Holmes and Watson at Christmas

I had called to see my old pal, Mr Sherlock Holmes and to update my website, http://mymatessmarterthanme.com when I found him obviously contemplating a spot of decorating.

“Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried as I saw the book in his hand.  “Are you going for Holmes improvements?”  I chortled merrily at my witticism, but Holmes remained unmoved, without a flicker of hilarity crossing his well-chiselled features.

I really do think Holmes should see an audiologist. Despite my frequent forays into humour, Holmes rarely smiles.  It was when I saw him with custard in one ear and a sponge finger in the other I thought he was a trifle deaf.

“Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried. “We’ll have to get brushes and paints and ladders and so on before we embark upon such a course,” I continued.  “We need an honest artisan, a tradesfellow, a cheery Cockney working-class comic relief, to say, “Cor blimey, guv’nor,” and other typical phrases.  Tell me, Holmes, is there a B and Q in London?”

“By no means, Watson, my ill-lettered friend,” he replied.  “There’s a L and an O and a N and a...”

The trouble is with Holmes is that he makes jokes as lame as Igor and expects me to laugh.

“I don’t think much of your choice of colours,” I said, cutting him off in his prime.  “Good Heavens, Holmes!” I cried. “Fifty shades of grey?  How depressing!”

“What would you prefer, Watson?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  How about doing the Study in Scarlet?”

At this point we were interrupted by our honest and worthy landlady, Mrs Hudson.

She was in a great to-do, wailing and wringing her hands in her apron.  No matter how many times I’ve told her to use the mangle for hand-wringing, she refuses to follow my advice.

“Mr Holmes!  Mr Holmes!” she reiterated.

If I’ve told that woman once, I’ve told her a dozen times, I can give her a good tonic for that, but she insists on reiterating all over the hearth rug.

“It’s the peas, sir,” she said reiterating madly.  “I had some nice green peas in the colander, all ready to wash for dinner, and they all jumped out of the dish and are now all over the kitchen yard, covered in mud.  What shall I do, sir?”

“I’m afraid, my good woman, there is nothing to be done,” said Holmes, drawing his brows together.  Holmes frequently enlivens these little chats of ours with artwork.  “It’s the time of year, I’m afraid.”

Mrs Hudson and I looked at each other with Wild Surmise.   (Wild Surmise and here sister, Tame, are the new parlour maids.)  “The season, sir?” she wavered?  “I don’t understand.”

“Christmas, Mrs Hudson,” he replied brusquely, putting down his pencils and picking up a ball of wool.  I knew what that meant. He was going to knit his brows together now.  “Where would you expect to find peas at Christmas, eh?”

“In Tesco’s?” I suggested.

“Nonsense, man!  The answer is on the ground, yes?  Don’t you see?  Christmas means Peas on Earth.”