There’s this marvelous woman- a writer of mysteries- who’s long been keeping me entertained. Her name is Agatha Christie and it is said that she is the best-selling novelist of all time and the most translated. She flits in and out of my life via novels left at our summer cabin and library dvds. I would never go as far as to call myself a die-hard fan but I’ll certainly have a piece of Agatha pie if it happens to be available (not sure about that metaphor… oh well).
These days I’ve been spending and unjustifiable amounts of time watching episodes of the TV series Agatha Christie’s Poirot. If it’s not on KCTS 9, the library’s just a quick jaunt away and I can always count on the VPL to have at least a couple of Poirots hanging about. In a pinch Cadfael or Miss Marple will do but, if I have the choice, it’s Poirot. There’s something about the mustache. Something about the accent. I relax when Hercule Poirot speaks. Something about the way he says ‘Hastings.’ There are a few KCTS 9 all-stars that have the same effect on me (Rick Steves, Bob Ross) but my current favourite is Monsieur Poirot.
Anyhow, I’m not too worried about this mild obsession with Ms. Christie and her hero as it seems that fashion is heading in the direction of interwar England anyways- all tweedy and eccentric. I recently purchased a lovely vintage Aquascutum jacket. Now all I need is a walking stick, a cloche, a spaniel and something by Barbour, no?
In the meantime, I’ll keep trotting down to the library to load up on Poirot, falling asleep to the sound of his heavily-accented voice, dreaming of an english country house filled with typewriters, books, hunting rifles and murder.