THE way we celebrate Christmas day is the inspiration for countless films and television programmes. While the popular and idealised depiction may not always chime with our own experiences, we have become well-versed in the fantasy.

It goes something like this.

Children wake early, but not too early. The parents emerge from their beds well-rested and glowing in anticipation. The family rush downstairs, because Christmas happens in roomy homes, not flats. They throw open the living-room door and see a groaning pile of perfectly-wrapped presents.

We often tell children that the size of their haul on Christmas day is in direct correlation to their behaviour throughout the year, which means these children – furnished with all the trappings of wealth – must have been Very Good Indeed.

The day begins, and jaw-aching smiles are a permanent fixture. Mum is fragrant, glittery and most importantly – in control. Dad kicks back with a beer and she flutters around while tending to her family with cheerfulness and good grace.

Despite having to stir four pots at once and being confined to a kitchen full of turkey steam, Mum DOES NOT SWEAT, either figuratively or literally. She does not require anybody to trouble themselves with laying cutlery or arranging Christmas crackers, because she studied Delia Smith’s “48 hours of Christmas Preparation’’ guide in-advance and she absolutely has her shit together.

Early afternoon, she will pour herself a suitably small cocktail: something dainty and befitting of her duties for the day. The children are NOT fighting over their new toys and Dad doesn’t keep shouting “WHERE’S THE BATTERIES?’’ from the living room.

After dinner, the house is restored to its former glory. There are no piles of plastic. The clutter is gone. The elves have been and cleaned the plates and everybody gathers together to play charades. The children sit quietly, only speaking to shout words of encouragement to Auntie Fiona as she acts out “Brexit’’ by repeatedly bashing herself in the head with a gravy boat.

Nobody is drunk. Drink has been taken but it has evaporated from the pores of the adults present through the sheer force of Christmas joy.

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Mum does not sneak outside to smoke. She doesn’t complain about her family in the group-chat or make plans to smash the patriarchal and gender-weighted expectations of Christmas organisation.

There are no arguments. Politics does not encroach on this beautiful family scene. When Uncle Jacob starts banging the table and shouting “TAKE BACK CONTROL’’ and flecks of spit land on the Christmas pudding, the family nod reverently. They understand his real genuine concerns about immigration and the importance of letting him air his grievances in the marketplace of ideas.

Mum is still floating from room to room, keeping drinks topped up and gathering whisky-soaked jumpers. She feels thankful, because she had a mixed-colours load to put anyway.

The children are calm and appreciative. They haven’t gorged themselves on sugar and E-numbers and they treat all their new things with the respect they deserve.

Fat flakes of snow begin to fall and the family rush outside. Inexplicably, they’ve managed to find their jackets, scarves and appropriate footwear without Mum’s help. Even Dad – what a trooper. This is not a family that hurriedly sticks a pair of socks over their hands in lieu of gloves.

They have a gentle and playful snowball fight which is more like a snowball cuddle. Nobody aims for the eyes and no vicious children stud their ball with a stone to cause maximum damage. There are no tears. This family doesn’t even feel the cold and they cavort in the warm and dry snow, giddy with happiness. As they head back indoors, they pat each other on the back in recognition of a fair and entirely un-violent snowball fight.

Mum has conjured up a pot of steaming and aromatic mulled wine in her spotless kitchen. She is wearing an unstained apron and her hair looks GREAT.

After passing around a box of Celebrations where nobody complains because they got a Bounty instead of a Galaxy Caramel, they ease into a contented family cuddle. The sofa comfortably seats six, and they lie intertwined and uncomplaining as Alexa pipes Christmas music into the room.

Later, but not late, they head to bed. Nerves are not fraught and there has been no swearing.

Son turns to Mum and Dad with eyes full of adoration and whispers: “That was the best Christmas ever. THANK YOU.’’

The parents look down at their cherubic child and ruffle his hair affectionately.

“Every day with you is the best day ever,’’ they reply. And they MEAN IT.

They read a Christmas-themed bedtime story and the parents head to bed after a perfect day feeling appreciative of one-another and very much in love.

Mum stays up a little later than the rest of the family, carefully curating her meticulous notes so that she can send beautifully-written thank you cards as soon as the postman is back on duty. Then she cleanses, tones and moisturises before slipping into something silky and frilly and drifting off into a totally unresentful sleep.

For this family, Christmas day has been everything they could have ever wished for.

They are already looking forward to next year.