Have you ever done something that you know you will have to answer for on the day of judgement? Well, I'm afraid I have!
It happened over 30 years ago: my sixteenth Christmas Day to be exact, but remembering what happened still makes me cringe.

It all started very early on Christmas morning, when I woke up with what I thought was dreadful indigestion. I wasn't surprised, as I had partaken of my fair share of a bottle of whiskey I'd won in a raffle on Christmas Eve. We were spending Christmas with my mother-in-law of six months, as our baby was due in February. She was silently hoping that our first-born would hang on as long as possible, thus hushing the inevitable wagging tongues. Babies however, come when they're ready, as you know!

We were in no rush to tell the family I wasn't well, as neither of us wanted to spoil the day. So we stayed upstairs as long as we could, hoping that the stomach cramps would stop. By 10:30 all the family were in the living room, impatiently waiting for us to get up so they could open their presents. They were all taken aback when I appeared; slightly green tinged and on the verge of tears. I calmed down for a while, but every few minutes I would double up in pain, when another cramp washed over me. As the morning wore on, it became obvious that I needed a doctor, as the pains went from bad to worse. It didn't take long to decide that my indigestion was, in fact, labour. Baby was on the way, whether I, or my mother-in-law liked it or not. My husband was bundled off to fetch my record card from our house, while I was packed off to Morriston Hospital in an ambulance. I'll always be grateful to my sister-in-law for coming with me, as I've never been so petrified.

I'll leave out the gory details of the next few hours, but by 3.45 pm I was the proud mother of a beautiful baby boy. However, a difficult birth and enough stitches to sew a patchwork quilt, had left me feeling exhausted, and more than a little sorry for myself. I was taken to a quiet side ward to recover, while babe was placed in an incubator, as he was very lethargic. (Apparently, that's what happens when Mum drinks whisky the night before, as later blood tests revealed).

When a nurse said she had brought me my Christmas Dinner I sat up in bed, slightly cheered, until I looked at a plate of faggots and peas in front of me. This was it, the final straw, or so I thought.

I could hear him 'Yo-ho-hoing' his way through the ward, long before he got anywhere near my room. I tried to make myself invisible, by sinking lower and lower in the bed; 'Please don't come in here, please don't come in here' was all I could think.
Suddenly he filled the doorway: dressed in the inevitable blood-red and cotton wool-white costume.

"Yo-ho-ho, Merry Christmas! I've got a special delivery for the special delivery!" he boomed.
It was so loud I thought my head was going to explode and I said the first words that came into my mind.
I don't know who was the most shocked; me, Father Christmas, my room-mate, or the nurses.

So one day I will stand before the Pearly Gates, St. Peter will appear, looking very stern and say - "So you're the woman who told Santa Claus to 'eff- off'.... you'd better wait here."

Pam Bollom