Monday, September 9, 2013

The Hound of the Keefauvers.

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.


  1. Thou canst drown thy sorrows in a flagon of wine the very next eve, and thy friends shall join thee. I pledge to bring another flagon, that thee may be assured the liquid solace shall flow freely.

  2. Ah, Brad, don't worry. You know what happened to the hound at the very end of the tale. May the same fate befall the dark spectre of the E-hound that is looming at then end of those seventeen days. May the ratings drop even further so that at the end of its second outing it will be annihilated and never heard of again! ;-D

  3. I'm following the footprints of a gigantic hound! Carry on, and take me with you!