Bleak House.

I am currently doing some work which obliges me to wear a suit. This bothers me because whenever I wear a suit, I'm convinced that there's a faint yet unmistakeable whiff of the Victorian counter clerk about me, the kind of character who has a dewdrop permanently wavering from the end of his nose, ink-spots on all his shirt fronts, cuffs too long for his coat, broken shoes and a collar perennially poking up at one side like the secretary bird in Bedknobs and Broomsticks. No matter where I am or what I'm doing, for as long as I remain so attired, my mind's eye pictures me thus, cramped in the front parlour of some crooked Chancery lawyer's rooms while my master spends his days loitering around the courts waiting for a nice fat legacy to prey upon – and I, at the end of my long day, retire to the Magpie and Stump to drink thimblefuls of gin and complain with my equally unloved and unlovable peers.