The Special Chair

I thought it would be grand if Spouse- rather, would-be-Spouse- sat at the head of the Christmas dinner table, nearest to the stairs. It was his first time visiting Ireland. He was a guest in my ancestral home- although, to be fair and accurate, I was still living in it at the time.
Spouse tucked into his sprouts and turkey, helped himself to more potatoes, toasted us all with a glass of wine, and settled in quite nicely.
I, positioned just around the corner, insisted on repeatedly asking if he was all right, and on advising him to tell me if he needed anything. I thought at the time that I was overdoing the matter- nagging, as it is more commonly known- but I ought, in hindsight, to have pressed the question at least once more.
Years later Spouse confessed: despite his numerous assurances to the contrary he had, for the duration of the Christmas dinner, been subjected to the most awful chill on his neck owing to a biting gust of December wind swirling its way down the stairs and singling out most cruelly our visitor from afar. He never said a word about it- just, I suppose, wondered quietly what precisely his hosts might have meant by the Guest of Honour Chair.