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Looking Forward to Christmas

I’m counting down the days until the 25th of December. It feels like a personal holiday written into my bones. As soon as the first chill crept into the air, I started a mental list of everything I love about the season: the lights, the music, the chance to be a little indulgent. I’ve already written my letter to Father Christmas in my head — a playful confession that I’ve been a good girl all year. Good, at least, by my own standards. I’ve paid my MasterCard on time, answered every email I should have, smiled when I didn’t feel like it, and brought real joy to a long list of clients who rely on me to brighten their days.

Surely that earns me something special. In my letter, I imagine telling Father Christmas that I’m due a sparkly something‑or‑other from Selfridges. Maybe a bracelet that catches the light with every small movement, or earrings that glitter like frost in the morning sun. If not that, I’d happily accept an 80ml bottle of Lady Million by Paco Rabanne. It’s the kind of perfume that doesn’t just sit on the skin; it announces itself with a quiet, steady confidence whenever I walk into a room. I also have a weakness for beautiful things I can hang and fill. I can see a pair of silk stockings draped over the mantelpiece on Christmas Eve, a grown‑up echo of childhood excitement.

Candy-Striped Stockings and George

Speaking of stockings…

Today I treated myself to the most wonderfully ridiculous pair. They’re candy‑striped, with fluffy trim and tiny red ribbons that bounce when I walk. The idea wasn’t entirely mine. George asked for them very specifically. He’s an older, impeccably mannered client whose tastes lean towards the theatrical. He wants me to wear them when I visit, to sit on his knee like a festive pin‑up and whisper all my wants and desires for the season, as if he were the real Father Christmas. To complete the look, I chose red French knickers and a matching red bra. They feel like a private secret under winter layers, even before anyone sees them.

St Nick of Belgravia

George likes to think of himself as the young St Nick of Belgravia, and in his way, he’s not wrong. His 1820s terraced house is the sort of place that makes estate agents breathless. Tall sash windows, high ceilings, original cornices, and a front door painted in a deep, tasteful shade that hints at old money and older habits. At this time of year, the house transforms. A towering Christmas tree from Harrods fills the huge bay window. It’s dressed as if it’s about to walk down a runway: glass baubles, delicate ornaments collected over years, and strands of beads that glint between the branches. A thousand tiny white lights from Knightsbridge wrap around the tree and spill over the mantel, casting a soft, flattering glow over the room and anyone in it.

I hardly hear from George between January and November. He drifts to the edge of my life, like a character who only appears in one chapter. Then, as soon as December arrives, he reappears. A message, a call, a short note about the colder air and a suggestion for a date. Without fail, we book two evenings: one early in December to open the season, and one on Christmas Eve to close it. It has become our quiet ritual.

The Ritual of Unwrapping

What I cherish most isn’t the setting or even the theatrics. It’s the moment I’m handed a present with my name on it. There’s a childlike thrill in those few seconds when everything is still wrapped, and anything feels possible. I always take my time as I run my fingers along the ribbon and feel the tension where it’s tied into a perfect bow. I loosen it slowly, watching the loops fall and the satin slide across the paper with a soft, whispering sound. Then comes the careful tear of the wrapping itself, the gentle pull against the tape, the anticipation as the pattern splits open to reveal what’s inside.

George is so deliberate in his gift‑giving. He enjoys choosing something that will make me both blush and smile. Often it’s lingerie in deep red: lace that feels decadent against my skin and cuts that sit between elegant and wicked. When I open a box and see that flash of red — something he has pictured on me long before I’ve worn it — I feel a sharp, intimate pleasure. It’s the feeling of being deliberately, attentively seen. This year I’m tempted to add to the ritual myself. I’ve been eyeing a sexy satin wrap or one of those big red bow wraps you tie around your body so you become the present. A little extra theatre for an audience of one.

A Night to Remember

Tonight is circled in my calendar and underlined twice. It’s our early December date, and George has truly gone all out. We’re meeting at The London Eye, where he’s booked a private capsule just for us. I can already see it in my mind. The lazy hum of the wheel as it begins to turn. The city lights below, smudged and shimmering like a handful of jewels scattered across black velvet. Inside, steaming cups of mulled wine, heavy with cinnamon and cloves, will warm our hands as we lift them to our lips. A small tray of mince pies will sit between us. Their pastry will be dusted with sugar, the kind you bite very carefully so the filling doesn’t spill and burn your tongue.

For half an hour, as the wheel climbs and pauses at its highest point, London will spread itself beneath us. The Thames will curve like a dark ribbon. The bridges will shine in soft gold. The outlines of familiar buildings will be sketched in light. I’m hoping for a clear night, with a sharp horizon and a few stubborn stars visible even against the city’s glow. It all feels almost cinematic: just the two of us, suspended in our glass capsule, the rest of the world blurred and far below.

Dinner at Brasserie Joël

Afterwards, with the South Bank and Westminster so close, we’ll stroll along the river. We’ll be wrapped up against the cold, our breath drifting in small clouds as we walk. George has booked a table at Brasserie Joël, a French restaurant tucked near the Houses of Parliament and the National Theatre. I picture soft lighting, white tablecloths, and the low murmur of other people’s conversations. There’s a set Christmas menu, of course. This is George, after all. I’m half amused and half curious about what they will serve. Maybe a rich velouté to start, then perfectly cooked duck or beef, something traditional with a decadent twist. Dessert will almost certainly involve chocolate, cream, or both. I’ll probably pretend to hesitate before agreeing, just to catch the look he gives me when I inevitably say yes.

The Magic George Brings

George has a way of bringing out my inner child. Not in a naïve way, but in a way that leaves room for wonder and play. I already adore Christmas — the rituals, the lights, the idea that we’re all trying to be kinder, even if only for a few weeks. With him, all of that feels brighter. His enthusiasm is open and unashamed. It disarms me. I find myself giving in to it: laughing more easily, letting myself be sillier, soaking up every detail as if I’m storing it for some colder, duller month.

Sometimes, when the night winds down and the champagne flutes sit empty, a small ache settles in my chest. I wish I could see him more often, outside these carefully drawn Santa Claus scenes we create each year. There’s something about our shared rituals — the stockings, the gifts, the extravagant dinners — that makes me wonder. What would it be like if December didn’t have such firm edges? If he appeared in my life in some ordinary March, or on a rainy Tuesday in April?

Beards, Santa, and Red Velvet Cake

The only thing that truly jolts me out of that daydream is his beard. He’s fixated on letting it grow until it turns properly grey, as if he’s determined to become Father Christmas in real life. When he talks about how magnificent it will look once it’s fully silver, I can’t help smiling. I picture him as a slightly eccentric, very well‑dressed Santa, wandering around Belgravia all year round. The image makes me laugh and roll my eyes at the same time.

Still, I know that when we finally share a slice of red velvet cake — something he insists is “festively appropriate” — my small reservations will fade. The cake, the wine, the lights, the London skyline, and the warm, enclosed feeling that December really is enchanted in this tiny corner of the city… all of it will work its quiet spell. And once again, I’ll realise I am exactly where I want to be.