Kriss Kringle

I saw the cutest pair of Donald Duck underpants. They were bright yellow, with red elastic and red piping around the legs. They had a red, white and blue Donald Duck transfer on the front. I wanted a boy friend to buy them for, I thought, as I fingered the fabric. (Despite always preferring the men in my life in black trunks, preferably)

Janette, the bosses P.A. came around today with the dreaded Kriss Kringle hat of names - it was actually a plastic bag, but doesn't hat sound nicer - and made me choose. There was seemingly no choice this year, just, "Here, pick."

Oh, I see, I thought. I tried quickly to build a plausible, justifiable case for not choosing, but soon decided it was just easier to spend the fifteen dollars. I don't even like buying presents for my own family, although I do. They've all received chocolates for every birthday and Xmas for as long as I can remember.

Beck got the new Indian accounts clerk, who speaks little and keeps to herself.

Steve, the hot analysts got the C.E.O. David, the obese analyst, made a quick and clever suggestion for a present for the C.E.O. Fortnum and Mason Jam. "You know, those 3 packs?" The C.E.O. is a rather stylist woman.

And I got Steve. Black hair, olive skin, athletic body. And I thought of those Donald Duck underpants. Steve would look adorable in them; hairy, tanned legs against red pipping. Dark pubes comming out of Donald's head.

I told Beck I was going to buy him the underpants. She just looked at me and said nothing, in that frozen moment of a way she has of saying a lot when actually saying nothing. I thought it was a good idea - turned me on for a second.

But now I've thought about it, Steve, in spite of his good looks and athletic body, is a complete sugar junky, extraordinaire, so I think I'll get him fifteen dollars of mixed lollies, instead.