Dance & Drink & Screw

Kate Summerscale, The Suspicions of Mr Whicher, or the Murder at Road Hill House, 2008
The cover of this book promises only a murder mystery, yet the contents inside deliver much more: the reader gets an indepth reconstruction and study of various elements surrounding a notorious murder in Victorian England - the killing of a child that cast suspicion on all the people who lived at the murder scene (Road Hill House) and which became a national obsession (somewhat similar to all unsolved child murders/disappearances since then, like the abduction of Madeleine McCann for example.) Summerscale looks at the case using the techniques of classic murder mystery novels, including the use of red herrings and the arrival of a brilliant up-and-coming detective, Mr Whicher, which is ironic since the murder at Road Hill House inspired the birth of the genre. The role played by the period's newspapers is examined as well as new forensic scientific techniques, the changing of social mores and the effect the case had on all involved in the long run. If you love crime stories, you MUST read this book.

I hope Summerscale turns her attention next to Jack the Ripper because it's about time someone conclusively solved that puzzle!

Leave a comment and I'll give you five topics to talk about in your journal. sushidog gave me these:

Boys
BOYS! Summa-summa-time love, summa-summa-time love. Boys, boys, boys. What can I say, I started liking boys as soon as puberty hit. Unfortunately, I was part of a large group of boys that only liked girls. Then I fell in love with a singer who seemed to like boys but chose instead to be celibate for the rest of his life - it seemed at the time like a good idea. Then someone took me to a gay club in Montreal and my mouth hit the floor at the quantity of gorgeous men filling up the rooms. I never looked back. And now I have a boy of my own. We wander the streets of London and when a cute boy goes by we sigh: *boys*.

Incidentally, if you ever need to move your office, look no further than Ward Thomas Removals. Not only are they brilliantly efficient, their team is made up of all those hot Ozzies and Kiwis that come over to England for work experience and find their rugby muscles and friendly smiles appreciated and needed. Diamonds are a girl's best friend; boys are a boy's.

Being a long way from home
Is tough. When I returned from Brasil in January, I tried to convince Kevin that we should live at the farm with my mom and brothers. Kevin didn't like the idea but, with each passing day, he's warming up to it. The latest plan is for us to leave Britain for one year - a sort of sabbatical - and stay with my family. He could dedicate himself to his illustration and I could help with the running of the guesthouse and sort out my legal situation in Brasil, which is a mess right now. London is a sort of home, but so is Brasil. And my uncles and aunts are like parents, my cousins like siblings. Years are speeding away and I'm losing all that time I could be spending with them. They ask after Kevin - they know about us. With Kevin there with me, I'd be less afraid of growing bored from their sedate pace of life. I could write a million books from the comfort of our hammock.

Gossip
Every writer is a gossip. Every longterm LJ user is a gossip - we are here because we enjoy sharing stories about ourselves and others. The ones that don't like that sort of thing gave up their journals a long time ago. Asking after someone's well being is gossip. Hanging out with a friend will eventually lead to gossip. We learn from the world through gossip. We can't resist a good story, an enthralling cliffhanger - we seek that from those closest to us, and we take pleasure when we find it unexpectedly. Thousands of years ago, when we were still picking fleas from each others hair after a long day of hunting, we developed language through gossip (I'm sure of it). Something dramatic had to be informed (so-and-so wasn't hunting tigers as they should; they were swimming in the river) and thus gossip was born.

Cooking
I should do more of this. I eat too many ready-made soups and sandwiches. I've developed a bad habit of bringing kebab home on Thursdays (Kevin loves it.) But I'm a great cook - I've got the patience and attention to detail down to a tee. I make the best burek in the world. Doubtful? Come over and try for yourself (especially if you are a *boy*).

The environment
Depresses me. I look at my brother and friends who have children and I worry for all the problems they'll have to deal with - the diminishing natural resources (bound to cause wars), the exploding population, the way people don't give a shit about anything. My tower block's elevator is a testament to our species' impending destruction - all that garbage thrown on the floor each day says a lot about what the people here think of their "environment". When I'm feeling more positive, I remember science and all its recent giant leaps. I place my poker chips on them and hope that the nerd shall overcome.

I stopped at the supermarket on my way home. Coming out, I nearly tripped over a toddler. Her father, a curly-haired figure with beady eyes and a five-o'clock shadow, apologised for her. I said it was no problem and fell behind them. When the little girl turned the wrong corner, her father said "come over here, you stupid cow."

"Silly?" She asked. She made some noises that she didn't want to walk anymore.

"You are a lazy cow. Now come over here. You are a pain in the ass." He picked her up. "Now look what you've done, I have to carry the beer with my other hand." He was carrying a container with six cans of beer.

I was speechless. Mind, she didn't seem phased at all. She kept chattering to him as if it was all very normal.