Dear Sirs By Shoaib Sumar M/s H. Huntsman & Sons, 126, New Bond Street, London, W1S 1DZ.
Dear Sir, I am writing to inquire after a suit I had commissioned the Friday before last at your esteemed establishment. I was attended to by a Mr. Mason who helped me select the cloth and subsequently ushered me towards one Mr. Hammick to have my measurements taken. You, or certainly Mr. Mason, will remember the cloth – made from a fine Super 150’s wool – a charcoal grey cloth in a subtle herringbone weave. “Freshly procured from the finest Mill in the land up in Huddersfield,” he had assured me. Now, I fully understand that the very next day following my visit the news broke out that this dreadful influenza, this ghastly Spanish Flu, as the papers are calling it, has now infiltrated the British Isles. Scores of soldiers returning from the trenches in northern France brought it with them, they say. Trust the French to send us so unpleasant a gift.
Yet I wondered, despite all this, if I may drop by next Thursday afternoon for my first fitting? You see, a gentleman such as myself cannot be made to remain indoors for so prolonged a spell. Confinement, by its very nature, is ungentlemanly. Moreover, despite being blessed with a respectable repertoire of bespoke suits which I wear daily as I embark on that treacherous journey downstairs from my bedroom to my study, I find there is a certain something missing from my collection; a pièce de résistance, if you will. Perhaps this work of Mr. Hammick’s renowned craftsmanship will serve me well to this end. “You’ve finally lost your marbles,” the lady of the house reproached me, when I informed her of my intentions at breakfast. “This is no common cold we’re dealing with - even the Prime Minister was not spared the wrath of this pandemic!” Poor soul, bless her, my dear wife, for although she is a God-fearing woman, even she knows deep down that her endless cups of tea can go only so far towards curing me of this malaise; for a gentleman’s heart yearns for something much stronger.
As for Mr. Lloyd George, the poor sod has been shaking so many greasy liberal hands these past few months it is no wonder he contracted the disease. Surely the coalition government is using this influenza, La Grippe as they call it across the channel, as an excuse to keep the general public confined to their houses and out of their way whilst a herculean post-war clean-up and rebuilding operation is undertaken across the country. One solitary gentleman journeying sartorially a mere two and a half miles will cause no inconvenience whatsoever to their efforts. I am quietly confident that were I to even exhibit the symptoms – a fever, a sore throat, a headache and a loss of appetite (this last symptom quite impossible in my case) – there is no ailment for which my good friend Robert Cavendish of No. 23 Harley Street cannot prescribe a cure. His cures tend to range from a shot of warm whiskey (“the best painkiller known to man”) to a glass of ginger ale, a spot of quinine and some sliced onions scattered around the house. A true master of his trade.
Therefore, my dear sir, I request you to kindly confirm my appointment. I will arrive at my usual hour following some business I must attend at Sotheby’s where I will have luncheon. With you, as I did on my previous visit, I will take tea.
Yours faithfully, Nathaniel H. Darwin
