Disclaimer

This blog entry may contain mild illness, questionable pedestrian crossings, excessive board games, Romanian food served by volume rather than portion, and two nurses doing a consistently poor job of looking after each other. No Santas were interviewed for this article. All hot chocolates were clinically indicated.

Just before Christmas 2025, it was my turn.

Not metaphorically.
Not spiritually.
But violently.

Somewhere between “I feel a bit off” and “I am now negotiating with the bathroom tiles,” I developed a festive combination of violent sickness and fevers. The sort that decisively rules out work, clinics, and the illusion that adults are in control of their schedules.

Tuesday and Wednesday were written off.

This was inconvenient, as Wednesday afternoon was meant to involve us calmly driving to Manchester after my clinic. Instead, my wife was already on annual leave, our son was off school and fully committed to Christmas, and I was horizontal, pale, and reassessing my career in hydration management.

By some miracle — or possibly stubbornness — I partially recovered by late Wednesday afternoon. Not well, but upright enough to travel without breaching basic safety legislation. And so, later than planned, we made our way north.

Originally, we were staying with our son’s godparents. However, they were mid-purchase, mid-exchange, and mid-property chaos. As a result, we had booked a hotel for three nights just outside the Trafford Centre.

According to Google Maps, this hotel was:

“A pleasant 6-minute walk.”

This was technically true, if one enjoys crossing several major roads while questioning urban planning choices.

Still, it had beds. At this stage, that felt luxurious.

Christmas Eve arrived. Our son very reasonably announced that it wouldn’t matter if Santa didn’t come to the hotel — the presents could wait until we were home.

This was sensible.
Measured.
Naïve.

Santa, it turns out, knows exactly where you are.

Despite the absence of a chimney and the presence of key-card security, Santa somehow entered our hotel room during a freezing night and left presents. No witnesses. No explanation. Just evidence.

Christmas morning was therefore spent opening presents in a hotel room, which felt surreal but efficient.

Highlights included:

• A kids’ smartwatch (prompting immediate parental concern)
• Potion Explosion, because Santa respects quality board games
• Two STEMgineers engineering boxes, where children build actual things and parents quietly Google “recommended age”

Santa has also committed us to a subscription model of monthly engineering challenges throughout the year. A bold long-term strategy. Cheaper than therapy.

Santa also hadn’t finished shopping.
Lost Ruins of Arnak appeared — a clear sign that Santa understands deck-building, worker placement, and the importance of cardboard archaeology.

My wife received a new tennis racket, confirming that Santa is fully aware of competitive parenting logistics and early-morning court bookings.

With presents concluded, we headed to Gabby and Dan’s house for Christmas celebrations — Romanian style.

For the uninitiated, Romanian Christmas involves:

• Cooking everything
• Serving food by the bucket
• Continuing to serve food regardless of protests

Sixteen people, including several children, spent the day eating, laughing, drinking, and talking over each other at increasingly impressive volumes. Board games were produced (by yours truly), food kept appearing unprompted, and nobody left hungry or emotionally under-stimulated.

It was excellent.

The following day, we embraced our Manchester location properly and visited the snow centre just outside the Trafford Centre — somewhere we’d been before for wintery chaos involving slides and physics-defying children.

This time, however, it was serious.

My wife had organised a ski lesson for our son. Given that the South West of England offers many fine things — rolling hills, rain, and tennis courts — but no actual snow centres, this felt like an opportunity.

He loved it.

More importantly, he was actually not bad for a first attempt. In a -5°C indoor snow environment, he skied with enthusiasm, balance, and minimal gravity-related incidents. Watching him beam with joy while we observed safely from above — hot chocolates in hand, warmth intact — felt like a rare parenting win.

On the way back, we stopped at Dunham Massey, a truly mahoosive National Trust property with a deer park.

To our genuine astonishment, several deer — including three extremely mature specimens — wandered calmly across our path about four to five metres in front of us. Close enough to appreciate their size. Close enough to reconsider who had right of way.

The drive home was filled with chatter: skiing, food, deer, games. The illness felt distant. Christmas felt complete.

Naturally, this could not last.

After a quiet weekend of recharging — shopping, laundry, low ambition — it became my wife’s turn to fall ill. Flu-like symptoms combined with profound tiredness.

Luckily, it was now my turn to be on annual leave.
Unluckily, I am apparently very bad at looking after my wife.
(A known issue, especially when both spouses are nurses.)

By Monday, she was unable to get out of bed for the Bank shift she had arranged. Tuesday followed suit.

Monday, however, was already booked: a cinema trip with our son.
Zootropolis 2 is out — and, to be fair, it was quite good.

Life slowly crept back into her over Tuesday, and this morning — the last day of the year — she was well enough to return to work.

And so here we are.

Current status:

• This article being finished while our son eats breakfast
• Washing already in the machine
• Gammon in the slow cooker, bathing optimistically in pineapple juice
• Outside Christmas decorations scheduled for removal

I’ll likely be back writing on Friday evening — after our son’s first tennis tournament of 2026 — with an update on:

• Whether we survived my New Year’s Eve cooking
• And how he got on at the first U9 Dragon Tour of the year

For now, 2025 ends not with a bang, but with laundry, gammon, and cautious optimism.

Which feels exactly right.