A 'Fitting' Tale.

 

Harry was a tailor, with the highest reputation.

Known for style and excellence (whatever, his creation).

His method was to double-check on every single measure,

so garments fitted perfectly, to give his clients pleasure.

 

This ‘modus-operandi’ will ensure the clothes fit, great

if you stick to it religiously and never deviate.

But, circumstances, now and then, can creep up from behind

which often, though amusing can prove tragic and unkind!

 

Harry got ‘crept-up’ on as he closed his shop one day, 

at half-past five one Friday (he was keen to get away).

Whilst bolting-up the door, before he made a ‘final pass’

an anxious face astonished him - pressed flat against the glass.

 

He grunted in acceptance (as he opened up again),

‘the customer is always right’ and so a smile, did feign.

“I’m glad I caught you” gasped ‘the face’, “you just might save my life.

For, at nine o’clock tomorrow, I’ve agreed to take a wife.

 

It’s fundamental, when I wed, that I am smartly clothed.

I can’t be sporting threadbare ‘togs’ when facing my betrothed.

I’ve spent the whole day searching for a tailor of repute.

Folk say, you’re best – please save my life by selling me a suit.”

 

‘Though, warming to the stranger (and was loathe to see him beg)

unfortunately Harry had no suits, ‘straight off the peg’.

“Yet, things are not so bad.” he smiled. “We soon can make this right.

I’ll take your measurements and run a suit up overnight.”

 

But then he made his error – ‘sloppy-measuring’ took place!

So keen to please, the tailor set himself too fast a pace.

He rushed about his client, quickly noting figures down.

‘Til, finally “Would ‘Sir’ prefer the navy-blue or brown?”

 

“Brown would be quite dandy” was the customer’s reply.

“And is there any chance, you could include a button-fly?”

“Of course.” replied the tailor. “So you need not be down-hearted.

I have your details, time is short and so I must get started.”

 

He ushered out his customer and toiled throughout the night.

Double-checking every stitch, ensuring they were right.

‘Til dawn found Harry slumped ‘across-machine’; the suit complete.

When a tapping on the window shocked him up, onto his feet.

 

Yawning loudly, Harry slid the bolt and turned the deadlock

to find the bridegroom, stood; awaiting suit (for holy wedlock).

But as he put the garments on, a message then was sent

of consequential damages from careless measurement.

 

“So, how’s the fit?” asked Harry (as the mirror told it all!)

“Not so good” the young man groaned “my trousers think I’m tall.

Well, one leg does, if truth be told; it’s longer than the other.

Yet mine are both of equal length, according to my mother."

 

“Stretch your left leg.” Harry smiled “Extend your foot, flat out.

Now the trousers, from that side, look good without a doubt.”

“That’s fair enough” the groom remarked “but what about the right?

It’s far too short - it’s half-way up my sock and looks a sight.”

 

“That’s quickly sorted.” Harry gushed. “The answer’s there, to see.

A lower hem can be achieved by bending your right knee.

” And so, combining ‘bend’ with ‘stretch’ he grudgingly portrayed

his trousers as symmetrical - and competently made!

 

“Now, how’s the jacket fitting?” Harry queried, anxiously.

“Well, I've tried.” the man replied. “Tightly-loose-fitting to me.

But ‘patterns’ are emerging, ‘cos the sleeves are as I feared.

The left one’s up my arm, whilst my right hand’s disappeared!”

 

“Not a problem!” winced the tailor. “Let’s repeat the theme.

Left shoulder back - right arm stretched - the jacket fits, a dream.”

“That seems OK." the groom agreed “Please make the alteration.”

“No time for that.”(‘manoeuvred’ Hal) “You’ll miss your congregation.

 

A limousine’s just passed the shop - your bride is on her way.

You’ll have to leave; you can’t be late on your own wedding day.

You should be at the altar now. It’s well past ‘five-to-nine’.

But stand the way I showed you and I’m sure that you’ll be fine.”

 

So, with awkward movements and a slightly-manic lurch,

the poor lad (disillusioned) ‘body-popped’ his way to church.

With ludicrous contortions and a really silly stride,

he lolloped down the High Street in a bid to meet his bride.

 

His ‘footpath-action’ then attracted interest from elsewhere.

For two old ladies watched him wobbling, wildly, through the Square.

As random ‘street-aerobics’ made a captivating sight,

they bit their bottom lips before remarking on his plight.

 

“Life’s so unfair.” said one old dear “it sets so many trials.

For that young man (it’s such a shame) his walk will seem like miles.”

“The poor, afflicted lad!” the other said. “Your thoughts are caring.

But, credit to him Doris – that’s a lovely suit he’s wearing!”