We lived in the same house from when I was 6 to when I left home, and my Mum and Dad still live there. In all that time, I can recall only a handful of occasions on which I entered the inner sanctum of their bedroom unless it was Christmas morning.
My Mum's voice would give us permission; "He's been!!" My brother, Greg, and I were allowed to climb into (when we were little) or onto (when we grew bigger) Mum and Dad's bed to open our Christmas stockings. It was a high bed (it still is, even by adult standards) and was swiftly buried beneath swathes of wrapping paper. My father, ever the pragmatist, would try to keep order and tidy it into a bin bag, but he couldn't keep up with our frenzied unwrapping.
I have a particular memory of the year I was 11 or 12 (big enough to be sitting on the bed, while my brother was still small enough to be in between Mum and Dad.) I unwrapped a big parcel, something I had specifically asked for and blurted "Thanks, Mum and.....I mean Father Christmas." I remember the intense sense of pride and grown-upness as I swallowed my words and maintained the magic for Greg, at least for that morning.
It was probably the following year that Dad suggested we were both too big for stockings and we would open our presents downstairs. Outrage. That particular idea only lasted one year and from then until I left home, Mum and Dad's bed was always the stage for Christmas morning.