221b Baker Street. Home of Mrs Hudson, and her two lodgers.
The Eternal Mystery
Speckled band of Japanese tourists
reflects narcissism from above
Photographic evidence of a fictional home.
shirt popping at buttons,
plays his role beneath golden lettering 221B.
Over the threshold into…
“Mr Holmes, what is your definition of reality?”
The storm blew in from the West. Wind whipped across the classroom balcony, ripping plastic streamers from their ties. My parents were sailing from Harwich to the Hook of Holland in the worst weather on record. Battling gusts of rain, I left my Dutch lesson and met the Fire Brigade releasing three houseboat guests from beneath a fallen tree in front of my house. Once inside I fired up my laptop in the anxious search for ferry information. But my eye caught an email headed ’26 postcodes…’. Opening it I saw the address: in the same week I had watched ‘Mr Holmes’ at the cinema I was being given 221B Baker Street. Surely it was a sign. What’s more, the project deadline was the day I was returning to the UK. A small extension would give me enough time to prepare. I would plunge myself into the writing of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I would step inside the fantastical home of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. I would…oh, first I would call the ferry company to check I was not an orphan.