Smut’n’Chuckle

Delilah was distressed to wake up to a chilly room. As she slipped a shapely leg out from under the fluffy gannet-down duvet a chill ran up her skin – evidently making for the warm regions further north. Brrrrr. After a few moments in planning she flung the covers back, leapt up and dashed to the door, where her fluffy dressing gown was hanging on a hook. She pulled in snuggly round her curvulaceousness and slipped her painted toes into a pair of fluffy mules. (She had originally intended to paint only her toenails but extreme haste had resulted in a more careless effect)
Thus besnuggled she was able to determine that, as she suspected, the boiler was not working. Delilah loved warmth, and so had the local heating engineering company on speeddial. She called them, her voice trembling with dramatic effect. Though it was a sunny spring morning, without her hot pipes she was shivering. She was in fact shivering so much that within her fluffy dressing gown parts of her upholstery were resonating gloriously.
The heating engineers were very busy – they had been obliged to take on extra staff. But they promised to get a man out to sort her out as soon as possible. She sounded so tragic that the person on the end of the phone suggested “I’ll get one of our new chaps to drop in quickly and just see if its something he can sort out there and then. If it’s a big repair though I’ll have to book you in another day”
Delilah thanked her and filled herself a hot water bottle to hug whilst she waited.
Sylvester arrived barely half an hour later, and Delilah ran to the door as fast as her mules would allow (they had speed restrictors). She opened wide to let him enter, gushing “I’m so glad you could make it! You’ve no idea how easily I get chilled”
“Soon have you warmed up, miss” replied Sylvester, noticing how the tight cord of her dressing gown showed off the soft bulges above and below.
“So, show me where it is”
Delilah though he looked like the sort of man who would know.
They stood in a little cupboard, before the boiler, its LED display advertising its failings.
The smallness of the cupboardular arrangements meant they were very close together
“Hmmm. See that code? It’s an E” he said thoughtfully, privately considering that Delilah probably was too, but he wouldn’t describe that as a failing.
“Is that bad?” she asked, and Sylvester smiled. He assured her that from every angle an E was not at all bad.
“Just let me get this off” he said, expertly levering the cover away to reveal the business within, “and get my tools out”
A shiver, this time of anticipation rather than cold, ran through Delilah’s body, generating the same resonance patterns as before and causing Sylvester’s hand to shake a little as he held his tool.
He worked away, unscrewing things, removing small bits and pieces, examining them and giving them a few tweaks with a tool before replacing them. Finally he stood back and explained
“I think that’s it. There was a bad connection in the ignition circuit. So there was a bit of a spark here [he pointed] but just not enough to get that there properly heated up”
Delilah nodded sagely, all the while thinking that the issue with the boiler could not be extrapolated to the current situation.
“So….there was a bit of a spark then you say?”
“Yes” said Sylvester, standing upright again (in every sense, as it happened) and gesturing with his tool “I see it a lot…lack of spark. Sometimes you can do something about it, there and then, but sometimes you can’t”
“And then what?” asked Delilah
“Well then its a big job. Often needs a complete refit. But don’t worry, that’s rarely the case with me”
Delilah smiled broadly, and gave a shrug of relaxation which started at her shoulders and worked its way down far enough to slightly loosen the dressing gown cord.
“Yes” he continued “I generally find I can get the spark going and get the whole thing fired up and nice and hot before I leave”
Although it was only a few moments since he had tweaked the spark, the room seemed to be warming already. He looked around
“Put your hand on there” he said “You can feel it already warming up”
She did so and smiled as she felt the heat coursing through under her fingers. The radiator was definitely working now.
“I think you’ll soon find the heat spreading throughout. It shouldn’t take long” he assured her. She nodded
“I can feel it already” she replied, “In fact I don’t think I need this any more” and she loosened the cord of her dressing gown
Sylvester agreed. He was starting to feel quite hot himself.
“Are you getting toasty now?” he asked and she nodded, the dressing gown working a little looser as she did so. It was loose enough for Sylvester to get a glance at the display, which definitely looked like an E.
“No more problems with your spark, I see!” he exclaimed. The heat was almost radiating off her. “No” she replied. “I’m very warm now. Shall we check the other radiators?”
He nodded, and they left the tiny cupboard. The rest of the house was cooler, but Sylvester soon confirmed that all the radiators were now working, and things were starting to heat up generally.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked, his hand still clutching his tool – in case he needed it again
Delilah said she thought he should do a general check for sparks, which he did. He found that despite seeing Es again, there was no problem this time with getting the spark to cause full ignition. He expertly levered away the covers to reveal the workings within, and got down to work with his tool. Delilah, always a practical person and keen to learn, helped by holding his tool and making suggestions. He was able to make tweaks to the settings and give her system a good flush through before getting a final burst of heat which left her cheeks flushed and beaded with sweat.
“Well I never!” she exclaimed. “Now I know why they say I should get serviced regularly!”

It was an important meeting for the key members of the steering committee at SlipperiLubeInc. The company had taken great pride in its long history of supplying all kinds of specialist lubricants to the markets -whether heavy machinery, automotive or just local mechanics.

But the lubrication market was changing; it was becoming dominated by faceless multinationals who, with their massive resources, were squeezing the smaller independents out of the way

It was time for some radical thinking

Olive called the meeting to order. She apprised them all of the bad news: despite a new advertising campaign aimed at forcefully ramming the company into hitherto unexplored regions, results were disappointing. Sales were limp overall and some departments seemed particularly flaccid.

“We need new energy and new ideas” she told them “or else we are on a slippery slope”. No-one chuckled: the phrase was not being used lightly

Kevin from Automotives was downcast. He had not been able to open any new avenues for months, despite the thrusting new AutoLube advertising campaign. Eric from EngiLube felt the same. They all knew that because Kevin had checked

Clarke from DomestiLube was a little more positive; he’d experienced some upsurges recently which he’d found quite exciting and was eager to respond to.

But it was Hans from PersonaLube who was the most upbeat. He had only recently joined the company, taking over a small sub-department of the business which has been largely unconsidered by the rest. But he had created his own fiefdom, taking a close personal interest in all of its products, and conducting some thorough and imaginative research into the applications. He applied both science and enthusiasm, as well as a good smear of SupremeComfort Slipritin, to a variety of befleshed surfaces in his quest for the ultimate moist and slippery experience.

Olive was thrilled to find that,  whilst most of the committee members were somewhat lacklustre in their attitudes, in Hans she could feel an exciting new surge of possibilities,  and the relief which this promised to bring her after the anxieties of watching the bottom slip (effortlessly) out of the lubrication market brought a flush to her cheeks. This pinkification was enhanced by the heaving of her bosomities as she considered the prospects which were now afforded her.

Kevin (Automotives) suddenly began to take notice. He had previously been sunk in gloom at his own performance, and no awareness of the charms of Olive, let alone her astute business head, had penetrated his mood. But the atmosphere of fevered excitement at the table stirred even him. Suddenly it seemed, as Hans explained his ideas and experimental results,  presenting charts and diagrams the like of which SlipperiLube employees had never before seen in a meeting, that a world of possibilities was opening up, fresh, exciting and frictionlessly accessible to them all.

Eric, previously committed to his large plant outlets, realised he had been beating against a wall until that moment. All of a sudden, a much more satisfying prospect opened up.

And Clarke, who had been trying to think of ways of getting easier access into the domestic field, but had failed to rise up and seize the opportunities, suddenly felt a wave of enthusiasm about his chances of opening up the market. For him, “domestic” had always encompassed just the appliances: anyone wanting to free up parts of their white goods were his target customers. It now occurred  to him that cream, and pink, even red and black, might also benefit from loosening, and that he did not need to restrict himself to service in the kitchen. All rooms in the house were within his remit in future. He felt such stirrings of anticipation that he excused himself before they reached Any Other Business because he had an urgent item of his own.

Olive was delighted with the outcome; it was undoubtedly the most highly charged meeting of the steering committee she had ever chaired. She left the room feeling that if she gripped the helm firmly she could rely on the men, with Hans out in front, to get behind her and give her powerful support to push things through – aided by SupremeComfort Slipritin.

She asked Hans to join her for a special meeting afterwards, to firm things up. Together they laid down some ideas on a rug, and tweaked some earlier suggestions. In the end it was decided that they should collaborate fully in thrusting ahead to redirect all their efforts into the wholehearted promotion of the PersonaLube department. Olive could see it all now: the new slogans-

Use a little dollop before you give it a wallop

SupremeComfort Slipritin – you can’t put it any better

And their own internet channel for promotional videos – LubeTube

Olive felt it wouldn’t have gone nearly so smoothly with Hans being all over it

It was an afternoon of heat when Theadosia crossed the platform, teetering in her unfamiliar spindly heels, and trailing her rinky-dinky suitcase-on-wheels behind her. Its rather basic rolling mechanism generated such a thunderous rumble that all the birds of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire closed their beaks and waited for peace to descend before they continued.  She settled down on a bench to wait, giving some relief to her feet.

It was not long before the train drew up there, wontedly, requiring Theadosia to stand up. She did so arranging herself carefully atop her platforms, and smoothing her clinging skirt down over her thighs. She had not been on the platform long, but it was long enough to attract the attention of a young man standing nearby. He was pleased to see that she was getting on the same train as him, for he admired her carriage, and followed her gently jostling buttocks, and the grundling noise of the suitcase, towards the train. Theadosia’s thoughts were on staying upright as she negotiated the short trip in heels of such tallth as to make the outcome worth betting on.

The carriage had sufficient passengers to justify him ending up near her, but not claiming a seat. As the train began to move off, he saw out of the corner of his eye that she had crossed her shapuliceous legs and one of her radical shoes was dangling provocatively off her foot. He looked out of the window, watching the landscape waft past in that unseeing way which tends to be the fate of views from trains, – the meadowsweet and haycocks dry being rather wasted on him -and simultaneously focussing on Theadosia’s ankle. He saw her tilt her head up at him, and he met her eyes. There was a pause whilst eye introductions were made, and then he noticed she was looking at him oddly.

“I really like your shoes” explained Caspian (for that was his name) and she giggled. “I don’t think they were a very good choice actually”

Caspian assured her that they were a VERY good choice, and they laughed again. As they did so, his eyes also found themselves wanting to meet other parts of her: They enjoyed the way that the skin of her neck segued down into her chestular areas, and the way these moved up and down so adorably when she breathed. They took in her shapely ankles, and enjoyed the way these gave way to utterly gastrocnemiously fine calves. They positively relished the soft curves of her torso, wrapped as it was in something admirably thin and stretchy, and they joined in the general celebration when a sudden jolt of the train threw Caspian to one side so that his leg was against her thigh. She did not move it away, but after a moment uncrossed her legs and crossed them the other way, a manoeuvre which caused her instep to brush down the length of his calf . He was aware of a powerful juddering sensation which was unconnected with the movement of the train.

They travelled thusly for two stops, getting gradually more crushed together by a combination of boarding passengers and their mutual tendency to accommodate the new arrivals by adopting closer and closer proximity. It was a strategy effective on all counts.

After a while Theadosia looked up, catching Caspian’s eye (which was lucky, as had it hit the floor it might have been lost forever) and saying “It’s so busy here. Shall we try the buffet car?”

Caspian nodded eagerly: this was practically a date. He watched with a warm glow of inner joy/lust (is that joyst?) as Theadosia wriggled herself upright, once again using her hands to smooth down her clothing in a way which Caspian envied. Once upright on her teeterers she was the same height as him and they looked directly into each other’s faces for the first time. Now their eyes could meet properly, exchange phone numbers and really get to know each other.

Theadosia turned and squirmed her way forward through the throng of people, causing a wave of furtive gazes as her fulsome and callypigous buttoculars oscillated past. Caspian followed, mesmerised.

Eventually they reached the end of the carriage, and the connecting section between it and the next. Caspian had a sudden thought: “is this the right direction for the buffet car?”

“There isn’t a buffet car on this train”

“Oh”

“Oh!”

They stood together on the throbbing floor, feeling every stirring and surging movement, swaying together.

“Do you mind standing here, right on the link between the carriages?” asked Theadosia. Caspian assured her that far from being troubled by it, he rather liked couplings .At the next station, which was a big one, the train disgorged most of its passengers. Normally it would have disgorged Caspian as well, but on this occasion he remained engorged. As they pulled away again, both glanced up and down the carriages, enjoying the sight of empty seats.

“That’s better!” said Caspian. “I don’t like strap-hanging!”

Theadosia was able to convince him quite rapidly that some straps were worth gripping, if only briefly. And indeed as the train negotiated a big set of points, Caspian found that his strap-hanging had released the biggest and most delightful set of points he had ever seen, and that they responded charmingly to the rough ride they were both experiencing. It seemed that the lack of a buffet car did not stop them getting refreshment and a bit of a nibble, and as the engine pounded towards its destination, Caspian gave a final shunt and Theadosia and whispered in his ear

“That was first class”

Cordelia decided she needed a bit of a makeover. The darkest of the winter being over she took a long hard look at herself in a long, hard mirror. Sadly, she reflected (quite literally) that was the only long, hard thing in her life at the moment.

A big, firm shaft of sunlight thrust through the window and fell hungrily on Cordelia’s soft volumptilious torso; the motes of dust within it lit up with excitement at the prospect of drifting against her. They approved, as did the clouds which obligingly kept out of the way to prolong the moment. But Cordelia was a tough judge of herself and to her huge dark eyes she seemed in need of brightening and retouching. Though in truth just a bit of touching would have made a difference.

She telephoned the Usoe-Yumi Beauty Clinic and began to anticipate her transformation with eagerness.

The receptionist was awkwardly over-polite, but struggled to make herself understood through the thickness of her foundation. Everything about her orange-tinged features spoke of immobility. Cordelia began to feel a little anxious as she was very much a girl who preferred a bit of movement.

She was indeed greatly in favour of the women’s movement, feeling that to lie still was a wasted opportunity.

The receptionist scratched her scalp thoughtfully using a pen: it barely moved her fixed hairdo.

“What are you wantin’ then?” she asked, again without moving her face at all

Cordelia explained that she felt she need  to be refreshed, brightened and rejuvenated. The orange features managed a slight reaction, which clearly expressed surprise at such ambition. It lasted only for a moment and gave way to a discussion of options which was dazzling in its complexity. Cordelia could be exfoliated, massaged, cleansed, polished; she could have lasers shone into her skin, silver-grey mud spread all over it. She could be wrapped entirely in clingfilm (or so it seemed) or have tiny spiked rollers run all over her face. The thought of this mixture of ultramodern technologies and ancient wisdoms filled her with a rising sense of excitement and anticipation. She signed up for as much as she could afford. Orange face managed to give the impression that it would still not be enough.

It was going to require a whole afternoon, but there would be lashings of herbal tea at regular intervals to help her through.

A few days later Cordelia arrived at Usoe-Yumi clinic feeling vulnerable and in waiting, like a caterpillar not quite ready to pupate but getting definite urges to lie down somewhere still and dark and not emerge until fully lepidopterised.

The receptionist was still orange and  immobile but managed to convey disquiet as she arrived. There would be a delay, probably, as Sharon had gone down with Something Awful (It was going round you know; everyone’s dropping like flies)

In a state of rising panic – lepidopterisation seemingly about to be snatched from her, Cordelia asked what was going to happen if Sharon was not available.

Orange Face looked blankly at her. “Well the manager’s going to have to do you”

That sounded ominous. “The manager?”

She wanted to know if the manager was trained in all the high tech equipment, as she had booked a 21st century experience. Orange Face confirmed that the manager knew all about it. Cordelia began to relax; she was determined to enjoy this.

She was led through a door into the secret parts of the beauty salon. Orange Face pulled back a curtain and said “You can change in here”. Cordelia smiled inwardly: If only it were that simple… in reality she would have to have all the treatments to make that happen. After a few moments she emerged in a white tunic and enfolded in an absurdly fluffy white robe.

Orange Face showed her through to a room which was clean and clinical – except for a large print of a lily on the wall and a huge sofa in the corner. Around the walls were a number of machines, all white and silver, with swing-arms, touchpad controls, dials and lights. She settled herself on the treatment couch, fluffy gown tossed to one side, and drew the light blanket up to her waist. It was quiet, and she shut her eyes to wait. Part of her wanted to fall asleep and wake up to a rejuvenated Cordelia, like fairy tale magic.

A few moments later, just as she was getting into the zone, the door opened quietly, and an apologetic manager entered. She could hear the sound of hands rubbing together in foaming gel, but did not open her eyes until she suddenly heard the sound of a baritone voice murmuring “I’m SO sorry about this. We’ve got a real staffing crisis here. I hope Senga explained to you?”

Cordelia opened her eyes wide in astonishment, but being British, could not bring herself to make a fuss. “Oh yes” she said, effecting a calm demeanour “She explained”

The manager said “It’s just that some women are a bit unhappy about me doing their treatments. We’ve had to cancel them because we just don’t know when we’re going to be fully staffed again yet”

Cordelia watched him through half closed eyes as he busied himself getting his equipment ready. She was beginning to feel very warm under the blanket, and slipped it down a little.

The manager turned and looked down at her. The tunic was surprisingly thin and a keen eye could detect hints of nippleage rising out of  enticing mounds of breastage. He was reading from a treatment card;  “So what are we doing for you today then?” he said, supressing private thoughts which were not in line with his role as manager-cum-beauty therapist.

Cordelia started to respond to his rhetorical question when he continued “I see Senga has booked you in for a lot of things…. skin re-texturing, body wrap, some laser re-plumping…..” He paused and bent low over her, looking closely at her face. On one level he was assessing the complexion and on another he was thinking how delightfully rumptipumpticious she was. As he leaned over, Cordelia could smell the faint earthy scent of his cologne, and admire how the filtered light through the blinds played on his features. His hair was black and wavy, his fleshy lips hemmed the edges of his mouth perfectly. His eyes were dark mammal brown, his cheekbones as bold as a pirate’s. Cordelia could not help but think of pieces of 8″.

After a while he stood erect again, and upright. “In my personal opinion, Senga has been a bit over-zealous” he said.  “Your skin looks very good – ” he paused, and then added “Actually it looks fabulous. If you really want me to do all these procedures then I’m happy to, but I don’t think you need them”

“What about the body wrap?” asked Cordelia, licensing the manager to indulge his gaze over her curves. He did this very thoroughly, not wishing to make a snap judgement. After a few moments, Cordelia suggested helpfully that if she took the blanket off he might be able to see better. The manager nodded silently. She peeled the blanket down unwrapping herself, clad now only in the thin tunic, like a butterfly emerging from its pupa.

“What do you think?” she asked

“You don’t want to know that” he replied quietly, but Cordelia did. So he told her. He told her that the best therapy he could think of involved no high tech machinery.  Instead it harked back to ancient times; an all-over gentle massage (possibly with scented oils if she liked) focussing on particular areas of concern (to be decided mutually) and finishing with a thorough workover with the best quality probe. This would result in her feeling very well moisturised. Furthermore he could guarantee she would have a warm inner glow and a healthy flush to her cheeks.

This sounded like the perfect treatment to Cordelia, who could already feel the moisturising effects of his regime. The couch was too high and narrow: the treatment took place on the large and comfortable sofa. It proved truly transformational; As she left the Usoe-Yumi Salon much later that afternoon, Orange Face noted Cordelia’s radiant glow, but assumed it was due to her recommendations.

The manager-cum-therapist was exactly that

It was late in a dark winter afternoon. Elvira had almost finished her Christmas shopping and was feeling mellow and festive when she noticed a big sign advertising Father Christmas’s Grotto. It brought back warm childhood memories, and she paused and peered down the narrow decorated corridor which led to it. To one side was the exit, from which issued excited children, bounding, skipping, shouting and waving their gifts.

Elvira felt nostalgic: it was time to grottify again. By the entrance there was a ticket machine, thus sparing her the explanation of why she had no child in tow. She slid her coins in the slot, pressed the button and was issued with a numbered ticket as happens on a deli counter. This felt a bit prosaic for something supposed to be magical, but she reasoned (not unreasonably) that excited offspring would be oblivious to the practicalities.

She ducked under the archway, draped in greenery (very well-hung, of which she approved) and walked along the fake snowy surface. At each side were little reindeer made of glittery wire with red bulbs for eyes. One, of course, had a shiny red nose too. There were models of toadstools and squirrels, all sprinkled with fake snow. It was every bit both as magical and as rubbish as she had remembered. Eventually the corridor opened out into a big space with a profusion of glitter, lights flashing and even more reindeer and woodland animals rendered in various sparkly forms.

At the far side sat Father Christmas, and Elvira was thrilled to see that he was Father Christmas, not Santa. He was wearing a hooded cloak held with a belt over his huge belly. Beside him were a number of big brown sacks. He was adjusting his position in the big chair, as a mother and small son were leaving. The boy was wide-eyed and the mother grateful and relieved.

Father Christmas did not notice her at first. He wearily rubbed his arm across his face, dislodging the facial hair. Behind her, unnoticed, a member of staff hung the “closed” sign across the entrance.

Father Christmas suddenly saw her and straightened his beardulars. He gathered himself (it had been a long shift) for a final HO HO HO and some enforced jollificating, and then looked around for the child who would be coming to sit on the little stool near him. (Laps being no longer acceptable) There was no child, just Elvira, standing in the middle of the grotto, wearing the sort of skirt which looked as though it might preclude sitting altogether, and a jumper which was having similar problems with her chestoids.

“HO HO HO” he offered, ever the professional.

“Hello” Elvira replied

There was a pause, during which FC was growing increasingly puzzled, and hungry, and wondering when he could get out of his heavy cloak.

“I’m on my own” explained Elvira

“Oh. I’m not sure I have anything suitable for you” he said, even as he was starting to doubt that.

She smiled “It’s OK. I’m not expecting anything. I just came for the nostalgia”

“FC smiled behind his bristles “That’s free!”

Elvira took a little wander around the grotto, admiring the lengths to which its constructors had gone: every nook was crowded with cute animals, toadstools, stars and little model elves, and every one was sufficiently sparkly to have made a satisfactory substitute glitterball at a disco.

As she wandered, bending down to look at the child-height exhibits, she was oblivious to FC’s eyes following her festive buttoculars around the room. The grotto had become tediously familiar, and to have it now hosting a pneumatic redhead with generously sized pumpkins was a great pleasure. A pleasure indeed which made FC glad for the massive cloak and fake belly which meant he could enjoy the spectacle without fear of discovery.

Suddenly Elvira looked at her watch, and glanced at FC. “Oh! I’d no idea it was so late! You should have closed by now!” she exclaimed, turning towards the exit. Father Christmas sprang from his seat with an urgency which, despite cloak and belly, was a tad risky.

“Don’t worry! Yes, we have closed now, but it’s fine for you to have a look around”

As she continued to do so, he added

“Is it OK if I get my beard off? It’s really itchy.” Elvira nodded. “I hope it doesn’t break the spell!” he added, smiled an invisible smile.

Elvira laughed: “It’s fine. My mum always used to say that of course it’s not the REAL Father Christmas, because he lives in Lapland, and he’s FAR too busy at this time of the year”

They both laughed, and by now FC was cleanshaven and his laugh was visible. He turned out to be a lot younger than Elvira had expected, and behind the facial bristlication had a proper chiselled jawline. His eyes were big and dark, and slightly spoiled at first by the massive white eyebrows, like miniature trained arctic foxes, which were stuck on above them.

Elvira couldn’t help laughing at them, just a little.

He offered his palms to her, explaining that they were very tough to remove. Elvira moved closer to him, gesturing her willingness to help. He stood still, savouring the moment as she came close to him, lifting her arms to deftly peel the bushy brows away from his own. The action lifted her chestage directly in front of his lowered gaze, and as she wiggled the fake brows, her bosoomsters wobbled like the platter of goodies which they were. Finally she finished, and stepped back, holding the furry beasts in her hand. “That’s better!”

FC disagreed, and, gazing into her lovely face he said

“So….have you been a good girl?”

Elvira giggled beguilingly. She rather liked the look of this smooth-cheeked festive fellow. After a moment she smiled conspiratorially and said quietly “Very good. I’m very good”

Father Christmas adjusted his fake belly, which was becoming uncomfortable. “Do you mind if I get rid of this?” he asked, pointing to it. Elvira shook her head, and moments later his cloak was undone and he had removed the fake belly. Elvira couldn’t help noticing how the increased definition created by the bellyectomy led her eye to his slightly distorted trouserage.

She smiled again, and glancing around the large grotto, asked mischievously “Have you got a big staff?”

Father Christmas did indeed, though he claimed he just had an elf.

Elvira walked over to the big chair

“Let’s do this properly” she said.

The barefaced and slimmer Father Christmas sat down in his big chair. Elvira lowered herself onto his lap, wriggling her tight skirt up a little to allow this. FC did not object, despite it being contrary to the usual rules. She nestled into a comfortable position, over his now-resplendent Yule Log.

“It’s a pity I haven’t got anything for you” he said

“On the contrary” she assured him, “my stocking is already filled”

FC’s own personal eyebrows shot up sharply. “Really?” he exclaimed. Elvira nodded

“I was going to offer you something from my sack” he said

“That sounds perfect!” Elvira replied, musing on her fondness for baubles.

It was perfect, indeed. All festive traditions were maintained; Father Christmas opened his cloak to reveal all manner of goodies for Elvira’s delight. He found that she had already got a stocking in place for him (two, in fact) and he took great delight in checking their contents. As for Elvira, she wassailed down onto his yule log, complementing his joy with her own – more an OH OH OH than a HO HO HO, but the general air of happiness prevailed.

Elvira got to pull a cracker, and found it had a really good bang

Dear Readers,

Eva is off to exciting and faraway places to conduct further research into the deep, (and often moist) crevices of cornyporn in cultures all round the world.

On her return she will be writing up her work so that you can enjoy it in whatever way you like.

In the meantime, all her considerable body of work (and believe me, she does have a considerable body) is of course available HERE for your delectation.

Eva wishes you well, and will see you later

Eva’s PA