So I may be overstretching myself by writing this close to Christmas. However I'm not going anywhere this year and so writing is a great way of keeping in the spirit of the season. My dog thinks otherwise; she thinks my time could be better spent fussing over her. Well, guess what- I can do both. Haha, I'm a multi-tasking wizard.

Thank you so much for the reviews and support. My internet connection has been a bit weird this week so I am going to upload this chapter as quickly as possible so I can get onto the next. I would love it if anyone has any hints and tips on writing Mrs. Howell. I love her, and I think Natalie Schafer played her with such aplomb. But I need help with things like American high society at the time that Mrs. Howell would have been alive. Please tell me if my portrayal of her is wrong or stilted or rings false in any way.

Thanks guys, love you all. Without further ado here is chapter two. And yes I know most people will have had their trees up and decorated by now. What can I say, I was always a late starter.


"Well! This looks a likely tree!" The Skipper surveyed the plump shrub in front of him. "Hand me the ax, Gilligan!" He stood with his hand out to the side for several moments until he realized that he was bereft of the ax. Turning to Gilligan, he said with a scowl, "I thought I told you to hand me the ax!"

Gilligan cocked his head this way and that with the coveted ax clutched in both hands, surveying the shrub that the Skipper had chosen.

"I dunno, Skipper," he mused. "I think it's too small."

The Skipper's scowl softened into a look of humorous tolerance. "Did I ask you to think?" he smiled. "I asked you to hand me the ax!"

"Don't I get a say?" asked Gilligan, sulkily.

The Skipper folded his arms as though humoring a small child. "All right, Gilligan. Since it's the season of goodwill, have your say."

Gilligan regarded the shrub. He cast a critical gaze over its short, thick branches and studied the width of its trunk like a seasoned tradesman. "It's too small," he said, finally.

"Well, thanks for your professional opinion," the Skipper retorted. "Now hand me the ax."

Gilligan handed over the ax, but not without reluctance. He watched as the Skipper spat on both palms, rubbed them together, and gripped the ax handle tightly. He watched the Skipper swing the ax back, high above his right shoulder, as though he were about to fell a giant redwood. Braced for the Skipper's mighty swing and the chopping down of the small shrub, both men were startled when an unexpected voice cut through the air, sharper than any ax.

"Captain, wait!" cried Mrs. Howell. "Gilligan's right. It's a darling shrub, but it's much too small!"

Immediately the Skipper lowered the ax out of harm's way. "Mrs. Howell!" he said as the elegant millionairess emerged from the foliage at the edge of the clearing. "What are you doing all the way out here?"

Mrs. Howell, her parasol resting daintily on her shoulder, approached the wide-eyed and grinning Gilligan and stood at the First Mate's side. "I escaped," she said, naughtily. "Gilligan asked if I wanted to help you select a tree, so here I am!"

"Good for you, Mrs. Howell," said Gilligan, beaming at her as though he'd just been given an early Christmas gift.

"I mutinied, Gilligan," said Mrs. Howell, bumping her shoulder against his upper arm.

"Mrs. Howell," said the Skipper, with an exasperated expression on his face. "With all due respect..."

"Yes?" said Mrs. Howell, expectantly.

The Skipper, his mouth still open, regarded in resigned silence the two people standing in front of him. The skinny First Mate, his little buddy Gilligan, and the poised and elegant better half of Thurston Howell III, Eunice Wentworth 'Lovey' Howell. He knew that there was no point in protesting. For whatever he said from this moment forward, Gilligan and Mrs. Howell would back each other up until the sun went down.

"Fine," he said, sighing with early exhaustion. "If the two of you can pick a better tree, then be my guests."

Mrs. Howell threaded her arm through Gilligan's and gave a happy smile that made her nose crinkle girlishly. Like Ginger's, thought the Skipper, his heart softening.

"Trust me, Captain," she said, coquettishly. "I shall find you the most perfect tree you ever laid eyes on. Certainly it won't be a traditional fir or a spruce, but it will be a lot better than that silly little thing!"

The Skipper stared glumly at the shrub he had chosen. This would have been a quick and easy job and they would have been home in time for a snooze before lunch. But there was no chance of getting off lightly now that Mrs. Howell had turned up in full flow.

He watched forlornly as Gilligan and Mrs. Howell set off along the path, both of them talking a mile a minute. And suddenly, unexpectedly, he felt a swell of love in his heart for both of them. They were both so seemingly innocent at first glance, but they both knew how to stand their ground. And even though such direct honesty could be overwhelming at times, in any situation, the Skipper knew that he would be in for a highly entertaining afternoon, and that they would, without a doubt, return to camp with the best Christmas tree.

Captain Jonas Grumby resigned himself to his fate and followed up the path behind Gilligan and Mrs. Howell. He kept himself sane by thinking of how happy the other castaways would be when Mrs. Howell's tree was in place, and the decorating could begin in earnest.