The Red Cross Shop And The Codpiece-Part Two

The inspiration of a sore backside is not to be sneezed at- literally

Jan 14, 2025

The last week Scotland has frozen its tits off, leaving the sort of icy footpaths which had me walking like a penguin. After my slap-bang fall on the ice, I have been gingerly walking outside, grunting on the quiet especially when trying to get into hubby’s bed.

Sitting and walking/running is painful, and has pushed my comedy writing to the limits of Shaklten’s endurance (an explorer who I think of when I’m wild water paddling and cursing like a football player.) while negotiating my hubby’s flat has me stumbling about like a drunk…

My Hubby’s flat is an obstacle course of ‘I can’t stop buying from Tusi, ’ and making it to his bed is like trying to find your way through a room where a half-dozen kids have been let loose on a box of Lego.

It doesn't help that it is a dumping ground for other folk's leftovers including a selection of bed lamps that are as out of reach as cigarettes at Tescos checkouts and a bed with more than one mattress. Getting onto that bed is like climbing Everest (another Shaklten experience)—not easy when your coccyx feels like it has been jumped; and a bit off-putting conjugal- rights-wise. It’s like trying to have sex on a trampoline.

Thanks to my friggin coccyx my libido is as reachable as the GP. It takes me a couple of wines, a couple of Co-Codamol, and a pretty decent YouTube short of Chris Hemsworth…to get in the mood. Not that I’m telling hubby that!

So please accept my long-winded apology for the small Part Two helping…

The Red Cross Shop And The Codpiece-Part Two

Karin wiggled.

The codpiece jumped to life, making Elsa feel a bit funny.

Childhood memories flashed back to a ballet concert in Glasgow where Elsa, sitting painfully on a hard seat, wondered what all that Rudolf Nureyev fuss was about. To a spotty ten-year-old, men in tights were as stupid as her mother’s hairstyle, and a bulge between the legs was as intriguing as a pickled egg.

Karin twirled a few times, the codpiece swaying like a jeweled palm tree jolting to attention as she finished with a robust pelvic thrust.

Perhaps I should revisit Rudolf Nureyev? Thought Elsa.

Harry, an elderly gentleman, passed by. He, pondering the butcher’s latest leek-and-mushroom sausages, stopped as he caught sight of Karin's mid-pelvic thrust. The codpiece burst forth with a ‘ta-da–like’ bounce.

Karin waved.

Like a stunned Labrador, Harry was mesmerized, sausages as far from his thoughts as last night’s toenail trimmings. Karin, who according to many was still a catch, had the sort of pelvic thrust that could set a man’s heart thumping. Especially a man whose only contact with a woman was checking his blood pressure.

“I saw one in the war,” he shouted.

“Aye right,” she shouted.

“I did,” he shouted back.

Elsa’s phone lit up, Dolly Parton’s “Islands In The Stream” ringtone echoed through the shop and the codpiece bounced into action.

Harry chuckled, setting off a round of coughing, as Karin twirled with her best I’m looking for a shag look.

Elsa’s phone stopped, the codpiece flopped, and Karin, mid-pose, tried not to look silly.

Elsa fumbled to find more music.

“Do it again,” Harry tapped the window. “They’ll never believe me at the butcher’s.”

Elsa found a Status Quo song and, cursing her husband’s taste in music, flicked it on.

Down, down, deeper and down . . .

The codpiece went mental.

A couple of hours and a Status Quo and an Elton John album later, the codpiece was swinging from the window like a pornographic wind chime. Elsa and Karin spent all morning dressing the window, and mannequin while Harry who christened the mannequin Sexy Lexy videoed. They figured if Her from the Guild was coming for the usual get-rid-of-the-volunteers lecture, then they may as well get their money’s worth.

They were going out in style.

The girls threw everything they could at the window: leather belts, boots, bras, underpants, aprons—they went to town, relying on Harry’s knowledge of all things pornographic, as the only erotic thing they had seen was Barbara Windsor’s breast in a Carry On film. Harry’s so-called knowledge had Karin and Elsa on the edge of their seats. They had no idea that an elderly man who walked like he had a turtle up his jacksy could have got up to so much. He had been around the block so many times he had lost count. And when it came to sex, Harry’s memory was as clear as Highland Spring water, while theirs was as muddy as a cappuccino.

Finally finished, satisfied with Elton John’s ‘Sweet Painted Lady’ on full volume the three stopped to admire their handiwork with a coffee.

You won’t need a gutter to sleep in tonight.

“It’s a work of art,” muttered Harry tucking into a scone.

Getting paid for being laid.

The codpiece swayed….

The door burst open Her from the Guild flounced through. “What in the name of Hades is going on in here?”

Ava Ramey FBI Mystery Thriller (4-book series)

all 4 at 0.99

Every cipher tells a story. Every code holds a kill count.

The game begins when the first body drops. It ends when someone breaks.

From the twisted mind of bestselling author Axl Blaze comes the electrifying Ava Ramey FBI Mystery Thriller series, where cryptic messages lead to dead ends—and dead bodies.