Meanwhile, I've discovered that Dickens and some ancestors o'mine shared a neighbourhood (as did Watson and Holmes, only they're fictional) and a church. You know, I've long held the opinion, since I was ten or so, that my mother resembled nothing so much as a ridiculous grotesque from a Dickens story. Re-reading Dickens, the traits struck me jut so. Now I learn that, aside from the rantings of an uncharitable daughter, I might be onto something. It bemuses me.
Okay, back to the rest of your flist. I gotta go up to my very expensive hotel room and swwon. More later when this ain't costing me like a buck a minute.
PS. Watson wasn't kidding about the creaky steps.
PPS. I finally found a copy of the Tudors S2. Guess where.