in indonesia) — or simple accident ( tripping over the christmas tree).

Had Will’s Guardian angel not been paying close attention this christmas eve, i could have been facing a very different christmas from the one i’ve just enjoyed.

instead, i had the pleasure of being dragged out of bed at silly o’clock by him as usual, of seeing the smile on his face as he unwrapped his presents, of making him pigs in blankets and scrambled eggs for breakfast.

i even rather enjoyed the traditional row between him and his sister over Monopoly.

in fact, i’ve had the best present of all. a truly special christmas Day, one with real meaning — and full of gratitude for my great good fortune in life.