Seventeen days . . . like hearing the footfalls of Professor Moriarty ascending seventeen steps, slower than is humanly possible just to emphasize the horror approaching. I started getting seriously into The Hound of the Baskervilles to distract myself from the creeping onslaught, and while I'm in that lovely book, all is well. But occasionally, earning a living, buying food, going to bed . . . the necessary chores of life pull me out into the world of media that surrounds us. And then, I have a thought, and a train of thought, and thoughts start tapping out on to the keyboard, and the next thing you know, I have said the word that I should not say:
Ah, to be merely of Baskerville blood, cursed to avoid the moors at night! Easy enough to do, the moors are scary at night. And Netflix streaming is a great excuse to stay inside. But no, I am a Sherlockian blogger, and once a week someone has to go an put a television show on the air that has the name "Sherlock Holmes" in it. How can I resist?
It vexes me, I curse to the electronic heavens, and does the god of networks grant me sympathy! Well, yeah, pretty much of the time. But then come the defenders of the realm Miller-Liu to battle my kin-spirits, some in shining noble armor, some dark and mocking, worrying at each other until drops of e-blood stain the comment section and I can bear no more. Away, away, comment section, I shall not read of thee, I cry!
But the seventeen days loom before me, ready to slip by with each setting sun. Having tested the swampy murk of the moors ahead with a simple, harmless-seeming thought that contained the word that should not be said, I have found that the dark, unhappy spectre that nearly chased me off the electronic heath last year still awaits, ready for the minute I return to that familiar ground.
However, be ye of good cheer, my friends. I am about to head to Dartmoor once more, and that legendary place is more than a mere escape. It is a training ground in facing terrors.
Seventeen days. Yup.