Back from a longish vacation that turned out to be a lot more stressful than relaxing. It's Monday. I have to go from driving interstate highways to getting on the on-ramp back to my job and going from zero to seventy as fast as I can.
And who's out patron saint for that?
John H. Watson.
The guy that was constantly getting the "Is that convenient to you, Watson?" or the "Come at once if convenient -- if inconvenient, come all the same." And if that doesn't sound like a job, I don't know what does.
John Watson isn't the guy that gets to sit around and go, "Hmm, I think this case interests me. Maybe I'll look into it." No, John is a doctor who takes the patients that come in his door or summon him out to their homes, a former battlefield medic who dealt with what was put before him. And when Sherlock Holmes appeared next to his bed before dawn on a given morning, he got up and went.
Not even sure where he was going, Watson went.
John H. Watson is the guy you want to be on a Monday morning, not Sherlock Holmes.
The old campaigner. The warhorse who answers the trumpet call. Loyal and true and ready to deal with what's out there, like it or not.
Maybe later in the week, we can be Sherlock. But it's Monday.
Time to be Watson.
The ongoing investigation of Sherlock Holmes, reported from the Peoria, Illinois outpost of Baker Street's dirtiest half a dozen.
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