Today, we went to Bridlington, to eat lobsters tails and fish 'n' chips on the harbour where, on a whim, we also seized upon the opportunity to take a ride on a pirate ship. Of course, it wasn't a real pirate ship: the captain was not schooled at Eton; the sails did not billow menacingly; and it was not manned by cursed sailors doomed to serve there for an hundred years in a state that fell between life and death...
But, in the middle of all this pretence for over-excited children, there sat a rather elderly man. Of course, he looked like an unassuming pensioner but there was something in his steely blue eyes, something in the way his body adjusted constantly to the gentle waves, something in the way his hands gripped at imaginary rope, that spoke of his true nature.
When he paid his fare with a galleon rather than a pound coin I knew for sure he was a pirate. And, as he looked at the decidely unscary Jolly Roger, a silent smile betrayed a lifetime of swashbuckling, canonfire and rum.