The Italian Job

Following her usual liquid breakfast, the haberdasher tended to make a virtue out of necessity by stealing a power nap whenever her legs put their support on hold. Locating her under the calamity of fabric was the easy part: the sound of brass bands brawling was a constant emanation from her rear end. Her B-flat was enough to choke a swineherd.

The application of coffee seemed apposite, and after liberally coating her chops with three pitchers of the hot stuff we were rewarded with enthusiastic hugs and warm belches. Addressing our great indoors, she avowed, would be her pleasure, not least because it would get her loutish partner out from under her feet – quite literally in fact, as the lumpy rug on which we stood was concurrently serving as the sot’s duvet.

Though easier to rouse, Vincenzo was much harder to control, being as he was unable to articulate anything more complex than hunger, cold turkey or the irrepressible urge to roister. Fortunately we were prepared, and at the first sign of life filled his mitts with grog and his gob with snouts. Unfortunately, not all of said gaspers were inserted correctly, and the burning baccy inside his mouth failed to deliver the desired palliation.

Demolition Man
Vincenzo “The Choker” Croaker
Likes: nights on the tiles
Dislikes: knights in white satin

The sum of all fears

That the mates’ quarters were cramped, briny and dank, I would never deny - although for preference I would describe them as charmingly bijou, and oozing with character and atmospheric lighting (indeed, sans dank, what is a pirate ship but a boutique ferry?) This opinion, however, was not universally held, and the crewmen were increasingly clamouring for doilies, horse brasses and crocheted toilet-roll cosies. In short, the first mate informed me, if we didn’t get our mitts on some homely fabrics and sympathetic soft furnishings toot suite, the ensuing squall would down us faster than a signal-flare duel in the gunpowder room.

While I am ever-keen to respond to my crew’s needs and, aye, whims, I have to confess that from time to time, getting their collective head around the, shall we say, big picture issues, is no trivial endeavour. Nevertheless, I am not an ogre, and knowing how to react appropriately to such bottom-up rumblings is naturally a matter of professional pride. Thus, after having all hands soundly flogged for their impudence, I led the bridge crew to Windy Miller’s Boudoir of the Great Inside, where the eponymous master craftsmadam and haberdasher (by appointment) plied her trade.

Apron-maker to the Queen (pearly)
Windy Miller
Likes: nylon
Dislikes: lambs