Moriarty’s Mutterings
Imagine the scene: Holmes and Watson have been out all morning, indulging their passion for (or maybe in?) a Turkish bath.
The Great Detective failed to observe the look of suppressed excitement on Mrs Hudson’s face as he left 221b Baker Street at first light.
On his return, wisely, she is no where to be seen. However, on opening the door to their rooms the bigheaded sleuth and his bumbling companion have a surprise in store.
The place is unrecognisable. The Indian carpet has been replaced by a shiny wood laminate floor. The flock wallpaper has disappeared and the walls have been painted a restful shade of lilac.
Cunningly, the letters VR made out in bullet pocks on the wall have been hidden by a painting, The Dancing Waiters by Jack Vettranio.
The gas mantles have gone and in their place are set of chic wall lights. The chaise longue is now covered with a luxurious ethnic throw depicting lions and giraffes.
The mantelpiece has been cleared of its correspondence along with the famous jack knife and is now the home to three scented candles. In the hearth an artificial log fire gives out a warm light but no real heat.
In the place of Holmes’ chemical bench is a coffee table made from two railway sleepers and a wrought iron bedstead.
The violin, the Persian slipper, the pipes, the hypodermic syringe have all be cleared away into a MDF cupboard with a muslin frontage.
It does not take Sherlock Holmes long to realise that the room has had a makeover. It is clear that Mrs Hudson has employed the Victorian equivalent of those Changing Room loonies, Linda Barker and Laurence Llewellyn Bowen, to bring a fresh, late nineteenth century touch to the faded chintzy comfort of the sitting room at 221B.
Watson likes it. ‘Those fluffy little cushions are rather sweet,’ he coos. ‘And I just adore those puce door handles’.
Holmes, on the other hand, is apoplectic. ‘I can’t work in this environment: give me clutter, give me untidiness, give me dust and then I am in my proper environment.
How can I deduce the character of a client and the nature of his problem while sitting in a rocking chair constituted from a packing case upholstered by my old bedroom curtains?’
But Watson isn’t listening. ‘Oh, I say, come and look at this,’ he cries from the bathroom. ‘They’ve taken my old medical certificates and created a frieze with then running around the bath and up towards the cistern. Oh, and you should see what they’ve done with your print of the Reichenbach Falls and the lavatory. Very inventive’
A fantasy, of course, but it reveals how lucky Sherlock Holmes was to be born in that dull age when change was something to contemplate but not actually instigate.
Technology and fashion were on the slow conveyor belt then unlike today when in buying any electrical item, you know as soon as you plug it in, it has become superseded by a more advanced model.
Simply, Sherlock could not cope with life today. A makeover of his Baker Street rooms would be the least of his worries.
He would have to contend with mobile phones, i pods, computers, the internet, e-mail etc. Imagine Holmes going to Simpson’s on the Strand for a slap up meal after a successful case. As soon as he whipped out his Meerschaum for a post prandial smoke the waiter would rush to the table and ask him to take it outside.
No doubt television companies would be clamouring for him to appear in a whole range of reality shows such as I’m a Celebrity Detective I can Solve This Case. When there was any crime of note, he would be dragged on TV to give his superior opinion. Camera crews would camp outside 221B. Scurrilous newspapers would dig up details from his past: ‘Sherlock and Sexy Snake Games with Roylott Heiress’. Glossy fashion magazines would want to do spreads on the famous crime solver: ‘Baker Street Boy Goes For A Tan Deerstalker This Season’.
So, Mr Holmes, you’d better put up with Mrs Hudson’s little makeover. You’ll get used to the lilac walls, the puce door handles and the Reichenbach flush. Just be thankful you don’t have to put up with other cursed trappings of the 21st century. If you did, I’d doubt that you would survive.
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Moriarty’s Mutterings
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