Mary takes centre stage in the manger, a cashmere shawl draped around her shoulders. Gathered around her are shepherds in designer pyjamas, angels in meringue-shaped ball-gowns, and the three kings sporting a dazzling array of bling.

Welcome to Nativity chic. We’re facing another recession-hit Christmas but, according to one high street retail chain, that hasn’t stopped pushy parents sending the cost of the school Nativity spiralling, by spending an average of £150 on their little darlings’ costumes.

It seems tea-towels and tinsel simply won’t do when it comes to stealing the show. In a bid to out-do each other, and embrace the true spirit of festive consumerism, parents with more money than sense are dressing their offspring for the manger like mini WAGs. It’s only a matter of time before Mary and Joseph turn up at the inn with a matching set of Louis Vuitton luggage.

As if the ridiculous charade of the prom night doesn’t put enough pressure on youngsters and their parents to cough up for over-priced outfits, accessories and pampering treatments, now primary school children are falling victim to peer pressure too.

Surely the charm of a school Nativity play is that it all looks a bit home-made. Just as you expect wobbly sets and wobblier acting, you expect to see angels wearing sheets sewn together and donkeys with cardboard ears. It’s all part of the fun, for the cast and audience.

Apparently parents whose children have minor parts, such as donkeys or sheep, spend even more on their costumes to compensate for not having a starring role. Isn’t that taking it all a bit seriously?

I was never picked to be anything special in school nativity plays. I desperately wanted to be an angel, preferably the Angel Gabriel who seemed irresistibly glamorous, but it wasn’t to be.

I dreamed of wearing a white dress with a pair of wings and a halo made of gold tinsel. Instead I got to wear a tea-towel wrapped around my head and some sort of sack tied around my waist.

Playing third shepherd from the left was a disappointment, but I got over it. It didn’t scar me for life. I didn’t need a pashmina shawl or a Chanel handbag to soften the blow.

Memories of my mum rustling up a shepherd’s cloak for me on her sewing-machine are far more precious than designer costumes.