(Meddlesome because curious. Curios because what are they?)
Reginald “Reg” T. Nibbs had a shop full of curios. Mostly they were dusty. Yes, dustiness, he thought, was their primary and defining characteristic. In spite of all of his efforts, frantically dusting with an ostrich featherduster, as soon curios in the third shelf of the southwest corner cabinet were free from dust the curios in the fifth shelf of the northern middle cabinet were crying out* to be dusted. Reg sighed, as he did often these days, thinking of the weight all of these things had on his life** and remembered those, yeah let’s go there, halcyon days when he recognized himself in the mirror and when the world seemed endless and possible. Then there was that one day when he thought the best thing in the world would be for him to own a, for lack of a better word, curiosity shop. Sure, plenty of curious people came in to the store, but precious few of them actually bought anything. This was the lingering conundrum. How to get people to buy the tchotchkes, gewgaws, fripperies, and antiques gathering dust all over his shop. Reg sneezed.
* Not literally.
** Again, not literally.