Amanderella Gottsnobbler and the Bangolin Tree Chapter 3

Chapter 3.

 

Shopping.

 

Amanderella rose early the next morning, as explorers do, and looked over her clothes like a captain checking his crew before a voyage. They weren't up to the task.

Her expedition garments, admirable in the jungle, were less suited to lecture halls, where mud, leeches, and emergency ropework were rarely required. Her shirts bore the faint, honourable scars of Amazonian humidity. Her trousers had pockets large enough to smuggle a small marsupial. Her hat, though magnificent, had once been used as temporary shelter by a night-flying whoopee bird.

None of this would do. She needed clothes that said, “I have survived monsoons, catalogued rare fauna, and can speak for forty‑five minutes without once losing my place.”

So, she set out.

Mrs. Gaffletter was polishing the banister as if she intended to make sure not a single speck of dust was left in the world.

Amanderella asked her for a recommendation for a suitable shop which sold clothes for a lady who had just returned from her travels.

Mrs. Gaffletter paused in her cleaning activity long enough to recommend Miss Hemstitcher’s Practical Attire for the Modern Woman in the High street.

Amanderella set out to explore the delights of the High street. The capital’s most reputable outfitter for “Ladies of Serious Intent” was a narrow establishment squeezed between a hatter and a shop that sold nothing but umbrellas with fancy handles.

A small brass plaque on the door read: Miss Hemstitcher’s Practical Attire for the Modern Woman.Inside, the air smelled faintly of starch, furniture polish and lavender.

Miss Hemstitcher herself appeared from behind a curtain, tape measure around her neck like a ceremonial sash.

She took one look at Amanderella, the posture, the hat, the boots polished to a reflective gleam, and nodded. “A lecturer,” she said. “Possibly scientific. Certainly uncompromising.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Correct. And spare no expense.”

Miss Hemstitcher clapped her hands. “Then you will require the following:

Jackets with pockets deep enough for notes, pencils, and emergency biscuits.

Skirts  that allow for purposeful strides.
Blouses that do not wilt under scrutiny.
And a hat that communicates authority without threatening violence.”

Amanderella approved of all these principles.

Miss Hemstitcher circled Amanderella as carefully as if she were drawing a map of a new country. “We shall begin with the skirt,” she said.

“Ankle length, if you please,” Amanderella replied.

Miss Hemstitcher paused, her expression sharpening with professional respect. “Naturally. Anything shorter would be frivolous, and anything longer would suggest you are attending a very gloomy funeral. Ankle length is the mark of a woman who intends to be listened to.”

Amanderella approved of this belief.

Miss Hemstitcher selected a bolt of sturdy fabric, the sort that could withstand a stiff breeze or a difficult critic.

“This will allow for purposeful strides,” she said, “while keeping the dignity of a woman who has crossed continents without once losing her hat.”

“Precisely,” Amanderella said.

The jacket was fitted and practical, with pockets for notes, pencils, and the occasional emergency biscuit. The blouse was crisp and neat. But it was the skirt that received the most attention. Miss Hemstitcher pinned the hem as carefully as a master builder. “Just above the boot,” she murmured, “so the leather may gleam, but not so high as to expose a glimpse of calf.”

“This will allow for purposeful strides,” she said, “while maintaining the dignity of a woman who has crossed continents without once losing her dignity.”

“Precisely,” Amanderella said.

The jacket came next, fitted and practical, with pockets deep enough for notes, pencils, and the occasional emergency biscuit. The blouse was crisp and unflappable, designed to resist both perspiration and patronising remarks. But it was the skirt that received the most attention.

Miss Hemstitcher pinned the hem with the precision of a naval engineer. “Just above the boot,” she murmured, “so the leather may gleam, but not so high as to suggest you are about to climb a tree.”

“I do occasionally climb trees,” Amanderella said.

Miss Hemstitcher did not flinch. “Then the skirt will allow for that too.”

Amanderella felt a rare flicker of admiration. Miss Hemstitcher understood the delicate balance between propriety and practicality, a balance Amanderella herself had perfected.

When the fitting was complete, Miss Hemstitcher stepped back.

“You will return tomorrow for the final adjustments. Your ensemble will be ready. It will say: ‘I am here to educate you, and if you find yourself entertained, that is entirely your own affair.’”

Amanderella nodded. “That will do very well.”

She left the shop with the quiet satisfaction of a woman who had just acquired armour, not the kind forged of steel, but the kind stitched with purpose.

Her specimen tin clinked faintly, and her soon‑to‑be ankle‑length skirt awaited its final hem, ready to stride into lecture halls and jungles alike.

Amanderella had barely taken three steps along the High Street before she realised something important. Clothes were all very well, but no ensemble was complete without footwear capable of striding through lecture halls, museum basements, and the occasional inconvenient bog.

She paused before a narrow shop whose sign read:

Mr. Cobblethwaite’s Footwear for the Discerning Pedestrian

Boots, Shoes, and Items of Solemn Purpose.

The window display featured boots arranged with military precision, each pair standing at attention as if awaiting inspection. Amanderella approved.

Inside, the shelves were lined with boots arranged in ranks, each pair polished to a shine that suggested they had been trained to stand to attention. But Amanderella’s eye went straight to the back wall, where a single row of black boots gleamed with quiet menace.

The shop smelled of leather, beeswax, and the faintest hint of pipe smoke. A man with a magnificent moustache,one that suggested he had strong opinions about arch suppor, looked up from his workbench.

“You are,” he said, squinting at her boots, “a woman who has walked further than most people think is polite.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Correct. And I require footwear that will not disgrace me in a lecture hall.”

Mr. Cobblethwaite nodded gravely. “Then you will need the following:

Soles thick enough to withstand both gravel paths and academic criticism.

Leather that softens with use but never surrenders.

Laces that do not snap at moments of dramatic emphasis.

And heels that say ‘I am here to educate you,’ not ‘I am here to dance a waltz.’

And of course, black.”

Amanderella approved of all these principles.

Mr. Cobblethwaite approached with a measuring stick that looked suspiciously like it had once been used to tame unruly apprentices. He measured her feet with the solemnity of a man calculating the trajectory of a cannonball.

“You climb trees,” he said, as if diagnosing a rare condition.

“Occasionally,” Amanderella replied.

“Then the instep must be reinforced. One cannot have a lecturer falling out of a tree. It undermines authority.”

He selected a pair of boots from a high shelf,, sturdy, elegant, and polished to a shine that suggested they had opinions of their own.

“These are made from the finest hide,” he said, “treated with a mixture of beeswax, linseed oil, and a secret ingredient known only to my family and one extremely confused apothecary. They will withstand rain, mud, academic scepticism, and the occasional need to stamp one’s foot for emphasis.”

Amanderella lifted one. It had a satisfying weight, the kind that promised both stability and the ability to kick open a stubborn door. “They will do,” she said.

Mr. Cobblethwaite bowed, moustache dipping like a flag in a stiff breeze. “Return tomorrow. I shall make the final adjustments. Your boots will say: ‘I have crossed continents, and I will now cross this lecture hall without tripping over a single student.’”

Amanderella left the shop with the quiet satisfaction of a woman assembling not merely an outfit, but an arsenal.