Sams...

Spent Christmas Eve in Hebden Bridge. I popped into my old local, where conversations seemed to revolve around what would be the main attraction the following day: turkey, goose, pheasant, pork or - this being Hebden Bridge - lentil soup. A few folk were rehearsing the arguments they would be having in a few hour’s time, once they’d been fortified by a few glasses of Bailieys. I had an early night…

Many years ago I got sick of the ludicrous excess that typifies the average Christmas Day, and I was equally sick of the sound of my own voice whining about it. So I would put my name down for a long shift at Samaritans on Christmas Day. It was always the right place to be, never wrong. It felt realistic to acknowledge that Christmas, for many people, was a particularly unhappy time of year. Lonely people felt even more isolated. People felt obliged to spend money they hadn’t got, putting themselves into debt for months. Closetted in a room for a few hours, with too much to eat, too much to drink and festive rubbish on TV, disfunctional families were liable to implode.

Callers didn’t have to plaster on a fake smile and pretend that everything was OK. They could say how they were really feeling. It may have been as cathartic for the volunteers as it was for the people on the other end of the phone. Christmas was generally a busy time at Samaritans. I felt I was doing something useful by being there, giving callers my undivided attention. The Samaritans branch in Halifax was warm and welcoming, and I didn’t mind the decorations, the tiny Christmas tree, the biscuits, the box of Quaity Street chocolates and the cards hung around the room… many of them from people thanking us for being there when they needed us.

If there’s really such a thing as the spirit of Christmas, I found it there. I wish I was there today…