Swashbuckling

A while ago I attended a concert featuring a piccolo concerto written by I know not whom, since I arrived at the last possible minute and was not given a program.  I am guessing that it was a Vivaldi piece, but I dont' know for sure.  I wondered whether it might originally have been written for sopranino recorder, but that is neither here nor there.  The concerto was quite demanding, and the soloist had a remarkable stage presence:  she was a blond woman who looked, from my vantage point, close to six feet tall, wearing a maroon boned bodice and long sheer flowing skirt; she was amply endowed and looked as though she could have wrestled all comers to the floor in five seconds flat.

I did not particularly enjoy the piece, which I mentally nicknamed "The Concerto for Tuned Dog Whistle" (I kept inadvertently flinching at the high passages, to the consternation of the woman on my left, who probably thought I was on the verge of an epileptic fit) although it was lots of fun to observe the heaving of the soloist's bosom as she inhaled lustily for the long passages of fioritura.  (It was a little less fun to watch her swabbing and shaking the accumulated fluid out of the piccolo between movements . . . and even less fun than that to see her sluicing spit off her face with the back of her hand.) 

It occurred to me that this woman would look absolutely splendid affixed to the front of a pirate ship, and that she was, in fact, a living masthead.  How delightful it would be to don an eyepatch and bounce over the Spanish Main with this woman of mythical proportions adorning my prow!