What the Hell to Give the Wife at Christmas? Worry No More
By David Myers
“Gentlemen your genes have a mission to spread themselves far and wide. But Society has a mission to make sure they don’t. So it’ll be a life of sexual frustration for the lot of you. And, let me warn you, when sex is frustrated it turns unsavoury.”
I’d like to say that my old biology master delivered himself of that on Christmas day, but who’d believe me?
“Time to wake, rise and shine, darling, and to smile honeymoon smiles.” Thus did my wife’s stentorian voice break into an erotic dream at 5.00am on the last but one morning of our honeymoon. We were to go to Perugia to watch horse trials; so another tedious day lay ahead. What could I think about on the way there?
I have my accountancy training to thank. It relieved my boredom by turning my mind to commerce. Wrapping is the mother of wishful thoughts. It is the gateway to delight. Christmas holly paper is many a little boys’ first encounter with its enchantment. And since, I reasoned, the magic of childhood never dies, there could be cash flow here. Yes, holly-embroidered panties. I could see it all. Women fighting in the boutiques for them, fighting in the department stores, fighting in the departure lounges; they would beat men to the washing lines for them; they would never give up. No longer the doleful sight of a man worrying, with only three days to go: what the hell to give his beloved for Christmas.
Language would be enriched. “Those Christmas cakes. Angela, better hurry; they’re selling like hot panties.” I was sure that my wife would approve of this money-spinner, but should I mention that I would want her to be the first to wear them? I didn’t know whether the Church had a view on such matters because I’d chucked the booklet the vicar had given us, the one entitled “Advice for Newly Marrieds”, unread, into some trash can; I can’t even remember which.
Then, as so often, the weevil of doubt. Perhaps holly and panties had been joined in holy matrimony in my brain alone; perhaps in some long-forgotten ecstatic moment of childhood, I’d seen panties on display in some Hereford shop window adorned with Christmas holly. And I’d have seen them at Christmas time, the joint reconciliation of two great religions, Christianity and Commerce.
So the union in my infant brain would have been doubly blessed. But hopefully that happy union takes place in all men’s brains when adolescence gives an erotic stamp to the innocent magic of childhood. If only Father Christmas were real, I thought, and could do me one last kindness in confirming that he, and thus perhaps all men, are so blessed. For why else would he choose holly wrapping paper on his long, lonely celibate journey across the snowy Lapland wastes?
Copyright © David Myers 2014