I feel I ought to explain why Christmas is so important to me. For as long as I can remember, I have loved Christmas. As in, more than is deemed normal. I hear about this tradition of the annual Christmas family row, but this is something I have no experience of. I can't comprehend how anyone can be angry when all you do all day is eat delicious food and exchange presents.

Let me explain my Christmas Day. It begins with my big sister and I opening our stockings together. We don't have the kind of stocking you can buy from Selfridges etc., we each have a long sock that gets stuffed with tiny gifts. They look like this:

We open all the little presents in our pyjamas (I have Christmas pyjamas that have gingerbread men on), then we go downstairs for Christmas breakfast. This is no ordinary breakfast; it is like the ultimate hotel breakfast. There are cereals, porridge, continental meats and cheeses, game pie, different breads...it really is the king of breakfasts. It looks like this:

After Christmas breakfast, we get dressed, put Classic FM on in the living room, and gather in our respective positions around the tree with a glass of champagne each. Mommy and Daddy sit on the sofa, Christine in the big armchair, Grandma in the smaller one, and me on the floor by the tree, as I am the distributor of the presents.

So I pass around all the presents, giving them out in turn so no one is left out. I like to leave mine to the end because I like watching everybody else open theirs. Also because it makes me feel like I have lots. Once all the presents have been opened and appreciated, Daddy lights the fire, Mommy goes and makes sure dinner is coming along nicely, and it’s usually ready mid-afternoon.

After dinner, Christine and I are usually in the living room, watching whatever film the BBC/ITV have decided to show that year, Mommy and Daddy are doing the washing up in the kitchen, and Grandma is in her room watching whatever she wants. Then in the evening, the Easts come over and we all exchange presents and watch Doctor Who. We have Christmas cake and Wensleydale (apparently it’s a Northern thing but it is what I know and it is scrummy), and eventually they go home.

And that is our day! For three years in a row, that was taken away from me. In 2007, I was HDU on Ward 15, six days post BMT. All my presents had to able to cleaned with alco-wipes, and my Christmas dinner was not of its usual standard. In 2008, I was five days post liver transplant, woken up by an ultrasound technician scanning my abdomen, and I couldn’t eat a damn thing. The smell of hot food made me gag, and it was probably the worst Christmas ever. In 2009, I had flu, aspergillus, rhinovirus and shingles and was an inpatient. They let me go home for the day itself, but by the end of Doctor Who I was begging to go back to hospital because I was in desperate need of oxygen. So now my Christmas is precious, because it is the time of year that I can give back to the family that have given me so much. My excitement builds once I’ve bought all the presents, and I’ve wrapped them in whatever theme I’ve chosen. I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces. I’m not brilliant at saying how I feel out loud, and I like to think that the gifts I choose convey just how much they all mean to me. I always make a list of what I want, so my mum can let everyone else know what to buy me, but this year there’s nothing material I can ask for. I just want my family, and to be able to enjoy my favourite day of the year with those I love.