Sunday, May 12, 2013
Frankie's Letter
Breaking news! Amazon has dropped the prince of Frankie's Letter to £10.82! That's a real bargain!
What’s in a (detective’s) name?
In Jennings Goes To School by Anthony Buckeridge, Jennings and his friend, Derbyshire, are trying to think of a name for the detective hero of the story they want to write:
“First of all,” said Derbyshire, licking his pencil, “we’ve got to think of a name for the detective.”
“It ought to be something out of the ordinary,” said Jennings.
“What about Mr Nehemiah Bultitude? Or Mr Theophilus Goodbody if you like.”
“Oh, don’t be daft,” said Jennings. “You can’t have detectives called things like that. Anyone called Theophilus Goodbody would have to be a clergyman; they always are. And if a chap’s a farmer, his name’s always Hayseed or Barleycorn, or if he’s a schoolmaster he’s Dr Whackem or something like that. You’ve only got to look in the library and you’ll see all Dicken’s characters have name that suit them, like Pecksniff and Cheeryble and Cruncher and they live at places called Eatanswill.”
“But what I can’t see,” objected Derbyshire, “is how anyone knows what they’re going to be like before they’re born. According to that, if you’ve got a name like Fuzziwig you could never be as bald as a coot however hard you tried and if your name’s Marlinspike Mainbrace, f’instance, you’ve just got to be a sailor, even if you don’t want to be.”
“Well, what sort of name do you have to be born with so’s you can be a great detective?”
The work of research yielded the information that, unless your surname consisted of a single syllable and your parents had been generous enough to give you a two-syllabled first name, you could never hope to succeed in the world of crime-detection. Sherlock Holmes, Sexton Blake, Nelson Lee, Dixon Hawke, Falcon Swift, Ferrers Locke – all the best detectives were most careful to have the correct number of syllables to their names.
“What about Egbert Snope?” suggested Derbyshire. “That sticks to the rules all right.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t sound right,” objected Jennings.
And there you have it; the name has to sound right and if it has the right number of syllables, that’s an added bonus. The two boys eventually come up with “Flixton Slick – Super Sleuth” a perfect 1950’s name for the sort of character they create (this is the era of Paul Temple). Hercule Poriot breaks the rules, but not if he’s called M. Poriot, as he often is. Jane Marple? Yep. Lord Peter Wimsey? Almost, especially if you think of “Lord” as a first name. Frank and Joe Hardy? On the money. Some detectives are individualistic enough to have a two syllabled first name and a single syllabled surname, like Father Brown, Nero Wolfe and Phillip Trent, but Douglas Adam’s Dick Gently and Terry Pratchett’s Sam Vimes stick to the pattern, as does John Rebus.
I first read Jennings Goes To School when I was about eight. Thinking about Jack Haldean, it’s amazing how some things stay with you....
Monday, May 6, 2013
The Guilty Rasher
As I may have mentioned before, my aged parent (aka Dad) hit 90 last August and, like many another well-stricken in years, is prone to various ailments. One such occurred on Saturday morning when he couldn’t get out of bed. No drama, no crisis, he’s had this sort of thing before and needed antibiotics to buck him up again. But, as it’s Saturday, his “real” doctor wasn’t there, so that meant a phone call to the emergency doctor at GoToDoc.
Fine. The efficient young lady on the phone took down the detail and said someone would call me back. All I had to do was wait.
Fine. All that doesn’t take long to write but it was now getting on for midday, I’d been up since about half seven and, what with one thing and another, hadn’t managed to get any breakfast.
Dad was reposing himself, so I decided to Take Steps. One rummage in the fridge later and I had bacon, eggs and a couple of slices of bread. Put those together with a frying-pan and breakfast (call it lunch if you’re looking at the clock) was in sight.
I should have remembered about that ruddy smoke alarm. Dad even has a fridge magnet saying The Smoke Alarm’s Gone Off! Dinner’s Ready!
It sounded like the day of judgement.
Dad woke up, said “?” and I jabbed a stick at the wretched thing to shut it off.
However, the smoke alarm had set off Dad’s monitoring device, a thing that looks a bit like the Millennium Falcon, which is linked to a warden service and it was making a dickens of a noise. Now how the Millennium Falcon works is that the warden at the other end telephones and checks what the problem is.
At that same moment, as I was all set to reassure the Warden, an extremely brisk woman from GoToDoc rang wanting to know all about Dad’s symptoms. She took me through a catechism of questions including “Has he any weight loss?” which, considering I’d said he was fine yesterday and the symptoms had come on that morning, seemed to require clairvoyance to order to answer properly. She told me there was no need to worry – I knew that – with that underlying assumption that virtually all medical people seem to have, that, faced with a medical problem, the average member of the public goes off their trolley with anxiety whereas the medical profession cope. There would be, she said, a doctor calling within six hours. Six hours? So that was Saturday down the pan, then, as I had to hang around to let the doctor in.
I stood by the Millennium Falcon for a bit longer, but no Warden rang, so I went back to my bacon and eggs, thoughtfully opening the back door to let the smoke (there wasn’t much) out.
At this point (I still hadn’t eaten anything) the two firemen in full gear, complete with oxygen tanks, came in the backdoor, calling, “Where’s the fire?” Two more firemen came in the front door, everyone met in the kitchen and agreed there wasn’t a fire.
Then four policemen arrived and piled in to join the party, telling each other in loud voices that there wasn’t a fire. Then the ambulance crew piled in, also telling one another there wasn’t a fire. Apparently when the Millennium Falcon reports the smoke alarm’s gone off and no one answers the telephone (I was on the phone to the brisk woman talking about Dad’s weight loss or lack of it) everyone turns up to see what’s what. I was half expected Air Sea Rescue to pop in.
I’m all for having men in uniform in the house, but I felt a bit of a pratt about the eggs and bacon.
To add to the fun, Dad’s regular carer and the Warden turned up. They agreed there wasn’t a fire as well.
I explained about the smoke alarm and the phone call, everyone laughed merrily and departed, apart from the Paramedic from the ambulance. “I might as well look at your father, as I’m here,” she said and I, thinking wistfully of the eggs and bacon I’d stuffed in the microwave, agreed.
He needs, I said helpfully, antibiotics.
She wasn’t overly thrilled by my offering a comment but, after a litany of questions, agreed that, yes, he did need antibiotics and, as the ambulance was there, they might as well take him up to hospital in it.
I’m not sure if the GoToDoc doctor would have suggested hospital. I can’t help thinking they would have simply prescribed antibiotics as has happened in the past, but I wasn’t arguing. That meant, of course, that instead of waiting the six hours for the doctor to call at the house, I now had the prospect of waiting all day in hospital. (Which is what happened. It was eight hours later before I could go home).
“Do you,” said the paramedic as they piled Dad into the ambulance, want to travel with us?
“I’ll come in my own car,” I said.
After all that performance, there was no way I wasn’t eating those ruddy eggs and bacon. But next time I’ll open the back door first.
Fine. The efficient young lady on the phone took down the detail and said someone would call me back. All I had to do was wait.
Fine. All that doesn’t take long to write but it was now getting on for midday, I’d been up since about half seven and, what with one thing and another, hadn’t managed to get any breakfast.
Dad was reposing himself, so I decided to Take Steps. One rummage in the fridge later and I had bacon, eggs and a couple of slices of bread. Put those together with a frying-pan and breakfast (call it lunch if you’re looking at the clock) was in sight.
I should have remembered about that ruddy smoke alarm. Dad even has a fridge magnet saying The Smoke Alarm’s Gone Off! Dinner’s Ready!
It sounded like the day of judgement.
Dad woke up, said “?” and I jabbed a stick at the wretched thing to shut it off.
However, the smoke alarm had set off Dad’s monitoring device, a thing that looks a bit like the Millennium Falcon, which is linked to a warden service and it was making a dickens of a noise. Now how the Millennium Falcon works is that the warden at the other end telephones and checks what the problem is.
At that same moment, as I was all set to reassure the Warden, an extremely brisk woman from GoToDoc rang wanting to know all about Dad’s symptoms. She took me through a catechism of questions including “Has he any weight loss?” which, considering I’d said he was fine yesterday and the symptoms had come on that morning, seemed to require clairvoyance to order to answer properly. She told me there was no need to worry – I knew that – with that underlying assumption that virtually all medical people seem to have, that, faced with a medical problem, the average member of the public goes off their trolley with anxiety whereas the medical profession cope. There would be, she said, a doctor calling within six hours. Six hours? So that was Saturday down the pan, then, as I had to hang around to let the doctor in.
I stood by the Millennium Falcon for a bit longer, but no Warden rang, so I went back to my bacon and eggs, thoughtfully opening the back door to let the smoke (there wasn’t much) out.
At this point (I still hadn’t eaten anything) the two firemen in full gear, complete with oxygen tanks, came in the backdoor, calling, “Where’s the fire?” Two more firemen came in the front door, everyone met in the kitchen and agreed there wasn’t a fire.
Then four policemen arrived and piled in to join the party, telling each other in loud voices that there wasn’t a fire. Then the ambulance crew piled in, also telling one another there wasn’t a fire. Apparently when the Millennium Falcon reports the smoke alarm’s gone off and no one answers the telephone (I was on the phone to the brisk woman talking about Dad’s weight loss or lack of it) everyone turns up to see what’s what. I was half expected Air Sea Rescue to pop in.
I’m all for having men in uniform in the house, but I felt a bit of a pratt about the eggs and bacon.
To add to the fun, Dad’s regular carer and the Warden turned up. They agreed there wasn’t a fire as well.
I explained about the smoke alarm and the phone call, everyone laughed merrily and departed, apart from the Paramedic from the ambulance. “I might as well look at your father, as I’m here,” she said and I, thinking wistfully of the eggs and bacon I’d stuffed in the microwave, agreed.
He needs, I said helpfully, antibiotics.
She wasn’t overly thrilled by my offering a comment but, after a litany of questions, agreed that, yes, he did need antibiotics and, as the ambulance was there, they might as well take him up to hospital in it.
I’m not sure if the GoToDoc doctor would have suggested hospital. I can’t help thinking they would have simply prescribed antibiotics as has happened in the past, but I wasn’t arguing. That meant, of course, that instead of waiting the six hours for the doctor to call at the house, I now had the prospect of waiting all day in hospital. (Which is what happened. It was eight hours later before I could go home).
“Do you,” said the paramedic as they piled Dad into the ambulance, want to travel with us?
“I’ll come in my own car,” I said.
After all that performance, there was no way I wasn’t eating those ruddy eggs and bacon. But next time I’ll open the back door first.
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