The Christmas tree was fully erect now, and Lady Chatterly clasped the thick shaft in her left hand, sensing the sap rise from its stem and flow towards the top, astride which her fairy would later sit.
Once, long ago, she had believed in Santa Claus, even loved him, and had often dreamed of how the jolly gentleman would ease himself down her chimney in the middle of the night. Santa would appear in her bedroom, and she would fondle his huge sack, running her trembling hands over its contours, feeling for the thing she wanted most. Then he would give it to her. "Ho ho ho," he would bellow, and she would scream with delight. But that was before she had married Gerald, the humbug who had extinguished all her Yuletide passions.
From outside came the purr of a well-endowed engine driving up to the house. It was the meat man's truck bringing her Christmas goose. Lady Chatterly moved over to the window, parting her curtains and fingering the soft, pink material thoughtfully as a virile delivery boy walked up to the door with sinuous, animal movements.
See also: T. S. Eliot's "Twas The Wasteland Before Christmas"
Brilliantly naughty...just like you.
Posted by: Mrs. Peperium | December 15, 2007 at 12:00
Funnily enough this is very similar to a lost piece about Paul Morel who, gazing lovingly at Clara's festive bush and Christmas orbs, decided he needed to give her a really good chestnut stuffing.
Posted by: Dale Williams | December 17, 2007 at 07:55