‘Me? You ask me? I’m no expert in it, sir, far from it, but what I say to myself is, don’t go up to the attics, not the higher-most floors, no, don’t go there, nor the east wing that wobbles enough even in a mild wind, and do not go down, I’d say, don’t head down, it shall be flooded down there after a time, bound to be. As for myself, I’m staying here. Mid-house. Safest, I’d say. How about you, sir, if I may ask, where might you choose on such an evening?’

‘I don’t know, Iremonger, whether to go up or down and that’s the truth of it.’

‘Better not stay here, that might be considered loitering, sir. Best not to loiter, sir, in my opinion. Not becoming of such as yourself, sir.’

‘I think I’ll to my Cousin Tummis, porter, I must say goodbye.’

‘Very good then, sir.’

‘Goodnight, porter.’

‘Goodnight, Master Clodius, let us hope it is a safe one.’

My Friend Tummis

There was more Iremonger traffic than usual, some liveried Iremongers rushing about, and along Tummis’s corridor, aunts and uncles looking sombre. The carpet runner was damp underfoot from the storm leaking through, there was a definite puddle around the door that was the entrance into the rooms of Tummis and Tummis’s family. His parents, Second Cousin Icktor (ballcock) and Olish (carpet rod) and Tummis’s sibs, all younger than him, (U-bend, lavatory brush, doorstop, hatpin and mezzaluna) were all gathered outside. What’s all the fuss? Perhaps he’s been trousered too, I thought. That must be it, there was always a deal of fuss over trousers. Oh, how wonderful, I thought, that Tummis has been trousered too, we must shake hands, praise each other’s new togs, the feel of his herringbone, the wonder of turn-ups. He won’t quite look himself out of corduroy. I wonder where they’ll be sending Tummis, I wonder what they’ve found for him.

‘Good evening all,’ I said, wearing my best Iremonger frown on this moment of high family business.

‘Oh, Clod, this is not the place for you,’ said an aunt.

‘May I see my Cousin Tummis? I should like to shake his hand.’

‘No, Clod, you may not, run along now.’

‘I have been trousered too,’ I said, ‘as you can see. So I’ll not be dismissed.’

‘Oh, have you? That was well done then. But please, Clod, not now.’

‘I should like to wish him all the best and everything.’

‘No, Clod, enough with you.’

‘I should like to, why may I not? It isn’t usual.’

‘Clod, how many times must you be told?’

‘Just a nod then, on such an auspicious occasion.’

‘What occasion, Clod, what are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking trousers, Aunt Pomular.’

‘Trousers? Trousers? What have trousers to do with anything?’