Paul Temple and the case of exuberant amounts of ironing

I’ve been having a right old session recently with Paul Temple. (I mean, phew, I wish!) Paul Temple, for those who don’t know, was the detective hero created by Francis Durbridge and blossomed into full flower in his radio incarnation as played by Peter Coke on BBC radio in the 1950’s. The series is available on audio and – such is the reality of life – I listen to the tapes whilst doing the ironing.

Now, a word about this ironing. There are five junior Gordon-Smiths, right? Jessica, the oldest is 23 and Jennifer, the youngest is 15. Helen, Elspeth and Lucy are scattered in between. They all love clothes. America’s Next Top Model is required viewing and the names of Jay Manuel and Tyra Banks are As Gods. Gok Wan, fashion guru of the underbudgeted, is quoted in hushed tones. (I’ve been spray-painting belts and shoes for years; Jennifer disapproved. Gok Wan does it and all of a sudden it’s the newest thing in cool!)

Anyway, lots of girls + keen interest in clothes = Ironing.

For me.

Lots and lots of ironing.

Now the other thing that I do, apart from putting a spanner in the works of the statistics of falling population, is write books. (I trust, by the way, that having finished As If By Magic you’re only reading this to fill in the time before A Hundred Thousand Dragons comes out in May.)

Paul Temple, the aforesaid hero above, also writes books. And there, unfortunately, the resemblance ends.

Paul has a flat in Mayfair, a car that makes the sexiest sort of Wrumm you’ve ever heard and a cheery chippy Cockney cove called Charlie at his beck and call. (Like most faithful retainers in this sort of fiction, Charlie is lammed over the head, opens parcels with bombs in them and is frequently tied up and left for dead in the kitchen and makes perfect meals and coffee without ever studying the Situations Vacant column in the evening paper.)

Paul’s other half, his wife, the glamorous if rather oddly named Steve, is also lammed over the head, opens parcels with bombs in them and is frequently tied up and left for dead in the kitchen etc, etc, but she also gets kidnapped and thrown off boats into the Thames and, quite frankly, the day seems lost if the crooks aren’t spraying the car she’s only just got out of (and how lucky is that!) with machine-gun bullets.

Her sole occupation, despite us being told that she’s a journalist, seems to be her propensity to be endangered to allow Paul the opportunity to worry about her. She fills in the odd moments when not escaping death by a whisker by buying hats. Is she happy? Insanely so, judging by the way she convulses with mirth at the slightest witticism from Paul.

Mind you, why shouldn’t she be? Because Paul Temple, as played by Peter Coke, has the most knee-wobbling voice that’s ever been on radio. Soooo silky. Even when he’s shouting remarks like, “Look out! He’s got a gun!” and well-meant advice such as, “Don’t pull that wire, Steve! It’s a bomb!” the chief emotion from Yours Truly is Cor!

All that and money as well. You never catch Steve – or Paul for that matter – worrying about the creases in a shirt. They live in world above ironing. As they swan from one night-club to another, their minds are on who pinched the Duchess’s emeralds, not doing the hoovering. It’s a question of “Where shall we go for dinner?” not “What shall we have for the tea?”. It’s a wonderful, wonderful world. And I’ve got a pile of ironing.