God rest ye merry gentlemen, and all that, but the opening scenes of our Christmas vision did us indeed dismay.

For we looked out upon the Feast of Stephen (known in these more prosaic times as Boxing Day), where the beer cans and wrapping paper and the general detritus of Christmas partying lay round about, deep and crisp and even. And, lo, there appeared among the usual rag-pickers and street-sleepers the sad-eyed legions of the nouveaux poor.

While watchmen watched their luxury new developments by night, men in shabby Ralph Lauren suits and Gucci shoes with holes in the soles stood aimlessly in the doorways of their once-thriving estate agencies.

Women, once able to earn almost enough to feed their families and employ a domestic helper by working in the garment industry or as sales assistants, shivered in long, hopeless lines outside the Labour Tribunal. They had given up waiting in long hopeless lines outside the Department of Social Welfare.

In the distance, at the doors of the High Court, another line of the formerly well-dressed began to form, writs from unforgiving landlords and property developers in one hand and torn-up contracts in the other.

And from on high, the peal of heavenly bells could not disguise the grating sound of the merry dingdong between the kings of the Orient in their top-storey offices and the lowly shepherds watching their flocks from the floor of the Legislative Council chamber.

'We are not turkeys voting for Christmas,' cried the tycoons. 'Neither are we about to put our pennies in the old man's headgear, since we fear the old man's elected representatives will raise a hue and cry when we exercise our right to repossess the hat.' Democratic Party legislators answered like a gaggle of waterfowl who realised the old rhyme's claim that 'Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat' is out of date.

'Wrong!' they shouted in gleeful counterpoint.

'You must indeed vote for Christmas. For culinary fashions have changed and we will have your tykies for breakfast.' But then in the heavens a bright star appeared and, thanks to the excess megawatts produced by the most vociferous of the tycoons, shone with such power as to be visible dimly through the pollution.

And for a moment, O, Hosanna In Excelsis!, the Hosannas in The Excelsior, the chatter of Holly and Ivy in Hollywood Road, and the sound of jackhammers were stilled.

Silent night! Holy night! The only noise disturbing our sleep through the heavenly peace was the racket from the air-conditioners on the roof of the church opposite Week Ending's bedroom. But midnight Mass was over and once more we slipped back into our dream.

And, behold, the hearts were softened and we did see the servants of Mammon transformed into givers of alms.

From their offices they came, laden with gifts of gold and share options (though not of frankincense or myrrh): Li Ka-shing the property magnate and James Tien Pei-chun, the Liberal Party chairman and garment tycoon; Lam Kin-ming of Lai Sun Development and Ho Sai-chu of the Chinese General Chamber of Commerce - all dressed as Father Christmas, their cotton-wool beards flowing, their bobble-hats bobbing behind.

UP to the lines of unemployed they strode, offering jobs and Christmas bonuses, commissions and promises of pay-rises to come.

From the crowd there arose a sound of cheering and tearful thank-yous. Sobbing women fell at their feet in gratitude, only to be motioned to rise, for no thanks were necessary or desired.

Mr Li waved a kindly hand. Instantly from other buildings, a pride of property developers emerged, similarly garbed in Santa suits.

Together they glided on reindeer-drawn sleighs to the High Court, there to distribute indulgences and forgivenesses of debt, releases from contract and low interest loans.

Oh, how the Christmas spirit did permeate the community as the harmony fundamental to the creation of a good attractive business environment was achieved! Oh, how the faithful were joyful and triumphant once more as market gloom gave way to retail recovery and cash registers clicked and buzzed to the sound of swipe cards and the crackling of unfolding $500 bills.

And the angels chorused 'Gloria, glo-oo-oo-oo-ria' as the property market expanded once more into a glistening, shimmering, sparkling wondrously translucent bubble.

And, sing hallelujah, ye investors, even the Democratic Party was appeased and sang the praises of the philanthropic rich.

The roots of the grass did dance with joy and the lions of HSBC lay down with the reindeer calves.

And in the morning we awoke with a hangover.