"No, that's my wife; I'm Father Christmas." He grins broadly, chuckling. "Oh, dear, that pun works much better in English, doesn't it? Well, no matter! A very merry Christmas to you too, my dear fellow, and to this delightful craft of yours."

There's a jingle of bells and the sound of something -- some things -- pawing the ground from behind him, there's more space than there has any right to be, there's snow deep around them, fresh white sliding under Christmas's feet and teasing up to the edge of the TARDIS's open door.

"But I'm afraid, I do have to ask," because it's a story, and stories have rules, "have you been a good boy this year?"