The dream had taken me back in time, Daddy had pulled me over his knees, raised my pleated school skirt, pulled my knickers deep into my valleys and vigorously spanked my bare bum.
I had a long cooling shower before getting dressed for my day at the bank.
After a short bike ride to the nearby market town the tellers of the local Barclay Bank greeted me with courteous, "Good morning Miss Alicia!" I returned their greetings with a warm smile. They again seemed to compete as to whom would wear the shortest miniskirt. At 22, only a few of years older, I would have loved to join the competition, but I am their supervisor.
I dropped my bag on my desk and climbed the stairs to poke my head into the office of the manager's secretary. As usual she was having coffee with the deputy manager. I was offered a cup. A few minutes later we were joined by our manager. He poured himself a cup and point blank questioned me, "How's your French Alicia?"
"You are due a promotion and London is offering the position of deputy manager of the Calais branch."
"You would have a leave to beef up your French. Your language coach or whatever program would be paid by the bank. You have a week to think about it."
On the way back home I was milling over that proposition and almost missed the opening of a newly renovated shop. A rare occurrence with the local supermarket having killed most of the small shops of our residential suburb.
The name and the purpose was interesting, Victoriana Vintage Fashion and Haberdashery. I attached my bike to a nearby lamppost and examined the window. There was of course plenty of haberdashery supplies and a strange mix of dress patterns from the 70s and a number of Enid Blyton's books. I also spotted inside the shop a mannequin dressed with a lovely tartan pinafore.
I pushed the door, a small bell chimed, I was welcomed by a middle aged lady behind a very modern sewing machine. After a polite exchange I asked if I could have a look around. "By all means! Please don't mind me, I already have plenty of work."
The shop was set up so that visitors could browse without being under the eyes of its owner. I could discreetly satisfy my curiosity. The tag on the pinafore read, 'Made to measure, £107' That wasn't cheap! There was a wooden bookcase with more books by Enid Blyton and an assortment of school like cotton knickers and woolly knee high socks. Several clothes racks offered a selection of dresses and skirts similar to those pictured by the patterns in the window. Most tags read, "Made to measure, please ask for a quote."
Those dresses and skirts weren't as short as those of my bank tellers, it was only the fashion of the 70s, the start of the miniskirt revolution. I suddenly remembered my first mini, Mom had smacked my thighs, "Now you have a choice, wear that brazen skirt showing that you were spanked or wear a proper one!"
I did wear it a few years later when they retired by the sea after having sold their business. I did also wear it at the bank as it isn't too short contrary to Mom's ideas.
I spotted a cute set of a short tartan pleated skirt with a white long sleeve blouse and a black sleeveless sweater. The tag said that it came with white cotton knickers and knee high socks for £70. Somehow it reminded me of my old school uniform. Although I didn't know if I will ever dare wear it, I tried it on. The stretch waist was an easy fit, and the lady asked how short I want the skirt, "Not to short please."
I collected it Thursday late afternoon on the way back home. I tried the skirt on. I loved that it was quite short without being too short. It felt flirty. I imagined testing it on a few dishy guys at the local coffee shop. I again remembered Mom having smacked my thighs.
Then I was surprised to find a small leaflet in the pocket within the waist band.
"Would you like to learn French ?
Old fashioned method
Guarantied results !"
There was no address, no telephone number, nothing. With the Calais offer in the back of my mind, and the intriguing promise of guarantied results I was very curious! I returned to the shop to show that leaflet to the seamstress and she gave me a card,
Enseignement tradionnel du français
There was an address and no telephone number. I didn't know that manor, but I knew the picturesque village. With a beguiling smile the old lady said, "You already have the uniform." I raised both eyebrows, and she added with a somewhat admonishing tone, "Be sure to wear it when visiting."
To be continued...
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