I first met Ben at Cardicon, the triannual convention for aficionados of cardigans, held in the Museum of Sartorial Excellence's Cuttlebone Exhibition Hall of Victorian London, when he was but a lad of 13 and I was a stately 23. I was elegantly clad in a particularly fine specimen of the crimson angora that was to prove so popular the following year, although at this time it was considered quite controversial and its wearer often dubbed little better than a street muffin. It also tended to attract the attentions of a certain type of music hall performer. At first I took Ben to be one of these as he sidled up to me in that charming waddle he even now employs when he is attempting to charm an extra dollop of ice cream from a gullible vending machine, but instead it seemed he merely wished to share his feelings on the display of Wagstaffe's Double Bandoliers before which we stood.
"Rubbish aren't they?" he chortled, playfully poking his pipe up the larger of my nostrils. I was just about to fetch the young blighter a clip across the futtocks when I noticed his own garb.
Ben's own woolwear was decorated in a paisley brocade, pinched neatly at his trim waist whilst flaring at the neck into a high raised collar into which was piled his flowing auburn locks, framing his angelic face in such a manner as to make him resemble a pig wrapped in a blanket.
"Compared to your own garb, sir, even the finest creations of the cardiganmeister himself, Herr Aardwolfgang Cragglemunstein, would pale into insignificance! Tell me, where did you obtain such a fine torsal garment?" I inquired of the vision.
"It is my own creation, madam. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ben-jer-man Calthorpe-Hughton-Psmyyyyythe (you may call me Germ), noted adventurer and freelance woollen crafter."
"I confess, sir, I find myself besotted by your garment, and pray you will not find me too forward in asking if there is a chance I might prevail upon you to fashion a similar garment for myself?"
"Not at all."
There was a pause during which I found the time to note that despite the glory of his raiment, his shoes were made of cardboard with little piggies poking out. This should have served me as a timely warning, but in retrospect I realise my thoughts had been deranged by the splendour of his robing.
"May I, then, prevail upon you to fashion a similar garment for myself?"
"I would be delighted, but I must warn you, I use only the wool of the Flamhorn Crusty of Crelthick Moor, which does not come cheap."
A short bargaining session ensued, at the end of which I was promised my heart's desire for the price of 12 guineas, but I decided instead to spend it on the cardigan. I was to meet with Germ the Wednesday after next at 8 of the clock behind the bicycle sheds at Euston Station. This seemed a little unusual, but he assured me it was simply to avoid unwelcome attentions from passers-by who might be entranced by my new possession and similarly plague him for one of their own. He was yet to set up the flamming mill that would enable him to cope with such demand.
So the appointed time arrived. As I slipped carefully into the shadows of our meeting place, I saw the dim figure of Ben bearing a package.
"At last!" I cried, "I have barely been able to eat or sleep for the dream of this moment!"
I proffered the twelve guinea note perhaps a little too eagerly, and so fixed was I on my purchase that I barely noticed him snatch it away as he thrust the parcel into my arms.
"And now I must be away," he said, "for I must oversee the erection of the spindle rotator flange on the new straining loom."
He was away before I could thank him, and I drifted back into the melee of passengers and porters. Unable to wait, I seated myself on a convenient urchin and began to unwrap my new acquisition.
As the paper fell away I felt a thrill of vanity… with this fine attire I would be the toast of the town, the crumpet of the Coast, and possibly even muffin of the manor… and then, there it was, a veritable confection of sleeves and swirls. Indeed, that was the problem. It appeared to be made of confectionery, all spun sugar and icing, except for the collar, which a quick lick proved to be of opium.
I leapt up in a rage, and ran around in circles screaming, only realising after an hour of this enjoyable pastime that I should have run around seeking the dastardly Ben. Alas, it was now too late, and I returned despondently to my lodgings.
Alack, upon my arrival I was met by my landlady Mrs Curmudgeon and her notorious ten-foot rolling pin, who in tandem demanded the twelve guineas I owed in back rent.
Aday, thus I found myself that night wandering the streets - true, I did this every night - with nothing to sustain me but the sweet solace of my candy floss cardie.
And so began my descent into Hell, dear reader. I shall not bore you with the details, save
to say that the subsequent years involved various lengths of rubber tubing,
specialist clothing and at one point the largest feather duster ever
manufactured.