My tailor

As you may have read in my rant earlier about how the English dress, my tailor had written to me with a rather insistent tone about my outstanding account. Now I don't want you dear reader to think that Sir Guestling does not settle his accounts promptly but now and then the Thorn funds are not as liquid as one would wish. It was a mere oversight, ones tailors bill must always be settled promptly, after all news of tardiness in that area will spread and that would never do!
Lady Thorn does not always realise the delicate nature of  our ever fluid financial situation and would not brook any argument if she required to dip into the old bank account and I tried to dissuade her, so one must be ever inventive. I am not one to fret about money, it's vulgar and a gentleman does not concern himself with such trifles. Having said that, the upkeep of  Thorn Towers and keeping the good Lady in the manner to which she expects, can take quite a bit of juggling and of course Pomfrey and our cook Mrs Milton, whilst loyal members of the Thorn household, do require remuneration for their services.
Still over the years I've managed to keep our heads above water and am quite adept at securing funds. Oh there are a few debts here and there but I'm pretty good at the old Texas two step, when needing to avoid a creditor.
Once more I ramble on, so back to the original thrust of this missive. Pomfrey drove me into town. The Bentley purred along, sounding in  fine fettle, for which I have Pomfrey and his seemingly inexhaustible ingenuity in keeping the old girl running, to thank.
Saville Row is where most English gentlemen and the many well heeled customers from all over the globe would think is the centre of traditional English tailoring but the Thorns have always been clients of the little known but exclusive Futtock and Walsh tucked away in Germane Street. They have been clothing the Thorns for nearly one hundred and fifty years and my brother and I were first introduced to their treasure house of tailoring when we were still boys. Father took us there and with pride and in hushed tones reverently told us, Boys this is a sacred place never to be abused and always to be held in the highest esteem. Both of us have always tried to uphold fathers wish.
Old Futtock died some long years ago, there never did seem to be a Walsh. Now the two Futtock sons, Ransom and Gilmour run the business and go about it with quiet efficiency having learnt the fine art from an early age at their fathers knee.
Entering Futtock and Walsh's portals is an act of pure joy as the wafting smell of fine cloths, tailors chalk and polished leather drift into your nostrils, it's a place where a fellow feels immediately that all is right with life and traditional values are still adhered too. You are transported into a haven where the nasty realities of the everyday world are left behind and the treasure palace of  cloth greets you like a friend!
As always the dulcet tones of Ransom Futtock greet you with a slight nod of his balding head, Gilmour  runs everything behind the scenes, whilst Ransom patrols the front of store like a captain on the bridge of his vessel.
Sir Guestling how good of you to call sir, I trust you are here to settle your account, he beams an expectant smile.
Indeed, sir, indeed, you will of course accept cash?
Another issue resolved in the world of Sir Guestling, win at golf and settle your tailors bill, now that's what I call a result!