A Dapper Touch

If I'm being dragged out to The Skinners Arms to meet Dolly Clackett tonight, I'm certainly not turning up looking like I've slept in a dustbin. I clambered up the sideboard runner to where a broken fragment of pocket mirror lay propped against an empty glass tumbler. Peering into the dusty silvered glass, I adjusted the tilt of my bowler hat with my knuckles and used the polished handle of my trusty spanner to smooth down the crumpled folds of my red neckerchief. A splash of spit on my thumb tidied a stray lock of hair. Let Harold yap about my manners all he likes—Dolly knows a sharp gentleman when she sees one.