Land of Unreason
“The sound went on and on, as diminutive as a mouse's alarm clock. Barber ignored it till he found he would have to turn over anyway, then opened his eyes.
A small, wizened elf with a leather bag in one hand stood by his bed. "Gweed morrow, young sir," said this mannikin. "I'll be the tailor royal. His Radiance bade me attend ye." Barber slid out of bed, his toes searching futilely for slippers that were not there. The elf whipped a tape measure, its markings spaced unevenly as though an inch were sometimes one length, sometimes another.
"Hm," said the tailor. "Ye're an unco great stirk of a mortal. But I'll fit ye; I'll jacket ye and breek ye and cap ye." He began pulling clothes from the bag-underwear and a shirt and a pair of trunks that bulged around the hips. All went well till Barber began trying on jackets with pinched waists and leg-of-mutton sleeves. His squarish, straight-lined torso had no median joint to speak of.
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