Disjointed and Belated Rambles.

You know, the problem with having something splendid and wholly unexpected come dropping out of the blue, as it did to me two nights ago, is that within forty eight hours at most it assumes the appearance of a dream. Then you become convinced that your life hasn’t been turned on its head after all, and that’s when you fall back into the pond and have to sink a little way before rising again.

*  *  *

‘A Christmas present, Mr Scrooge? For me?’

‘Yes, for you. And don’t worry; I’m not mad.’

That probably isn’t in the book – it’s a long time since I read it – but it’s in the excellent 1951 film version starring Alistair Sim. The pathos is a bit too understated for Dickens. In fact, I doubt that Dickens would have recognised true pathos if it had come skulking into his bedroom at one o’clock in the morning and set fire to his bed curtains. I’m mixing my novels here. And it isn’t Christmas any more, anyway.

*  *  *

There’s no doubt that some of the best things to eat are also the simplest. Like hot buttered toast, for example. I swear I could almost live on hot buttered toast, and then I could dispense with the crisps and chocolate biscuits which make up most of the rest of my diet.

*  *  *

Frankenstein’s creation has a good head of hair, apparently, but also has yellow skin and black lips. And to make matters worse, it smiles and seems to like him. The good doctor finds this so repugnant that he runs off into the rain, goes completely barking, drops into a dead faint, and takes weeks to recover. He blames this somewhat expressionist behaviour on overwork. I might keep you posted.