The Case of the Basket Case

It is approaching 100 degrees Fahrenheit here this week with nothing but blue skies and sunshine for days.

I, however, am retreating into a damp London fog. My new obsession with Sherlock Holmes is seeing me through these past weeks of intensive BM clean-up, behavioral flare-ups, and the fact that nobody ever goes to bed because…summer.

This summer is different because we have the miracle of Jack’s day camp, a glorious daily blessing which is making summertime manageable. He loves it. I love it. We all scream for summer day camp!

It has freed up my energies, which are now redirected at Charlie, who is The Boy Who Sneaks Out and Hops Fences at All Hours of Every Day.

I can’t contain him. He is Houdini in stretchy basketball shorts and a Minecraft t-shirt. He also has a thousand stipulations about shoes, socks, toy guns, and jackets (it’s hot out, yet he wants to wear them because it is part of his internalized routine).

Anyway, cool, damp London.

Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Watson. Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft. Mary Russell. These are my temporary support group, pulling me away from shrieking, escaping small people and giving me my own escape.

I devoured Benedict Cumberbatch on Sherlock and am now racing through Laurie King’s Mary Russell/Holmes series of novels. An older Holmes with a whip-smart female partner in sleuthing? Yes, I approve.

The thing about Holmes is, unless he is immersed in the thrill of the hunt while on an intriguing case, he is bored. Despondent. Difficult. He is also brilliant, observant, superior, self-absorbed, maddening, and probably Aspergian.

The thing about me is, I’m not brilliant or hyper-observant. I can be difficult and despondent. I loathe people who consider themselves superior. I don’t need engrossing detective work to give my life purpose. But I like bumming a ride with Holmes, Watson, and Russell in a good character-driven romp of a murder mystery.

It’s my version of hopping a fence to find something new.


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