On murders and shovels

Thankfully, bartering medieval artefacts is not my only source of chocolate.

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(Archive of Lady Catherine de Turnips, entry 4663-2-5)

My dear friend,

You’re mentioning (twice!) your love for Sherlock Holmes. I am also very fond of those adventures: because I, notoriously, have a memory of a goldfish, I have a never-ending supply of them.
I spent my Sunday reading Hercule Poirot short stories. Now, anywhere I go, I expect just a little bit of a stylish murder.

(Not as in “murder of crows”, even though the latter is inevitably stylish, and, indubitably, my baseline expectation and hope. Allow me to introduce you also to another magnificent collective noun I came across recently: “a rave of ravens”. Spread the word.)

Thankfully, as of yet, I have no plans to go to Devonshire, Brighton or Mesopotamia. Would be happy to happen to be on the Nile, though. I was, once, invited to a wedding in Alexandria, but it was canceled – don’t remember why.
(It was definitely not a murder.)

You know what Agatha Christie and I have in common? (Before you ask: no, I wasn’t introduced to her.) We both — not together, once again — spent some time on archaeological expeditions.

In one of the museums of Ukraine, they most likely still keep a small metal icon I unearthed and, before doing so, accidentally and ever so slightly hit with a shovel. Who would have expected it to turn up almost a metre too early!
That evening, the head of the expedition told me off for my strength, but praised my luck with a chocolate bar. For the next several days, I remember, I was hoping for a reason to get another one.

I really hope that, when you are back in London (or, based on your current adventures, shall I say “in London again”?), we can meet for a very nice cup of tea.

(Bartering medieval artefacts is not my only source of chocolate.)

With warmth,
C.