The Christmas Tree would be the highest in the world, requiring a section of the house roof to be removed, but only 2mm higher than their neighbours who installed theirs last year. Who is also an architect.
And it would be called the Pine Needle.
But there would be snow in the master bedroom.
Father Christmas would be dressed in a black polo neck, and once-black slightly faded lived-in-look cords, washed too many times at sixty degrees. All from Cordings.
A full scale model of Lapland, complete with lacquered elves and reindeers running on LPG would be constructed, in order to test getting presents down a chimney. Which we all know doesn’t happen. Or wouldn’t work even if it did.
Christmas would be late, due to entirely unforeseen delays in the supply of custom ribbon only made in a small village in Mauritania albeit indistinguishable to the naked eye from that sold in Paperchase.
The Christmas pudding would be entirely sealed in a glass orb and flambéd from the inside at the press of an Italian-made walnut-finish ignition switch placed within the orb. Oh.
The nativity barn would be condemned for not meeting fire code and (more importantly) not being very nice to look at, replaced by an all-new concrete and glass box perched on the edge of a wooded slope by a lake in southern Chile.
And be called El Buen Granero. Which sounds great in Spanish, but naff when translated. Like most things.
The Three Wise Men (Quantity Surveyors) would be turned away at the door of El Buen Granero, despite an arduous trek across country on llamas, for suggesting that Christmas was running over budget and that value engineering was necessary. They would be told to go and sell the gold, and find out what myrrh actually is.
Co-ordination problems with the subtle and witty juxtaposition of Christmas Day and Boxing Day would result in the insertion of an extra day in between. It would be left grey and nameless so as to accentuate the possibilities and uncertainty of our precarious place in a formless universe.