A couple doors down from our house is a costume shop. In the two months we’ve lived in this building, I’ve never once seen the shop open for business, and I’d just begun entertaining the action-packed thought that maybe the shop was really a front for a drug-running circle when I noticed, one morning on my way to work, that the window display had changed.
Previously, the assorted mannequins were all dressed in Egyptian garb–headdresses, Cleopatra kohl and all–but now, oh yes, they’re all done up as pirates. Wussy, mannequin boys in knickers, with patent buckle shoes and cascading black ringlets; she-pirates in emerald velvet waistcoats. Bandanas and parrots and stilletto boots abound.
Oh yes. Shiver me timbers, indeed.