THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN OLD COAT

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN OLD COAT

Outline:-

1.      High class tweed, made in a mill at Hudderfield.

2.      Exported to Pakistan, sold by an expensive tailor to a rich man. Worm by him in the cold months.

3.      Passed to the rich man’s gardener, and worn for years.

4.      Still affording warmth to the old sweeper.

I am made of the cloth that is called tweed, because wool was first woven into this warm type of cloth around the banks of the river Tweed is Scotland. But I was women on the loom of a mill in the Yorkshire town of Huddersfield, of differently coloured yarns. My trade description was “brown and gray check.” Finally I was shipped to Pakistan in a consignment of expensive woolen cloths intended for the garments of the richer classes. 

I caught the eye of a rich businessman, Mr. Latif, who was in the tailor’s shop to select a suit. He liked to spend his winter holidays in Murree hills, and sometimes felt rather cold. So he wanted a really warm coat, and I was selected. After careful measurements the tailor turned me out to his satisfaction. I cost him seventy-five rupees, a large, sum than a man ears to support his wife and family for a month. But my master did not grumble. In fact, he was proud of me and sometimes I was put on for his evening drives over the Mall,  or his evenings in the clum. But on the whole, it was not often that the evenings were cold enough in Murree to justify putting me on. So, although I was much admired. I was put aside for that winger holiday. How I enjoyed those visits to the hills? The road around our bungalon ran through thick woods, jumbeul and other trees on every side. Now and then, as my master strode along, a jungle fowl would fly over our heads. In the evenings, I was able really and truly to keep him warm. 

I served him well for five years, and I can honestly say that I was as good as ever. But there was a stain in front, made by the ink of his fountain pen leaking, and the cleaners were not able to remove it altogether. So to my sorrow he handed me over to his butler one day. However, I reflected that, as a democratic cost, I could serve the butler just as well as I had served the master, and I did this well and honestly for five more years. By this time, holes were beginning in my elbows and my collar was becoming rather shapeless. So the butler passed me the old sweeper, who received me with joy. In fact, if the high opinion of the wearer is to be considered, he is the best of the lot, and I am still serving him faithfully, though both of us are showing signs of age and wear.