As a child, I rooted for the Grinch to abscond with Christmas, and for Scrooge to hold firm to his parsimonious ways. I dread the holidays, with their endless faux-cheer and pagan-to-Christian rituals. Why, then, could I not only stomach but positively relish the new musical, Irving Berlin’s White Christmas, which has managed to transform Broadway’s least-loved theatre, the Marquis, into an addictively sweet wonderland?

Is it because the show, which is based on a 1954 Hollywood chestnut, White Christmas, which starred Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye, offers a lavish alternative to families who desperately need a break from The Nutcracker, A Christmas Carol and New York’s Radio City?