Hi, everyone!

About this latest offering.

It started out as a 'one shot', but is now destined to become a series of Christmas related drabbles/short chapters. You know how it is when you just get to writing something.

I would like to say Merry Christmas to all of my friends on here. All the MAG/Pinger/Howell shippers and the non-shippers and guest reviewers and everyone who loves Gilligan and Gilligan's Island. Happy Christmas, everybody, from me and my dog who sits here patiently while I type!

It was a week until Christmas, and the first snowflakes were beginning to drift gently through the air.

Except they weren't snowflakes, they were dust motes escaping from the roof of the hut, whirling and twirling and winking in the rays of bright tropical sunshine.

"Oh, poo," declared Mrs Howell, fanning herself while gazing forlornly out of the window. "Another Christmas on this dratted island."

Laid out on a nearby bamboo lounger, Mr. Howell looked up from the same copy of the Financial Times that he'd been reading and re-reading for the last three years and peered at his beloved wife over the top of his spectacle frames. "Lovey, darling, what on earth made you think of Christmas?" he asked, curiously.

"The date, Thurston, the date! It's December 18th!" Mrs. Howell pursed her lips. "Really, Thurston. It's not like you to be so remiss about the time of year!"

Mr. Howell blinked as if forming an inward thought. "Good heavens," he declared. "December 18th, you say. Where does the time go?"

Mrs. Howell flapped her fan in her husband's direction. "You must be softening in your old age, darling," she teased. "Don't you remember how much you used to look forward to Christmas? The time of year where you fire people and make the rest work overtime?"

Mr. Howell's expression grew dreamy. "Ah, yes," he sighed. "'The most wonderful time of the year'. For me, that is!"

"Besides, Gilligan's been prattling on about Christmas non-stop since September. I can't believe you really didn't know."

Mr. Howell smiled. "Yes, well. I tend to switch off after a while. I see his mouth moving, but in my mind I'm hearing Haydn's Trumpet Concerto in E Flat."

"How very clever of you!" tittered Mrs. Howell.

Mr. Howell turned another sun-faded page of the FT. "Thank you, darling. Mind you it isn't hard. There's not much difference between Gilligan and a wind instrument."

Mrs. Howell smiled and turned back to gaze out across the clearing. "Speaking of Gilligan, there he is now." Lovey waved her whole arm out of the window. "Yoo hoo, Gilligan!"

Mr. Howell rolled his eyes. "For goodness sakes', Lovey, don't poke the hornet's nest. I'm just not ready for Haydn this early!"

"Oh, Thurston, do behave! You're becoming quite the old grump, just like your father." Mrs. Howell tapped the top of her husband's head with her fan as she went over to the door to welcome Gilligan. "Come in, dear boy! Tell us what you've been up to!"

Mr. Howell muttered loudly as Gilligan entered the hut, bringing a chaotic waft of air with him that made the pages of the FT flop over.

"What was that, darling?" asked Mrs. Howell, hot on Gilligan's heels.

"I said... 'up to his neck in trouble'," Mr. Howell replied, curtly. He snapped the FT back into position, then sighed as it promptly flopped over again.

"Hey, Mr. Howell!" said Gilligan, breezily. "Still reading about the time Dowell Industries lost four million dollars?"

Mr. Howell brightened immediately. He sat up ramrod straight and inclined his head to watch the First Mate as he approached. "A pleasure to see you, dear boy!" he cried, swatting Gilligan affectionately on the arm. "However did you guess?"

Gilligan grinned widely. "I know it's your favorite story," he said, pointing at the limp newspaper. "You never get tired of reading about how Mr. Dowell's secretary got tired of being chased around the office so she and her fiance pretended to be Mr. Dowell's niece and nephew and blew his fortune in Las Vegas."

Mr. Howell hooted with laughter while Gilligan stood at his side, grinning like a loyal sidekick. "Indeed I don't!" he boomed. "The only thing I find depressing about that story is that it was only four million dollars!"

"Oh, well. At least Powell Industries went under, huh, Mr. Howell?" Gilligan was still grinning as he clapped Mr. Howell heartily on the shoulder.

"Indeed, my boy! Indeed!" Mr. Howell let out a series of happy chortles like a hyena spying an ailing buffalo calf. "'Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la!" The millionaire jumped up from the lounger, did a little soft-shoe shuffle in the sand and then grasped Gilligan by the shoulders. "You certainly know how to bring a smile to an old man's face," he beamed.

"It's Christmas, Mr. Howell," said Gilligan. "The time to put all your troubles aside and be happy."

"And so it is," laughed Mr. Howell. "So it is. Tell me, Gilligan, what other tidings of comfort and joy have you brought for us today?"

"Well," said Gilligan, "me and Skipper are going out to find a tree. Do you and Mrs. Howell wanna help?"

Mr. Howell abruptly let go of Gilligan's shoulders and fussed with the hem of his knitted cardigan, harrumphing and a-hawing.

"Why, we'd love to, Gilligan!" said Mrs. Howell, her face lighting up like the national grid.

"Great!" cried Gilligan, leaping into action. "I'll see if Skipper has a spare ax!"

"Now just wait a minute," said Mr. Howell. "What Lovey means, my dear boy, is that you find the tree, and we will help decorate it!"

"Oh," said Gilligan, deflating. "Okay."

"Oh poo, Thurston," said Lovey, snapping her fan irritably.

"Lovey," said Mr. Howell, "let the elves do the work!"

Gilligan noticed Mrs. Howell's glum look. "Don't worry, Mrs. Howell. We'll find the biggest and the best tree, just for you."

"Thank you, Gilligan," Mrs. Howell replied, graciously.

After Gilligan had left the hut, Mrs. Howell fixed her husband with the kind of look he knew all too well from over twenty years of marriage.

"What?" asked the millionaire, squirming uncomfortably.

But Mrs. Howell said nothing. She stared at her husband for a few moments, then her gaze drifted back toward the window and the familiar figure of Gilligan disappearing into the trees.