Egg Pod Chairs & Romantic Heroes

Charlie Clarke
Jul 29, 2022
4 min read

Updated: Nov 14

Notes by Alison Pickles

Have you ever said ‘Yes’ when you know it should have been ‘No’?

This morning I was buffing the 60s egg pod chair in our memorabilia shop.

‘But Alison, you love opera,’ Auntie Dottie was saying, arms splayed, palms upwards.

‘I’m busy!’ I returned, enjoying the heady aroma of beeswax.

‘Why pop picker, are you plastering antique polish on a plastic pod? I don’t want beeswax up my nostrils, doing battle with my Channel No.5 when I sit in the chair.’

My duster spun faster. ‘You’ve been brewing Lapsang Souchong tea in the shop again.’

‘So?’ Dottie dived under the counter and producing a bottle of nail varnish she began brush-stroking her fingernails with bubble gum pink.

‘If you must tart yourself up during opening time, you could at least do it in the kitchenette.’

‘I need to be on the shop floor.’

I snorted, much to my embarrassment. But I couldn’t help it. And I’ll tell you why. If you by chance visit our High Street shop, Pickles Vintage Emporium, you will no doubt encounter Auntie Dottie, lounging inside the egg pod chair, engrossed in a comic or magazine taken from a pile of old, for sale, editorials.

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why do you think you need to be on the shop floor?’

‘A customer could pop in pop picker.’

Restraining the urge to discuss her dubious merits as a sales person I merely said, ‘I’m here.’

Auntie Dottie’s eyes sparkled at me as she blew her nails like she was playing a mouth organ.

Her hands paused for a beat, ‘Indeed you are.’

I slammed the lid tight onto the circular polish tin and folded both dusters into neat squares.

‘You know the pong makes me queasy.’

Brendan’s Wheeze

‘The tickets cost Brendan sixty quid.’

What? Aunt does this. She flits between subjects when it suits.

‘I didn’t ask him to get tickets for Aida. You put him up to it auntie, you knew I wanted to go and see it.’

‘Perfect…so Alison’ she said in a lilting voice, ‘you shall go to the opera with Brendan.’ Before I could stop her, she was goofing across the shop floor brandishing a feather boa and singing, ‘I want to sing in opera.’

‘I will not be going!’ I shouted above the racket.

Auntie Dottie suddenly stilled. The rainbow boa dangled towards the lino covered floor. ‘You must go Alison. You know Brendan burns with an eternal flame for you.’

‘He’s not the man for me.’

Dumping the feathered affair, Auntie Dottie edged out a cup and saucer from the Hornsea pottery tea set, crammed on a shelf.

‘Aida by Giuseppe Verdi and Antonio Ghislanzoni,’ I continued, ‘is not aligned with Brendan’s cultural antennae. His calibre is more The Rolling Stones.’

‘Exactly Sweetpea. What a sacrifice the boy’s making!’

‘I am not having him sit next to me in the theatre, he’ll fidget,’ I said, dashing across to the kitchenette and grabbing Auntie Dottie’s mug.

As she raised the teapot, I slid the cup and saucer away and the disgusting smoky spiced liquid gushed into the Snoopy mug.

‘It won’t disturb you if he fidgets, the theatre’s got bucket seats.’

‘I don’t care if they’ve got bucket seats in spades!’

‘Your coffee should be percolated by now.’

‘Yes…thank you.’

‘Shall I fetch you a cup?’ asked Auntie Dottie.

‘Can you afford to leave the shop floor?’

‘You’d enjoy a date with Brendan.’

I headed back to the kitchenette, muttering, ‘I so would not.’

Dragging in a deep breath, and clutching a cup of mellow coffee, I ambled back into the shop.

A Truce?

Auntie was lifting teapot lids and peering inside. On her third lid lifting she drew out half a pack of custard creams and offered me one.

I relaxed. This was auntie’s signal call for a truce. Well, usually…

‘He could be right for you,’ she insisted.

‘You’re wrong about Brendan being right for me.’

‘I might not be wrong pop picker!’ she declared, upon opening a biscuit and revealing its messy lemon tinted centre.

‘You are!’

Brendan when he's not wearing a leather jacket

The shop bell rang and Brendan swaggered in, wearing a leather jacket over his ensemble of jeans, white T-shirt and casually open silk shirt. Looking downwards, I noticed his feet were encased in blotchy black trainers.

Before I could bolt, transfixed by the truly awful footwear, he had exchanged a ‘Hi sweetheart’ with auntie and she was messing around at a rack of 60s dresses.

‘To be sure Alison, me darlin’, you’re looking a picture,’ he said, eyes alight. ‘I’ve got these tickets,’ and he produced them like a Wild Bill Hickok quick draw.

Aware of Auntie Dottie, pretending to not be interested but listening to every word, I determined to prove her wrong.

‘Yes, I’ll go with you Brendan,’ I said in a casual tone.

‘I was wondering if you might like to join me,’ he continued, ‘Be a good crack…what did you say?’

‘Yes, I’ll go with you Brendan.’

‘Top Banana!’ he cried, just as the shop’s doorbell dinged.

We all three turned towards the door, Auntie Dottie also decanting both parts of her custard cream onto the counter top before I had unearthed a paper napkin. I scooped up the biscuit sections, gingerly balancing the cream half in one palm and the biscuit top in the other to avoid getting my fingers mucky.

A stranger had stepped into our vintage emporium. He was majestic with a mop of wavy hair. His shoes were brogues and he wore a suit. My heart somersaulted. Oh Bum! Just when I’d agreed to a date with Brendan…

‘I’ll pick you up at 6.30 on Friday Alison me darlin’.’

What? Why was Brendan still hanging around?

‘Hi! Name’s Timothy Dalton,’ said the stranger, looking at my face, to my outstretched laden-with-biscuit palms and back up again.

The look he gave me was not one of bedazzlement but of bemusement.

‘Like Prince Barin in Flash Gordon,’ Auntie Dottie, was saying to the man of my dreams.

‘More like James Bond in Licence to Kill,’ I muttered under my breath, trying to appear calm, wishing I looked like the gorgeous Cary Lowell who ended up in Timothy Dalton’s arms in the film - instead of an idiot left holding the biscuit.