The Christmas Cracker Dress

Notes by Alison Pickles

Aunt Dottie’s disapproval of the way I dress reached a new height today. I ask you. Am I a punk rocker who struts the streets in leather ensemble, dripping with spikes and chains? No. Do I waltz around looking like an unmade bed? Quite the opposite.

I’m a sane woman of thirty, who runs the High Street shop, ‘Pickles Vintage Emporium’ – along with the dubious help of Aunt Dottie - and dresses sensibly.

Three Weeks Ago

So imagine my trepidation three weeks ago, when I discovered auntie ensconced behind the shop counter, in deep discussion with a man I recognised as the French fashion designer, Raphael Aicard. In case you don’t know, Raphael Aicard is renowned for creating iridescent dresses that look like giant puff balls.

As auntie introduced us my suspicions increased. Pale long fingers gripped my hand while his peacock-blue eyes laser-beamed me head to toe.

Today, my suspicions were confirmed. I was with auntie again when Raphael Aicard staggered in clutching a gigantic square white box tied by the widest black ribbon.

'Alison, hold out your arms,' Aunt Dottie urged, scooping the display of Barbie, Ken, Sindy and Tressy dolls off the counter.

Aicard laid his box upon the cleared space. He sparkled at Aunt Dottie. She sparkled back at him. As one, they turned to me.

'Let me take those.' Dottie sprang forward and relieved me of the stock seconds earlier dumped in my arms.

Worst Fears

Raphael Aicard gestured towards the box – a clear invitation I was to open it. What could I do? It would have been rude to decline. And I was humbled because no matter what I thought about this designer’s creations, he is in the top league. Women all over the world adore his creations.

Half an hour later I was wrapped up like a cracker inside a fantasy of pink ruched material. I felt like a clown in the fussy dress.

‘You like long clothes Alison,’ said Aunt Dottie, clearly believing it made the dress acceptable.

I could only nod and pray a customer didn’t walk into the shop until I had escaped upstairs to the flat.

The doorbell tingled. It was Brendan. What? What was he doing in our vintage emporium on a Saturday? Why wasn’t he where he belongs – at his market stall.

I grabbed handfuls of loathsome skirt and ran up the stairs, dodging piles of magazines and bric-a-brac items auntie had stacked at the side of each step.

‘Sure that’s a nice frock, Alison!’ shouted Brendan. ‘Shall you be wearin’ it to our weddin’ darlin’?’

It wasn’t until I reached the top of the stairs, and peered back down at his expectant face that I realised just what he’d said.

‘I wouldn’t marry you Brendan Murphy if you were the last man standing on Bungly market!’

Characters and story/blog post ‘The Christmas Cracker Dress’ written by Charlie Clarke © Charlie Clarke 2022