It's been both a cold and foggy evening with shapes melting away after about 20 feet* of distance.
It all seems right and appropriate on the eve of Charles Dicken's 200th Anniversary and I'll celebrate the various cliches about London Town and fogs for the occasion.
Like many, I studied Dickens back in school, with the text of Hard Times as a set piece along with Shakespeare, Chaucer and George Orwell. The names of Thomas Gradgrind, steeped in Facts, Sleary the lisping circus owner, Bitzer and Bounderby are enough to conjure plot lines even before the first pages are turned.
Everyone knows 'Oliver Twist' and 'A Christmas Carol' but there's plenty more of Dicken's stories out there, written as serials, the affordable soap operas of the day.
Weird then, to be asked a couple of days ago about whether I had any use for a set of Dicken's novels. They are one set that I'd happily make a space to enjoy in shilling installments.
* non metric in context with the rest of the post
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