The Golden Oldies

I am certainly one of those persons who believes that ‘Old is Gold’, and until recently, I found no harm in it. I love old music. In fact, the range of my favourite tunes begins between the time of the first church hymnals and whenever ‘O Danny Boy’ was first invented, passes enthusiastically through classical music (Mozart, Handel, Beethoven and Tchaikovsky in particular) skips carefully over the mire onto selected faves of the 40s, 50s, 60s and 60s and seventies (Chuck Berry, Sinatra, Crosby, BB King, Charley Pride, Diana Ross, Aretha, the Beatles, Queen, Phil Collins, George Michael, Elton John, old Latino...), leaps wildly to avoid most of the 80s (with notable exceptions that include Madonna –and more Latino) and halts, bereft, somewhere in the mid 90s. I have since rarely added to my personal jukebox, and never apologised for it.

I adore old movies –I mean, does anyone remember when movies were movies? They stopped making them in 2000. In fact, I often say that I have rarely liked a movie made after 2000, and rarely liked a series made before then. I never go to the cinema any more –seriously. The last time I did was to watch the third Harry Potter movie, nor am I ashamed of saying this. I can’t remember when that was, but I can tell you that the time I went to the cinema before that? It was to watch the second Harry Potter movie. I’m not ashamed to say that either. I am one of those who subscribes to TCM (Turner Classic Movie channel) where I never cease to be blown away by everything from the plots, the sets and the high fashion, but also by the acting, carried out so beautifully in classic and classy succinct accents.

Here may I indulge in lusting after the original bad boys such as Steve McQueen, the hot, naughty, James Garner, the butter-wouldn’t-melt David Niven (also an author, by the by!), the suave Clarke Gable and delectable Cary Grant. I sigh after the classical beauty, style and manner of the original ‘Independent Woman’ reincarnated again and again in Katharine Hepburn and Ava Gardner, the wonderfully and remorselessly evil Bette Davis, the cold Joan Crawford, and the sweet, dear Doris Day. I even delight in more than a few of the unavoidable musicals, and can do a shockingly good rendition of ‘How Are Things in Gloca Morra?’ (Finian’s Rainbow)! Naturally, I’m wordperfect in Sound of Music and My fair Lady. It’s Peter Sellers, unique in his Pink Panther movies. Later, it’s the Rockys, the Godfathers, the Frankie & Johnnie, and A Bronx Tale that enthral me. It’s Grease, Footloose , and Dirty Dancing. It’s Diner, the Big Chill, and Out of Africa and Amadeus. It doesn’t get better. 

I am the one the librarian raises an eyebrow at, when I present myself at the check-out desk with books that were last borrowed in 1957 –I’m not kidding. This week, I spent a couple of hours chortling blissfully over “How To Be An Alien” by George Mikes (pronounced “me-cash”, as it says on the fly leaf) on British society, which gave me that ‘perfect reading’ feeling that everyone should read it at least twice.

I love my jeans (indeed, I live in them), but frankly? I wouldn’t mind squeezing into a crinoline, at least once. Still, my favourite and best clothes are vintage, proudly purloined from my mother’s old trunks –which, by the way, is where I regularly go shopping. I stole my father’s old canon (which was stolen, for which I remain unforgiven) and though I don’t wear a watch, I have several, one of my favourites being one I was given at birth, by my Swiss godmother. Quality used to mean something... And going back to jeans, briefly –you’ve never had a pair unless you’ve had a pair of real ones. Not the ones that stretch, that come in black and white and red in a boot cut, or any such rubbish –the real jean material, sturdy, strong and unchanging. If you ever had one of those, you should still have it –I do!

But would I like to go back to those days? I’m afraid, here, that the answer is a hotly delivered and definite ‘no.’ You see... this culture? It isn’t mine. While Mozart struggled to get the music out of his head and onto music sheets, ‘Amazing Grace’ haunted the cotton fields, Hollywood was setting up ridiculously difficult, brilliant sets in the desert for some epic, and women were fighting for their rights in England (marching the streets in patent high heels, full skirts and feathered hats)? MY ancestors were enjoying the peace of a hot afternoon, topless beneath a palm tree. Their biggest concerns were Maasai warriors charging into the village to make away with their daughters, or lions prowling too close for comfort. It was how to settle upon an appropriate dowry for their girls, and whether her brothers, sent to investigate, would bring back a good report of the potential groom (without which all bets were off, and she could stay on the shelf a while longer). It was whether their sons would come back from the hunt, or the occasional skirmish with another village. No disrespect to them, but taking myself off down the river to fetch water to help Mum cook doesn’t sound appealing. Especially while struggling to balance the calabash on my head with the weight of my pendulous breasts. I’d much rather have been an Italian artist struggling in a workshop in Florence, learning from Leonardo. Or an acquaintance of Mozart’s. Or a script-writer in a writer’s sweat shop in Hollywood. But basically, a White Man. There has never been a better time to be a Black Woman than today, and for this, I am certainly grateful, as I don’t have to struggle a quarter so much from racism as even my mother witnessed, anywhere in the world. I can learn to read. I can go to school, and take it as far as I want to. There are ways for me to prevent myself getting pregnant, thus preserving my choice of career as well as my sanity, should I happen to be a lustful teen. In fact, I can have whatever career I chose to have, and don’t have to be a nurse or a secretary. I can vote. I can divorce a husband. In short, I have rein over all my rights. For absolutely nothing would I be a Muslim woman, for example, in a country run by Sheria law, who still has such a tough journey ahead, in pursuit of basic rights, let alone Happiness.

I think of all of this today, and count my blessings. Still in Hot Pursuit!

Olympic Crumpet

I might have experienced Disappointment of Olympian Proportions at the overall theme of the opening ceremony of the London Olympics; but I also experienced the great Joy that overcomes one only at international events such as the Olympics and the World Cup, that comes from that ‘World United’ feeling. Kenneth Branagh and Rowan Atkinson in particular impressed me, God Bless them. In the face of thousands of screaming people and dignitaries, not to mention the gazillions around the world who were tuned in, they played their parts calmly and expertly, as though ministering to a crowd of four 3-year olds, leaving me with the conviction that they have truly earned their stripes as top world actors. And roping in the conductor too! Unbelievable. The musicians were super professional, as were the main ground history enactors and the children! The parade of many nations, half of whom seem to have come into being since I was last in school (I mean, SERIOUSLY –doesn’t “St Vincent and the Grenadines” sound more like a Pop/Rock Band than a PLACE?) was as unerringly heart-warming as ever, all of leading up to a finale that I can honestly say is without compare. The petal motif of the Olympic flame-lighting ceremony is AWARD-WINNING. Period. It’s been a while since I was so moved and impressed, and I thoroughly enjoyed the feeling!

More selfishly, however... can I just say how HAPPY I was to see the MEN! So happy was I, in fact, that I freely admit to battling to quietly contain a series of multiple-orgasms (Mum was with me), as Beautiful Smiling Man after Beautiful Smiling Man FLAUNTED themselves before the camera. As of last night, the section in my Bucket List pertaining to ‘Places I Must Visit’ has doubled.  I was happy to note that Greek gods still exist. There was an Italian hunk or two, some Island men I will be personally stalking online (or in person –Tonga, here I come.) And while it should be clear to all, sundry, and his friends, that I do not typically go in for blonds, there was the oddity of a blond Algerian in the mix, who made me feel like I may go there for a looong visit –you know. To see the sights. Via Morocco.

But, surprise surprise, it was the Middle and Eastern European men that really had my womb skipping beats. Long-and strong-legged, tall, clear-eyed, and dark-haired, with plainly visible jawline –plus a distinct separation between head and shoulders, due to the presence of (increasingly vanishing) graceful necks... HOT. Add a genuinely happy, beautiful smile, and I was a goner. I mean, who could ask for more? Some of them I would be happy to gaze at for years... if they promised not to open their mouths and spoil it for me, as I’m under no illusion that I’m likely to be discussing the merits of Henry James with a sportsman. Happily, I’m resigned to the fact that one can’t have everything, and having a husband I can gaze at endlessly for 60 years, (in between pregnancies) might actually make me happy! I mean, could use everyone else for any needs of lofty conversation that I may have. After all, nobody ever died wanting to have one more intellectual debate; but plenty have, very peacefully, gazing at their loved ones.

SO! The Olympics have begun, and onward to many weeks of shameless man-gazing... err... I mean, record-breaking! Over tea and literal crumpets, naturally. Now THAT’s Happiness!

Webcam Delights

I am sorry to report yet another fruitless week, in the area of ‘Lurve’... but did I ever tell you of my American sailor? I corresponded for a while, last year, with an American oil boat captain, stationed in Eastern Africa, who, at first seemed like an exciting prospect. We chatted, and conversation flowed lively between us, funny, sensitive, well-mannered –charming guy, really, as they all seem at first. He persuaded me onto the webcam, which, to my delight, did NOT kill the buzz, because he wasn’t actually a short fat old woman. He was tall and handsome and fit, promptly sending my womb a-singing with his genes. My own appearance apparently had the same effect on him. I say this, not just because he told me so, but he then took off his shirt, whereupon my singing womb went into full opera-mode... until he told me to take off mine.

Now, I’m not tooooo prudish, but I’m certainly not a free-for-all, we-were-born-naked, what’s-the-big-deal, would-change-in-front-of-a-stranger, enthusiastic nudist type. And I’m certainly NOT that way with someone I haven’t known for very long. So I demurred, using my very best manners, and we went on talking for a bit, and then he had to go. We chatted the next night, as though nothing had happened, and the night after that... then, some time that week, he asked me if I had noticed that he tended to log off promptly at 9 p.m. I hadn’t. Then, the bomb. At 9, this Beautiful American Man (BAM) typed, he usually had a chat appointment with another Kenyan girl. 1) I’m not the jealous type, 2) I’d just met this person –we weren’t dating or in a relationship, so I had no right to be jealous even if leaned that way and 3) What was his point? Well, I soon found out. Kenyan Girl II spent her time with BAM... stripping. Stripping for him over the webcam, in a manner that I can’t help but think must have been expert enough, to have him coming back every night. I was completely put off. Seriously. It was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over me. Yet, irrationally, one of my first thoughts was... what kind of stripper strips for free?

The whole Men, Prostitutes & Porn relationship is something I’ve thankfully never had to deal with, but frankly, with the type of man I’m after, I never expected it to be an issue. And that wasn’t the issue. BAM was happy, he told me, to give up his stripper, if it made me uncomfortable (yeah, right) because he could see us going somewhere, whereas, with the stripper, it was only a flirtation thing. ‘Hmmh’ no. 1 –as in, I wasn’t convinced. Still, he stayed over his 9 p.m deadline that night, and the following nights –perhaps because he’d rescheduled Stripper. Then, ‘Hmmh’ no. 2. He proposed that I might like to do ‘something’ in the vein of stripping for him. Now... I want a man, I really do? But NOT that bad. Really not. I told him I didn’t know him nearly well enough to reveal my bra colour, and he once again retreated. I highly suspected at this time that BAM? He's the one the call "Wham Bam", who thanks you sarcastically after you've given in to him.

I don’t know why I continued chatting to him after this, I really don’t (well... yes I do –he was Hot. And my womb was blaring opera. But let’s pretend I don’t, because it’s more comfortable.) So anyway, I DID continue chatting with him, and during the next few weeks, the chips just fell into place beautifully: He had been married but was divorced, he had a child, who lived back in America, for whom he wanted a mother, he wanted to come to Kenya and be shown ‘a good time’. He loved me and wanted me, and couldn’t wait for us to get intimate... I could go on, but he had me somewhere at the ‘divorced’ part, wherein he elaborated that he and his ex were on ‘excellent terms’, and that he had her over there, but wanted someone over here and that, whatever the outcome of our relationship, I should expect her to ‘be in our lives’. I logged off for the last time with not a tinge of regret. What a crock. What shitty, confused, silly boys men are. How they love to have their cake and eat it, then ask for seconds, or eat their neighbours’ cake. And how DARE they be Hot and Dumb!!!

Ever In Pursuit...

Cougar Syndrome?

Not yet, thank you. I received a perfectly lovely offer this week via Match Affinity, from a 25-year old who seems to match most of my demands. But no. 25 is too young. Still, I was flattered, considering a set of massages from unexpectedly raunchy 60+ year olds from Germany and France –plus a severe-looking 32-year old Turk, whose faith I could never abide by.

I’m currently re-reading Portrait of Woman (by Henry James), which has always made me feel good and confident. This should be good, as I’m also personally re-testing home-made skin products that are to be included in ‘The Cravings Diet’ (my latest book venture) and have developed a prominent zit, smack in the middle of my forehead. It’s fine when I’m out, because I can black it over and make it look like some kind of penchant for things Indian (a great trick), but it needs to go away soon, because I am becoming cross-eyed from anxiously examining it. Not to mention the re-retesting process... Crap.

On the extreme PLUS side of Life, the Olympics begin this week!!! Looking forward to a (hopefully) breath-taking Opening Ceremony, but most of all; a daily ration of Lots and LOTS of hunky men to watch, admire, and fall in love with!!! Aside from athletics, I have serious hankering for gymnasts, and have every intention of indulging. God Bless the Greeks.

Please don’t judge me –it’s all, after all In Hot Pursuit of Happiness!!!

Musing on a world without Woman

I think men have forgotten (or never learned) what a Privilege it actually is, to have a woman in their lives. Without one, most men would be wandering around in the metal sheets of the buildings they’ve invented and built, looking like rapid unshaven apes –and smelling worse. They would conduct their meetings in bare boardrooms with toothpicks in their mouths, spending the three first hours sharing stories of last night’s ‘conquest’, throwing back beers and scratching their balls for emphasis.

Disputes on topics as insignificant as the size of one’s penis, the genetic connection between girth and brain-size, the largesse of one’s collection of guns, the excellence of one’s cellar, the superiority of one’s football team or golf swing, and the exact amount of praise begotten in the press (undoubtedly for inventions as useful as the ‘Give-it-me-NOW’ house robot, and the ‘Pleasure-me-NOW’ robotesse [TV announcer: “Fold her up and you can ‘have her’ anywhere!”]) would be fought in the boardroom with actual, lethal Darth Vader swords, and internationally via the angry, repeated pressing of large red knobs set-up at the tip of one’s armchair, designed to detonate nuclear bombs, accompanied by the short range of male oaths and grunts that hold the exact same meaning in any language.

Homophobia would be dead, because of the basic need for strip joints and porn; whereas slavery would be alive, well, and a thriving international business, basically consisting in the traffic, use and abuse of any male that wasn’t at least a strong Beta male. Actual work would never be properly recorded or filed, nor would it be performed in any special order, but rather carried out as impulsive acts dictated all day long, from an armchair, to a crew of harried lesser beta and theta male slaves, via superphones permanently attached to their ears. While dictating such things as “Send an email to Sam and say yes to the new nightclub,” then “Call Big Mike and tell him I can’t make the hunting party this weekend in Texas,” men would be online, playing virtual reality games to boost their fragile egos, in which their names were ‘King Cock’ or ‘Lord of All’. Without any sense of organisation, whichever slave was next in line would have to feed, clothe, transport, shop, as well as fetch and carry for their bosses. Any displeasure derived from their services would necessitate public hangings, also brought back, and carried out as Live Weekend Entertainment.

There would be no dustbins, so that men could chuck garbage out from the windows of their ‘Superrari’ cars at 300 miles an hour, and no signs, because they would want to be able to race, even just down to the grocery store, smoke, spit and pee anywhere in between, indoors, and especially in hospitals, banks, supermarkets and any other public place where waiting might be required. The same set of bars, strip clubs, motels, gyms, roman baths, ATMs, fast-food restaurants, shops, travel agencies, gadget stores and car, airplane and boat lots would pop up all over the globe, because, since they never ask for directions, men would frequently be getting lost, yet, no matter where they were, they would need access to these basic necessities.

Finally, the life expectancy for these unwashed, doctor-shunning, cigar-loving, violent, alcoholic control freaks (with overgrown toe nails) would be about 40 years, at best, since they would have lived at the pace of a tantrum-riven demon two-year old, every day of those years... And that death would be final, since there would be cloning, but no means of reproduction. Now does that sound good, anyone?

Do me a favour. Pick up the phone, Right Now, call a woman in your life, and thank her for being alive!

Writing and –will 2012 be an Annum “Painus Anus”?

For the prolific reader that I am, I must say it is quite embarrassing to admit that I just this week sampled my first James Patterson novel, 10^th Anniversary. As this title implies, I am at least 10 years late in discovering this author, and upon opening the book’s frontispieces, I was completely shocked to find out just how many novels this man has written (over 50 were listed.) I was even more taken aback by the fact that no less than THREE novels were scheduled for publication in 2011 (one in April, one in June, and the last in August.) I mean –just how prolific is that?

Impressed as I was, however, I must say that I didn’t enjoy 10^thAnniversary. Though this doesn’t mean that I am ready to write off this author completely (I always give authors at least two chances to get me hooked) I will need a recommendation on which of his titles to try next, because, if I don’t like that one, I am not likely to ever pick up a James Patterson again. SO! Any suggestions, anyone? I’d be grateful.

Divorce Cakes a_005 (Photo credit: DrJohnBullas)

So… as the birthday gifts continue rolling in (including two new followers –Welcome!) I get an email from my ex-fiancé, asking for a meet. WHAT, I ‘m thinking furiously, does this mean?

I’m not a superstitious person, generally, but I do believe that things happen for a reason, and every time I’ve ignored a ‘sign’ or ignored my ‘gut’, terrible decisions have been made and tragic things have happened. In the face of my options however, (1) Ignore the mail; 2) Respond with a polite ‘thanks, but no, thanks’ or 3) Respond with a ‘Sure, let’s grab a coffee sometime) I suddenly find myself stumped because, for once, my gut isn’t saying ANYTHING. And in such times, surely, the best thing to do –is to do nothing. Right? Of ALL the things I could need or wish for, painus exus drama is NOT on the list. In fact, right now, while I’m suddenly managing to focus less on counting my eggs and more on enjoying every other thing, perhaps the last thing I need is a man coming into my life, making my womb skip a beat, getting me thinking about him, and feeling things, and BAKING, and generally confusing me as only that species can. I need a break. Can’t I just enjoy one? In Peace?

So, I guess I’ve decided to do nothing. And y’all agree with me… Right? I mean, it’s the only thing to do. Bleeping Life. Just when you think you’re in a good place…

Still in pursuit!

Happy Birthday to Me... and a Bah Humbug!

 So, I just had a birthday, and I’ll bet you want to know what I got. Well, I’ll tell you: 

1) A job interview from God (Cheers!)

2) Sinfully delicious cake from both my sis and Mum (because apparently my hips haven’t done enough spreading recently –and worse, I didn’t care)

3) Wine from Mum and Dad (Cheersh!)

4) Beer from me to myself (Cheershes every one, an’ I love every one... in the WORLD!)

5) Lots of great wishes from friends, family and fans (Cheers... but, erhm. I’m twenty-five. Twenty-five from now on, and for life. Got that?)

And, finally (boys looks away now,)

6) My period. You know. Just to remind me that another egg’s gone down the drain and I’ve, like, twenty left, if I’m lucky.

Now, on my birthday, come hell or high water, I get up to absolutely NOTHING. I mean it. I take a shower, get back into bed, and watch movies and/or read a book, sipping wine or beer all day long –in between bites of cake or chocolate. I don’t check my mail, or answer my phone, or even get out to pee until the very last pressing moment. It’s Bliss. A time to think idly, dream wildly, rest completely, pray mildly and fervently in turn... Emerging benevolently foggy-headed and fresh, the next day, to face ‘well-wishers.’ I mean, seriously? Birthdays should be banned after the age of 21, because, after this, it’s all about what you’ve achieved lately which, in my case, is Prospects that make me wish I had the power, quoted in Fairy Tales, to “banish people to distant lands”. For EVER. Cases in point? Please enjoy the following VERBATIM messages received in the last week:

A: “Am also an ardent Arsenal fan , a maasai warrior who would like spoiling you given a chance . get in touch baby !”

B: “hi wzp... how is ur day?”

There was another message (which I can’t quote, for I wouldn’t want to offend you –or myself, all over again) from a guy who had retained only the part of my profile wherein I say that I am looking for a man who is affectionate and likes sex. To paraphrase, this fool sent me a message asking me whether I would care to ‘share my skills’ with him. I think he was expecting me to beg him for his number so that I could be right over, dressed in just my birthday suit and a bottle of cream. I replied extremely rudely to him, but that might have been the cramps talking. In a normal frame of mind, I’d have simply deleted the message and blocked him.

Another of my recent prospects, which I had been considering semi-seriously, wrote me a message headed “My Dear...” which totally put me off. My name is NOT Marjorie, I am NOT (yet) 60, and I certainly haven’t been married to anyone long enough for them to call me “My Dear.” DisGUSting.

SO! I’m twenty-five, with yet another year to face. God bless me in my Pursuit of Happiness! Please send me a man (a real one, made like You meant them to be) and the NEW prospect of a baby? Cheers!

A ‘Dear Charles’ Letter

The very name ‘Charles Dickens’ evokes feelings of warmth, love, laughter, and happy endings –as, indeed, this great author did in his own life. Two hundred years after his premature death, his works are still in print, and unfailingly continue to evoke the same feelings in new and old readers. How remarkable is this is in a man who, from the moment of his birth, had barely more than half a century to live? How much more remarkable this is, too, in a man who, during his short life, somehow knew to squeeze out and cram as much Life as possible into them –and managed it! One of his rewards for such a well-led life may be that, unlike many artists, and despite brilliant contemporaries1, he not only grew rich from the fruits of his labour, but lived to see his popularity rise during his lifetime, take off and even settle to one of the highest ever before witnessed. I love Charles Dickens –I always have, from childhood, and the moment of my introduction to “Oliver Twist”. But how much more do I love him now, suddenly and afresh, having read his biography, “Charles Dickens, A Life”, by Claire Tomalin. Among other things, this biography is clear about how hard Charles Dickens went In Hot Pursuit of Happiness, and this uninterrupted quest alone has brought me hope, and great happiness!

When Charles was a boy, he lived in many places around England, of which Kent was his favourite. One day, he enquired of his father about a house he saw on top of a hill, there, and adored. Given such information as any father would briefly give his son, especially if he is impecunious, Charles declares that, someday, he will own it. Someday came, and Charles bought the property. He loved it as much when he bought it as he did when he was a child and, if his wishes had been followed, would have been buried within it. In fact, his quest for renown as an author had already overtaken him in his twenties, and by the end of his life, he was no longer allowed to have personal wishes and desires; he had belonged for quite a long time, not only to himself, but to England, and would be buried, as had many of England’s greats, in Westminster Abbey. It is a fact that he would have detested, but is easily considered appropriate, as a nation’s grateful recognition of one of her own. 

Charles is universally declared handsome, and all portraits of him show this to be the truth; yet no one can firmly decide on the colour of his eyes, which have been reported to be black, brown, hazel, blue, and greenish-grey! Though handsome and talented, Charles had several issues, as do all of us, one of which was wanderlust. He could never stay in one place for long, and aside from moving continually around England, managed to visit America extensively, and Canada, as well as live in Italy, France, and Switzerland for long periods –though even there, he moved around. He detested America, and loved France so much, he became quite the Francophile, learning the language and becoming quite a good French correspondent. In a period of just three years, late in his life, he crossed the Channel to France at least 68 times! His father is likely to have instilled this restless behaviour in him, though he moved around England, even within London, for a very different reason, during Charles’ childhood; he was always in debt, and moved to escape his creditors. 

Charles moved for many reasons, ranging, from work to holiday-making, from convalescence to respite or escape; from the need for rest for himself or his wife, to the urge to visit and experience new things; from boredom to increasing restlessness of spirit; from the need for peace, to too much peace! And once, it must be said, because, like his father, he had creditors after him. But wherever he moved, he wanted his friends with him, and, remarkably, because he had the rare ability to easily draw good friends, and instinctively form such great friendships, one or the other never failed to come to him, even when he was out of the country. He must have been a good friend, as well as a fascinating man. Indeed, he named his children for his friends, selected godfathers from among them, and dedicated his books to them. Yet this man was not ‘an open book’, about the deepest of his concerns. He freely fretted to them in those periods during which he suffered the writer’s usual insecurities about his work. He writes letters about how he may never write successfully again, about a book’s refusal to come together, or come at all, about the reception given to his latest effort, about being forgotten... almost comically, but hilarious now, when his characters are still very much alive, and his very name is still every day on someone’s lips! He opened up about his childhood only to one friend, Forster, whom he eventually charged with writing his biography, and who honoured this by producing it –in three volumes. Incidentally, he met Forster after reading a critical review written by him about one of his works –which made him laugh. Upon meeting the critic, it was apparently instant chemistry. Forster was embraced into the Dickensian buxom, and I don’t think he ever recovered from the pleasure! 

Perhaps due to the chaos of his childhood, another issue of Charles’ is his obsession with neatness and organisation. With a touch of OCD, he rearranges hotel rooms and all of the houses he ever enters into for a stay, just so. In his own home, he checks the children’s quarters daily for cleanliness. Opening up to Forster also reopens, for him, the box in which he has neatly placed his most unpleasant childhood memories –and these will give birth to his greatest work, and personal favourite, “David Copperfield”. 

Going out with Charles was as much an adventure for himself as it was for his friends. While they frequently ended up in the theatre, which was his passion, they might have began the evening with a long stroll (Charles was a rabid, compulsive walker) marked by a visit to a prison, or to establishments literally at the fringes of society, where he loved to chat with prostitutes, thieves and other miscreants, amongst who he often found fodder for characterisation. He also has a curious fascination for morgues, especially Parisian ones. He was a powerful observer, and loved characters, and the absurdities of his fellow human beings, whatever their status in life. He was always on the go, and to his very last breath, though ill and uncomfortable in body as well as mind2, always busy, always working, ever travelling, observing, experiencing, sampling, enjoying, and in pursuit of the next thing.

Charles also had a special spot for family, which, if it isn’t always a loving place, is always a dutifully committed place. From young adulthood, he regularly pays up his father’s often illegally wrangled debts, no matter how angry they make him. Later, he will similarly bail out his brother Fred, who, like their father, will nevertheless undergo a spell in jail3. He buys his parents a house, has one or other of his many younger siblings living with him, or tries to find them a job. He marries young, and remains faithful (until his ‘fall’, in his mid-forties4) because he is consciously not one for whoring, unlike most of his contemporaries, who treat adultery as a sport. He is deeply and ever conscious of societal divisions, consciously using his status and power as a writer to frequently speak out and write about the horrible conditions of the poor, handicapped and disadvantaged. He works hard to help, personally intervening to assist the widows of acquaintances and their children, and saves many lives; one, literally, from the hangman’s noose, after influencing an entire jury. He was not impressed with or puffed up by royal notice or meetings with Heads of State, whom he treated rather less cordially than he would anyone else. The love of his readers was all he sought, and any manifestation of it satisfied him profoundly5. A man, in short, tout à fait comme il faut. His priorities and his heart are in the right place, which is yet another rare and remarkable thing. Ultimately, however, his family life was rather a sad disaster on all fronts, and, to the last, he was stressed, financially and emotionally, by the numerous and ever increasing number of dependents that surrounded him, whom he more or less despised.

It is no wonder that Ms Tomalin6 has spent so much of her own life searching for every detail of Dickens’. The fascination is understandable, and has resulted in a great treasure trove of information for the rest of us Dickens lovers. 



Post Scriptums:

1) Alfred Tennyson, William Thackeray, Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Anthony Trollope, Charlotte Brontë (just starting out, with Jane Eyre), Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, Edgar Allan Poe, Walter Emerson, Mary Shelley, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Henry James, Hans Christian Andersen, Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Georges Eliot and Sand...

2) He was lame with gout, experience multiple physical aches and pains, and was often depressed.

3) Charles eventually turned his back on this favourite brother. Fred died alone and penniless, and Charles, who unfailingly ran to the funerals of cherished acquaintances, and friends’ sickbeds, and pushed through the agonies of his physical ailments to avoid disappointing his public at live readings; did not bother to attend his funeral. He sent his eldest son Charley instead, to represent him.

4) He became infatuated with Ellen (Nelly) Trenan, an 18-year old actress, struggled with his feelings, then abruptly left his wife, after greatly, and abhorrently mistreating her (probably due to guilt.) Though he did everything but ask for a scandal through his subsequent, emotional, ill-judged, and bad handling of the situation, he somehow managed to get away with little more than murmurs and rumour. He spent the rest of his life with Nelly, which part of his personal life he viciously protected, and managed so well, that almost everything about their relationship to date has had to be deduced or guessed at. This includes speculation on whether or not they had a child together, a boy that died either in infancy or early childhood –at the time he left Catherine, his wife of 22 years, he had impregnated her no less than 10 times successfully (though after the third child, he looked upon each additional birth with increasing dismay), and a couple more times that had resulted in miscarriage.

5) It seems that the papparazzi were well up and already at it in the 1800s, in America. When the eagerly awaited author visited the country for the first time, one of the things in the extensive list of those he detested about it was the fact that he was practically mobbed into immobility, wherever he went, by both press and fans. His adoring public was rather too much of a good thing, in this case! When he returned to England, he wrote a scathing review of what he had found, including slavery. Boston was his favourite American city.

6) This author has such a talent for detail, that she has even researched what an anal fistula is, and how it is treated! Charles suffered from one just before his marriage, and underwent a successful surgery. All of the detail is appreciated, especially as it is so skilfully written up in excellently simple English, so easy to devour. The tone of the book is also just as it should be; informative without being heavy or overbearing, interesting, well-paced, and well-balanced. Very much worth adding to one’s library.