Write from the point of view of a shop window dummy.
Cold here again.
It's four in the morning and even the last of the drunks have gone home, but I'm still here. And I'm bored. The drunks were at least entertaining, though I wasn't impressed (in any sense) by the one with no bladder control who left that wet streak by the window.
Afternoons are the best. That's when the mums bring their little ones into town, and sometimes they squash their noses up against the window to look at us. I do wish I could make faces at them, it would be so funny to watch their reactions.
We have little ones in the window sometimes, but they are like me - stuck in whatever position the window-dressers see fit. (And I do wish those window dressers would think sometimes, there are poses which are very uncomfortable when you have to hold them for days on end.) The children here never grow up. The ones outside do - I've watched them change from squoodgy, dribbling babies to self-assured little people, and then to loitering teens, ill-at-ease with their own bodies and unsure of themselves.
I won't be watching them much longer though - I'll be going through my own changes. I've heard them talking. My shape isn't right any more and my face is too old fashioned. They're getting some newer, trendier models in. If I'm lucky I'll get passed on to some small shop in an out-of-the-way part of town, some backstreet where I'll hardly see anyone. If I'm not...well, I guess I'll get to find out whether or not plastic can have a soul.