No, I cannot say that I did.

Truth is, I felt much the same. Only difference was, a tiny bit warmer.

But, I thought then, give it a while. An hour or two, or a week; that grey flannel is upon me now, and means to enter me, to somehow drown my former corduroy self, so that my own skin shall grey and flannel. There’s worsted in my blood, threads of it sewing its way through me.

Soon there I was complete: brushed, cufflinked, hair parted (no beard yet), shod, waistcoated, jacketed, tied and strangled in all the usual ways, done up and beribboned, an Iremonger parcel. Poor James Henry in pocket.

Well then, I said to myself, delay no further, you must go to Granny now.

Blood and Marble

I left the Infirmary, the nursing Iremongers that saw me bowed to me, which they never had before. One, a little lippy to do such a thing, even clapped me in my new attire but was soon hushed by a matron. Now that I was trousered I was a big thing of terror and respect; before when I was in corduroy, well then I was only a little chap and could even have my chin pinched and my hair ruffled. No longer. I was a big man now, and I stepped out into the world fully grown and feeling morbid.

Out in the house corridors a few cousins here and there stopped and stared at me, most perplexed as if they’d never seen trousers before. That felt quite fine. I admit it. I went down the main stairs to Grandmother’s wing. I was expected, otherwise the porter Iremonger at the door should never have let me pass into Grandmother’s territory.

I was seeing her once more, my grandmother.