The Redcross Shop And The Codpiece

The codpiece, like a padded bra, often promises more than what is beneath.

I hope the festive season was kind to you. I spent some of it lurking around a second-hand shop and came across a crochet-covered coathanger…an inspiration for the below story.

It has three parts perhaps four as I am not sure of the ending yet. But don’t worry it will be a happy one…

The Redcross Shop And The Codpiece Part One

George’s codpiece is a magnificent piece of expanding equipment that, with the aid of a long-life battery gyrates to music.

The straps are studded with green and red baubles with an implement that springs forth like a jack-in-the-box, presenting a jeweled disco ball spurring a woman to forget her “not tonight darling” as soon as she sees it.

George had first spied it in the Red Cross charity shop.

He walked past on his way to the butcher’s and there it was in the window passing itself off as abstract art. He stopped and stared and soon forgot about his pork chops.

The charity shop was run by Elsa and Karin, two women who had spent their lives making scones for the (WRI). The only codpieces they had seen, apart from ballet on Television, were Henry VII’s armor during a school trip to London (which wasn’t yesterday) and the amateur dramatics society’s only attempt at Shakespeare—a Hamlet as camp as Liberace who wore his codpiece like a hairpiece and, according to the local paper, had “as much acting ability as a glass of water.”

The codpiece was hanging on the doorknob in a Marks and Spencer bag when Elsa and Karin appeared.

Elsa with a glance, thought it was a joke coat hanger, which started her off on a rant that Karin had heard many times.

“What’s this,” she said, “another of those friggin’ crochet-covered coat hangers?”

Karin, shop keys poised, huffed a silent, “Here we go.”

“I mean who came up with that idea?” said Elsa. “They are about as much use as one of those crochet toilet roll covers.”

Karin opened the door, marched into the dark shop, switched on the lights, and sighed. “Must we go down that coat hanger road again?”

Elsa thumped the bag on the counter. “A toilet roll is a toilet roll, a coat hanger’s a coat hanger—they’re not genitals that need covering up,” she watched as Karin switched on the till and opened the back door.

“They should be banned,” she said to herself.

Karin flicked the Closed sign to Open and then stopped. “If you feel that strongly about it, why don’t you write to the WRI —or better still leave, join the Women’s Guild?”

“Guild?” Elsa jolted. “Have you seen their bottle stall? Not a wine in sight. They have no idea what the public wants. And as for Her who runs the Guild . . . I see enough of Her in here.”

Her from the Guild was the new Red Cross store manager. She had only been in the role for three months and had managed to lose every volunteer apart from Elsa and Karin. She liked to manage from a distance, occasionally ‘spot-checking’ to rubbish the latest color-coordinated clothes rack or innovative window display. She’d been given the job without any experience beyond a few hours in her daughter’s coffee shop. Some say the daughter couldn’t bear another hour of her mother’s lukewarm flat whites served with the ‘evils of alcohol’ sermon and pulled a few strings.

Karin lifted the bag and peered in.

Elsa flicked on the kettle. “She’s living in the Dark Ages, saving the world with homemade jam.”

“I don’t think Her from the Guild believes in jam-saving things,” said Karin.

“Her last bottle stall was full of ’em,” said Elsa. “As if anyone is going to spend a tenner on raffle tickets for a jar of strawberry jam. She’s been warned,” Elsa peered into the fridge for milk. “If her next bottle stall doesn’t make any money, she’s out . . . for good. I mean who gets sacked from the Guild?”

Karin, feigning listening, pulled the codpiece into the light and gasped as the morning sun twinkled its’ baubles. “I don’t think it’s a coat hanger.”

“What?” said Elsa.

“I said I don’t think it’s a coat hanger.”

Elsa looking up from the fridge whistled through her teeth. “Talk about genitals—that’s big enough for an elephant’s.”

Karin read the note attached to the codpiece. “It’s from that belly dancing teacher.”

“Well, that explains it,” muttered Elsa. “Anyone who talks about pelvic tilts and Tena pads in the same sentence as a cappuccino is bound to be a bit, well . . . free with things.”

“Hmm . . . she’s written, ‘Have fun.’”

“Told you, as free as a nudist colony,” said Elsa.

“‘Open your mind and give your pelvis a good seeing to.’”

“Completely pelvic obsessed,” said Elsa.

“‘Fulfill your fantasy. Build a bonfire, dance al fresco, and discover that goddess within’”.

Elsa flicked the tip of the codpiece; it sprung into action. She handed it to Karin “Why don’t you put it on?”

“What?” said Karin.

“It’s Monday, No one comes in on a Monday, even Her from the Guild.”

“Why don’t you?” Karin shoved it back.

“Me? My size? Where am I to put it, around my neck? No, definitely you.”

They stared at the so-called “one-size-fits-all” pelvic apparition

“And you’re the one with superb hips,” said Elsa. “Even that belly dancing teacher said you were a natural. She said you could make hessian flow with your hips. Imagine this —” She waved the codpiece in front of Karin’s face. “—With your shimmies?”

Karen with an “Oh alright” slid into the changing room.

Elsa pulled out two mugs and flicked on the kettle.

Her phone pinged a text.

She pulled it out…

“It’s her from the Guild,” shouted Elsa. “She’s wanting something for the next bottle stall!”

“Should I take off my jumper?” yelled Karin.

“No, seriously, she does,” Elsa scrolled down the Queen’s Speech of a message, skimming through the “how to improve things” sermon.

“What about my shoes?” shouted Karin. “Should I take ’em off too?”

Elsa stopped. “Jesus.”

“What was that?” Shoes too much?”

“She’s coming here this afternoon,” said Elsa.

“Who?”

“Guess,” yelled Elsa.

“I thought she was on holiday, taking in the ballet somewhere hot,” said Karin.

Elsa sighed. “Not anymore. Apparently, there’s an issue with our ‘so-called window display.’ Something to do with our out-of-date . . .” Elsa stopped.

“Out-of-date what?”

“Err . . . mannequin,” muttered Elsa.

“There nothing out of date about my mannequin,” snapped Karin. “I used it for years.”

Elsa waited; she knew there was more.

“It’s retro, evocative, quiche.”

“Don’t you mean niche?” said Elsa.

“That window would be nothing without my mannequin, and if that’s the thanks I get—”

“I know, she can shove it,” muttered Elsa to herself.

“—we should give her something to choke on,” said Karin.

“Exactly,” said Elsa.

“Something as outrageous as her stupid demands.”

“I know,” shouted Elsa.

“Something to . . . you know . . . stop her in tracks—shut her up.”

“Something to put her right in her place,” said Elsa.

“How about this?” Karin swished the curtains open.

Elsa stared at Karin’s pelvis as the bubbling kettle filled the shop with steam.

“Jesus!” she muttered.

A short and sweet video as I slipped on some ice heading for a swim in some ice. There was a loud crack involving my arse and my head and now sitting is not too comfortable for long…nor is prancing about in front of the laptop camera.

Until next time happy reading and keep a lookout for any ice…