Christmas was not a big deal for me. I had never enjoyed it as a child and now that I was grown up I would do anything to avoid it. I was quite convinced that no one would consider buying me a present and I doubted that my family would even notice that I was missing.

That year, 1979, I had at last managed to start studying law at Newcastle University. I planned to work nights shifts in a hospice in north London over the holiday because I was trying to save up for cosmetic surgery on my face.

“You is ugly, ugly, ugly,” my mother had told me when I was a girl, and I had decided to do something about it. It was going to cost £1,500 for my nose and £1,000 for each lip - and then there were the scars left by childhood abuse. I hadn’t even been given a price for removing them.

At the end of term the hall of residence was virtually empty. Isolation and loneliness sent me out for a long walk around Newcastle to clear my head. It was bitterly cold.

The shops were beautiful, full of pretty dresses and beaded cardigans. It had been a long time since I had bought myself any new clothes. But I still knew exactly what I would buy and wear were it not for the lack of money. I was hovering outside a shop by the reduced clearance box when an assistant came out.

“Come in and take a look. We have some really good bargains on our reduced rail.”

“No thank you, I couldn’t. I’ve got no money.”

“Just come and look - after all it’s Christmas.”

I walked into the shop with my jeans tucked into my wellington boots and a large knitted hat pulled down round my head. I looked like Newcastle’s scruffiest bag lady.

As I fingered my way through the “everything must go” rail I found what I was not looking for: a loose pleated gypsy skirt in the colour of fallen leaves - pale burnt orange, a variety of shades of brown and tiny strands of golden thread interlaced in the fabric. I fell in love with it.

“That’s nice,” I said. “Try it on.” “No, I couldn’t.” “It’s reduced to a tenner, but I’ll do it for you for a fiver.”

“Have you got a top to match?” I said, boldly.

“What about this?” she said, picking up an orange jumper. “Both of them for a tenner.”

I got my £10 out before she could change her mind. I decided that I would wear them on Christmas Day.

I travelled down to London on December 22 and went to find my father. When he had won the pools years ago, he had bought lots of houses in Camberwell. I could find him at none of them, however.

The hospice had said there might be accommodation for me, but when I rang it now there was none. It was close to 11pm and I was getting tired running around trying to find my dad.

I remembered that when I was a child there had been a gap in the fence of nearby Kennington Park. I crawled underneath and, behind the swings, I found dense bushes and a bench just as I remembered them. With my bag as a pillow, I lay down and gazed at the stars.

I woke up at first light. The birds were chirping and I could hear the rats in the bushes behind me. The temperature had fallen during the night and I felt quite cold. My neck was stiff. I sensed that I was not alone.

To my left there were men sitting on a bench, one with a large cider bottle in one hand and a can of Guinness in the other. They all wore dirty clothes. It was not until the one with the bottle spoke that I realised she was female. Her front teeth were missing. Her hair was grey and her face orange and purple and mauve.

They appeared to be arguing over the bottle. A man in a duffel coat attempted to grab it and fell off the bench onto his stomach. Another man knocked the bottle out of the lady’s mouth with a backhanded swipe.

Blood running down her chin, she grabbed it back and kicked the fourth member of the party, who was asleep on the ground.

“Wake up yer f*****,” she said, pouring the drink over him. He snorted and groaned but didn’t wake up.

“Why the f*** don’t you lot shut the f*** up. We’re trying to sleep,” said a voice to my right. Underneath the thick undergrowth I could make out a sleeping bag of sorts. There were two heads protruding from it.

“Shut the f*** up yerself,” came the woman’s reply. “Who do you think yous are talking to? You don’t know me, I don’t know you and you telling me to shut the f*** up, when you should be shutting the f*** up.”

She fell sideways onto the bench. The man who had been waiting for his go snatched the bottle and ran off. She struggled after him, shouting as he zigzagged away from her. As they disappeared, a calm fell over the park.

I got myself a warming cup of tea from a cafe then went to the public baths in the centre of Camberwell. When I had scrubbed myself clean, I read in the library until it was time to go to work that evening.

The hospice was full and by eight the next morning I was in desperate need of a bed. I took the bus to 215 Camberwell New Road, one of my father’s houses. He was in the garage playing with his latest car, a Capri.

“La de da. How are you, Clearie?” he said using his pet name for me.

“I’m fine, but I’ve got nowhere to live for the next couple of weeks.”

“What about university?” “I’m on holiday.” “What about Carmen [my mother]?”

“That’s not an option ... You’ve got plenty of houses - surely you can find me a room somewhere?”

My father continued to play with the glove compartment of his Capri and then started to switch the lights on and off. The car was in excellent condition, not a scratch, no blemishes and a silver blue colour under the gleaming polish.

“You should have given me more notice, Clearie,” he said.

I opened the passenger door and, before my father could stop me I was in his Capri with my feet up on the back seat. “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll just sleep here until you find something for me. Wake me up when you’ve found me a room.”

I pulled out the ashtray to have a look, but the whole thing came away in my hand.

“Clearie,” my father said. “Clearie!” I pretended to be in a restless sleep and brought the sole of my left foot up against the side window.

“Clearie,” my father said, raising his voice. “Clearie, please do something for me. Please, I beg of you, just ease your foot away from the window.”

I ignored him. “Clearie, Clearie dear, please take your time and come out of my car. You cannot sleep in my car. Please Clearie, I have just the bed for you.”

“Where is it?” I said. “Come out of the car.” “Where is my bed?” “Just up the road. You’ve been there before. Miss Lindsey. You know Miss Lindsey. Come, let us go, but please I beg of you, move your foot.”

Yes, I knew Miss Lindsey. I’d stayed there as a girl. I took my foot down. My father’s eyes focused on the print it left on the window.

Miss Lindsey was away, but my father had the keys and I was astonished at how at ease he was there.

I walked to the room that had once been mine. It was like stepping back into a dream. The wallpaper was now a little faded and the net curtains could hardly be described as the finest. On the bed was a pink candle-wick bedspread, similar to ones my mother had, and under the bed was an enamel potty, a reminder of my bed-wetting days. It was as if Miss Lindsey knew all those years ago that I would return.

“There is a spare set of keys on the table and if you eat anything please replace it.” He handed me £2 and started to sing as he made his way down the hall to the front door. “Merry Christmas, Clearie.”

The bed was warm and welcoming. I fell into a deep sleep with my clothes on and the light on too. It must have been about 5pm when I woke up. It was Christmas Eve, so before setting out for work I unpacked my Christmas clothes.

There was not much food in the fridge; the milk was almost off and the cheese had mould all around it. I bought some potatoes, baked beans and cheese and a box of six deep filled mince pies, milk, tea-bags, bread and a Christmas special of mascara and shimmer gloss lipstick. I was now ready for the festive season.

At the hospice, two patients who had been unwell were now critical and both had their family members sitting with them. Day sister thought that we would lose them, but they were hanging on until Christmas.

We settled all the patients quite quickly. Once they had had their nightcaps and painkillers, the lights were turned down and those of us who believed in Santa Claus waited for him to make an appearance.

Shortly before midnight the light went on in one of the bedrooms and I went to see what the matter was. The patient was sitting upright with her eyes half open. She said in a whisper: “Nurse, will you please ring my son and tell him to come?”

Fumbling in her bag, she handed me a piece of paper with a telephone number.

“Any message?” “Tell him I require him.” Sister made the call, but when I went back to tell the patient that he would be here within the hour she had fallen into a coma. By the time he arrived she had died. Grief stricken, he sat with his head in her lap crying: “I’m sorry, Mama.”

Other members of the family sent messages that they would arrive soon. That did not give us a lot of time. I was asked by Sister to sort out the body: to lay her flat, comb her hair, give her a final bed bath and a change of clothes before she was taken to the morgue. Once she was ready I then had to change all the bedclothes and wash down the bedside wardrobe, chest and table. The bed had to be remade just in case we had another admission.

It was 6.15am before that was all done. Just as we were about to get a cup of tea, Sister found another lady had passed away in her sleep. She told me to wash down the second body, because the relatives would be in soon.

This was really very stressful. It is not easy to give a newly deceased a bed bath or to change their clothes when you’re working against the clock. I managed to do it and added a bit of make-up and blusher just in time before the first of the relatives arrived. She really did look very nice, as though she were at complete peace with all those who had irritated her in her former life.

It was Christmas Day. I was so tired on the way home that I fell asleep on the bus and missed my stop. When I hit the bed I did not wake until after 3pm. After a long bath, I got dressed in my Christmas outfit. The gypsy skirt and jumper looked wonderful on me. So did the mascara, which made my eyes look bigger. The orange lipstick was another story - it was horrendous. I just did not have the right mouth for it. My mother was right. I did not get my mouth from her side of the family.

For Christmas dinner I had a nice jacket potato, baked in butter and foil, baked beans and mature cheddar cheese with a cup of tea. Well, it was two cups of tea, but no one was counting. Then I ate three mince pies. After that I watched telly until it was time to make my way back to work. There were very few buses running and even fewer trains so I set out early, intending if necessary to walk part of the way.

There was more bad news at the hospice. We had lost another two patients. Sister told me to make them presentable to their relatives. I was getting quite efficient at preparing bodies now and finished the job in 45 minutes. They both looked happy and peaceful when their relatives came in.

Christmas was soon over for me. The death rate slowed down after the festive season and by the time I was on the train making my way back to Newcastle we had only lost one other person, which was not bad.

I had two weeks to get my university holiday assignments done before the start of term. I put my Christmas outfit in the bottom of my wardrobe. I no longer had any use for it. Best of all, I had earned a lot of money.

© Constance Briscoe 2007

Extracted from Beyond Ugly by Constance Briscoe to be published by Hodder & Stoughton on January 10 at £14.99. Copies can be ordered for £13.49 including postage from The Sunday Times BooksFirst on 0870 165 8585

Times recommends

• Babyboomers still partying on in their sixties
• Do I have a chance of finding love again?
• Video: How to do party make-up