Common Part 1 of 3

Right. I am common. I've been told that to my face.

There's no sin about being common, and I know all about sin, reader

As an American, I am by default "common". My family were immigrant peasants from East Frisia. Efficient breeders and speakers of a strange form of Plattdeutsch. Look it up.

Sorry.

The point is that at the time and place where I was living in the UK, being "common" put you in a certain category. You might not be welcome at certain events, quality of service not as good, and you really won't be able to play the mighty Boesendorfer in the Great Hall in the Manor (Boesendorfer? Really? What a dumb name for a piano. It means "evil village person". Well, still I managed to hammer out a bit at midnight after the nuns slept - more on that later).

Being "common" never bothered me before. That's why this was such a surprise. I'll tell you the story.

I had a few days off at the Manor. My childhood friend from the states was visiting. Such a good friend. I remember the first day at my new elementary school, ages ago, so nervous and wondering how I could fit in. Normality was key, I decided. One must be normal. So I scrawled "Ingrid Bergman Rulez" on my folder and placed it prominently on my desk. I waited for someone to take the bait. That person would be my new normal friend.

Not long after, a tall blonde boy passed by, tripped over something, and saw the folder.

"You like Ingrid too?"

That would be the start of a lifelong friendship.

We decided to use my break as a time to visit London. London - ha, more about THAT later. It was a wonderful few days, perfect weather, and excellent lodgings off Bedford Square. What a time! Especially that dark evening I looked out the window and saw across the street - oh...never mind. That can never be told.

My friend somehow "lost" 50 quid, so he said, in SoHo (I never knew the complete story). Broke, his time in the UK was up. We parted and I returned to the Manor.

I still had a free day and decided to bike to the neighboring town. An old Abbey town. Plenty of nice shops, pubs with small framed signs explaining that "A LIVE CAT WAS PLACED BEHIND THIS STONE IN 1389". Odd tradition. Look it up. Sorry.

I was a bit lonely and depressed after leaving my friend, so after a warm dark pint, I naturally decided to purchase some slippers. Right there, around the corner, was a tailor shop.

I entered. A tinkle of chimes and two small men in three-pieces with tape measures around their necks somehow magically emerged from the back room.

I decided, out of boredom, lack of attention, and perhaps desire for better service, to pretend I was a wealthy Texas oilman.

"Howdy!"

"Good afternoon, sir, may we help?"

"Well...how much are them thar slippers?"

"Perhaps you would like a scone first. A spot of tea?"

To cut it short, they seduced me into purchasing a bespoke suit. Before long, I was standing on a pedestal as they measured my arms and legs, between my legs and...and, asked me:

"Pardon me sir. How do you hang?"

His measuring tape was on the inseam. Staring at me, little pins held in his mouth. I really didn't know what to say:

"Um...down. Mostly."

He coughed a little, looked down and said, "This fabric is quite fashionable on the Continent." Complete professional.

After a few hours I was led to the mirror. A fantastic creation it was and still is - I have it, right there in the closet. From Trotter and Deane. Look them up. It's true.

It was a three-piece affair. Green plaid suit-coat, bright red waist coat with satin lining. Extremely tight bright yellow corduroy pants. I think he got the measurements wrong on my pants. To top it off, I was sporting my Wellingtons from the Manor.

So the two tailors and I stared at the mirror. One slapped me on the back happily and said, "A right proper country gent, I'd say!"

I'll continue this soon. I'm tired now, and my Pepys must be packaged. There is much more, including the scene where I was slapped and permanently labeled common. And so to bed.