I’m looking forward to the 25th of December. I’ve already written to Father Christmas, stating that I’ve been a good girl all year. I’ve paid my MasterCard on time and brought joy to many clients. That I’m entitled to a sparkly something-or-other from Selfridges or an 80ml bottle of Lady Million by Paco Rabanne; I also fancy some silk stockings to put on my mantelpiece on Christmas Eve.
Speaking of which…
Today, I bought some candy-striped stockings with fluff and ribbons. These are at the request of George, an older client of mine who would like me to sit on his knee and tell him all my wants and desires for the festive season. To complement them, I have red French knickers and a red bra. George fancies himself as the young St Nick of Belgravia. His fashionable 1820s terraced house sports a Christmas tree from Harrods in the huge bay window and a thousand tiny white lights from Knightsbridge; I scarcely hear from him all year until December rolls around, and then we make a booking for early December and Christmas Eve.
The bit I love the most is opening a present addressed to me. I have to open it slowly, relishing the ribbon and bow, and watching George’s reward for a perfect gift choice come to life as I unwrap it, resplendent in my red lingerie. This year, I may even buy an Ann summer unwrap-me-red-satin-wrap or a red bow wrap.
So, this early December date is booked for tonight. We are meeting at The London Eye for mulled wine and mince pies in our private capsule. As the wheel climbs for thirty minutes, hopefully we’ll have a clear night with the whole of the City stretched below us. With the South Bank, Westminster, so close, George has booked us into Brasserie Joel, a French Brasserie restaurant near the Houses of Parliament and the National Theatre. As you may have guessed, there’s a £75 set Christmas menu to enjoy, although I’m not sure what’s on it.
George brings out the little kid in me. I love Christmas, but he likes to make it unique, and his enthusiasm is infectious. I almost get to the point where I wish I could see more of George, rather than just as my own personal Santa Claus. The only thing that slightly weirds me out is his obsession with growing his beard until the grey shows through. However, doesn’t buying a red velvet cake mean we’ll be okay?
