The Eighties Pirate Suit

Mother. Oh, dear God--Mother! What was she thinking this time? One might recall a set of perfectly dreadful cutlery she sent me for Christmas last year: ancient cutlery, venerable cutlery--cutlery that predated both World Wars, and quite possibly the entire twentieth century. The cutlery was bad. First time through the dishwasher, the "perfect stainless" coating started flaking off in patches, revealing a seedy copper underbelly. Quite indecent, really.

The package which arrived today, however...ye gads! By comparison, the cutlery seemed positively regal. There was--well, first of all, there was a smell, a damp and musty basement smell. Wrinkling my nose in disgust, I pulled out, in turn, a well-worn bathing costume, made for someone several inches taller than I; some sort of eighties pirate outfit, complete with ruffled shirt; and a rather handsome red leather jacket. Decency precludes my attaching pictures of the bathing attire, but the pirate costume's too good to pass up:

"Belay the laughter--arr."

"Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum! (Arr-har, har!)"

The shirt, I suppose, isn't so bad. If you disregard the threadbare seams and the bizarre design, and the way the dye's run out of it everywhere but the underarms and the neckline, it's almost wearable. Now that it's had a good wash, it hardly even smells. The trousers, on the other hand, they're a lost cause. There are two great yellow stains on the left leg, and the waist is a full six inches too wide. I can take 'em off without undoing the flies. (If I walk about too much, they take themselves off, indeed, without any assistance from me.) As for the bathing suit--ha! Ignoring, for the moment, the enormous Speedo logo and the ridiculous red leopard print, I'm not sure I dare try it on, to begin with. I mean, I wouldn't put on someone else's used underpants, would I? It's the same bloody thing. The leather coat, while perfectly serviceable, needs to make the acquaintance of a dry-cleaner before it can be worn. The mouldy smell from the other garments has pervaded it through and through.

"You couldn't even give this stuff to the Salvation Army," said Frits, inspecting the trousers. "They only accept clothing with some dignity. You can't just give them any old rags."

"I know, I know," I groaned, holding up the bathing suit to my torso to demonstrate its ludicrous size. "This is just silly."

"Look! The trouserleg has a stain!"

"Jesus H, it has two! Do you think she sent them just to insult me?"

"No! She wouldn't!"

"Of course not...of course not. What am I supposed to say to her? I can't wear these things!"

"The coat isn't bad."

"The coat is good."

"I wouldn't go that far." Frits handed me back the trousers, and I stuffed the whole sorry ensemble back into the bag it'd come in. A whiff of cellar-mould puffed up, making my eyes water.

At any rate, I must thank my mother for--for opening my eyes to a whole new level of mankiness, beyond the realms of naked cutlery and ratbitten shirts. I had, in the years since I moved away from home, quite forgotten the smell cloth takes on after several years in a box down-cellar. In one whiff, I've acquainted myself with a whole new stratum of poverty. This, alas, is what awaits me, when I can no longer afford this apartment--a basement apartment on East Hastings, where my neighbours are pirates, and prostitutes in smelly red leather prowl the streets. Thank you, Mother, for this pungent glimpse into my own insalubrious future!