‘It’s for Daisy!’ I retorted, tucking it under my arm along with a box of my favourite chocolates. ‘Perhaps. I’ll decide in the morning.’

Once Jed was driving us home, I tentatively peeked at my phone, which was inundated with photos from the night before. Once the first hospital visitor who’d taken a selfie with me had broken the silence, the others had swiftly followed. My social media was flooded with well wishes and condolences. There was an embarrassing number of comments about how kind and generous I was to take pictures with people when my own grandma was ‘hanging onto life by a thread’. There were plenty also calling me an attention seeker who’d turned a family tragedy into a publicity stunt.

Even as I trawled through the hubbub, I was tagged in a link to a ‘breaking news’ article on my own work website.

Weather Presenter Brings the Sunshine to Local Hospital

Below it were more photographs, taken earlier at the hospital, with a paragraph gushing about how ‘Our Bea’ had selflessly donated all of the gifts from her ‘devoted fans’ to other hospital patients, visitors and staff. I tried not to wince at my frazzled hair and grey eyebags. They weren’t any worse than the previous snaps from the day before.

Jed waited until we were sitting around the table with Mum, Dad, Mia and Henry and then insisted I read it to them.

‘Shouldn’t we update them about Nana Joy first?’ I said, trying to hide my fluster behind a giant mug of tea.

‘I called Jed while you were talking to one of the doctors,’ Mum said. ‘You weren’t answering your phone, and now we know why.’

‘Come on, Sweet-Bea,’ Dad added. ‘We’re dying to hear it.’

I opened my mouth a few times, but couldn’t get further than the first two words. I was still getting used to family showing more than a vague interest in my work. The attention was disconcerting.

‘“Despite the recent weather, there was sunshine all round at one of the Sherwood Forest Hospitals late on Thursday night as local BBC weather presenter, Sherwood Forest’s very own Bea Armstrong, brought Christmas cheer to patients and staff alike…”’ Henry carried on reading the short article, which had clearly been written to squeeze out every drop of festive feelgood possible.

There was a moment’s silence once he’d finished, during which time I tried not to slide under the table and hide behind Dumble and Dash.

‘When did this happen?’ Mum asked, bristling.

‘Just now, before we came home,’ I stammered. Was she really annoyed that I’d given Nana Joy’s gifts away? The chocolates I’d brought back were lovely, and it wasn’t as though Nana Joy could enjoy them.

‘No.’ She shook her head in dismissal. ‘When did you become “Our Bea”?’

The article had called me that four times.