Awkward, pink hobbit who can never quite say what she means. Still talks a lot though.

Fandoms, prose, illustration, mythology, fashion, and history are all meandering about.

Tired does not cover it


Happy 159th Birthday, Sherlock Holmes! 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.  It is my business to know what other people don’t know.”


Please take a moment to remember and celebrate this wonderfully talented yet tortured man. His devotion and sacrifice ultimately brought us one of the greatest portrayals of Arthur Conan Doyle’s creation ever to grace our television screens.

Thank you, dearest Jeremy. We miss you still.

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien, as I would go mad without at least one heart-warming story near and dear to my heart.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, because I’d surely get cabin fever without once in a while reading something that felt like I was a personal confident to a friend, and therefore a bit less isolated. 
The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry, because it has all manner of things to do with poetry (and humour), and so I wouldn’t have to chose only one poet to keep me company.
A Sherlock Holmes Anthology by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, no choosing between Sherlock Holmes stories, I can just have all of them.
The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul by Douglas Adams, something funny and clever to help me keep my wits about me, with bonus Norse Gods.

Or alternatively:

A book on how to build a boat. So as to build a boat.
The Dangerous Book for Boys. Because it has basic survival tips.
Bear Grylls’ autobiography. To be like Bear Grylls
A Bush Tucker cookbook. To use to cook bush tucker
And a full kindle

And not Lord of the Flies. Never Lord of the Flies. 

  • Behemoth and Koroviev (as a terrifyingly awesome duo), and Margarita Nikolayevna from Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. 

  • (Also, Pontius Pilate’s pet dog, because that’s loyalty if ever I saw it)

  • Bilbo Baggins from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit

  • The Cat from Neil Gaiman’s Coraline

  • The Cheshire Cat from Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (talking cats, what can I say? They have the best personalities.)
  • Cecilia Lisbon from Jeffrey Eugenides The Virgin Suicides

  • Cpt. James Hook from J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan

  • Dolores Haze from Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita (what a little minx!)

  • Esther Greenwood from Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar
  • Ford Prefect from Douglas Adam’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

  • Hazel Grace Lancaster hand-in-hand with Augustus Waters from John Green’s The Fault in Out Stars 
  • Mister Teatime (say it after me kids, Te-ah Tim-eh) from Terry Pratchett’s The Hogfather

  • And also Death from Terry Pratchett’s Discworld Series

  •  Reiko Ishida from Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood 

  • Sabriel from Garth Nix’s Old Kingdom Trilogy
  • And also Mogget, because talking cats.

  • Severus Snape from J.K Rowling’s Harry Potter (he was a bully, that’s true, and his intentions were for Lily and Lily alone, but golly gee he put a lot at stake and gave up so much for her)

  • Sherlock Holmes from all of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories

And many, many, many more. 


This is a very hard thing for me to do, as I generally read a book and if I don’t adore it, I like it immensely, with very few exceptions. As such, I could probably amp this list up to 20 favourite books, but I’ll stick to the rules for everyone’s sakes.

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
I only read this book last month, but it is the first book I have ever read in my life where I felt completely assured that no matter which way the plot went, it was going to be completely perfect in Mikhail Bulgakov’s hands. It was unlike anything I have ever encountered in a book before - impossible to fully explain, almost a catharsis (if that makes sense). 
It tells the story of the residents Soviet Russia, some good, some greedy, some heroic, some baffled beyond belief, encountering the devil and his merry band of misfits on their mission to prove something, or gain something, or maybe just to mill about for their own reasons - no one but them, and their chosen heros: Margarita and her Master, quite knows. An absolute joy I swear by.

The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides. 
Again, this is a book unlike any I have ever encountered. It recounts the last year in the lives of the five Lisbon girls; Cecilia, Lux, Mary, Bonnie and Theresa. In the eyes of the anonymous neighborhood boys that narrate the story (in a sense, they are one entity devoted to the girls, that are in turn, their own entity), the girls are just-out-of-reach enigmas that the boys desperately adore and try to understand.
The tone of the book is is magical; nostalgic, melancholic and a wee bit satirical all at once. Also, Eugenides is a hero of mine for having written a book in which every single paragraph could be a stand alone work of art.

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
It’s very silly of me to say, but I do consider Sylvia Plath to a degree my Patron Saint. I read the Bell Jar two years ago by chance, with no prior knowledge of Sylvia, and no idea that it was a semi-autobiography. I fell in love with it within the the first chapter, never having felt so drawn to a character like I was to Esther Greenwood on her overwhelmingly perceptive view of the world, and her downward spiral into depression because of it, and a variety of other things.
While a lot of people write this novel off as ‘indulgent’, I strongly disagree, Sylvia Plath herself said in a 1962 interview with Peter Orr, "I think that personal experience is very important, but certainly it shouldn’t be a kind of shut-box and mirror looking, narcissistic experience. I believe it {writing} should be relevant, and relevant to the larger things, the bigger things such as Hiroshima and Dachau and so on."  and that aside, if she hadn’t ‘indulged’ then the world would be devoid of an excellent voice.
Though I attach a word of caution to this novel, as Sylvia pours a myriad of desperate, thunderous, heartsick emotions into her writing (toskra is the word I’m looking for, if anyone knows Russian), and it is very much contagious. 

 The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
F. Scott Fitzgerald as his own person, and also his wife Zelda Sayre, are two personal historical idols of mine (I try, and fail, to reason my way around out the last few years of their lives - and console myself with their love letters when I can’t), and this book for me is the epitome of his talent.
Taking place in the height of the Roaring 20s, it tells the story of Nick Carraway, a less-than-well-to-do man who finds himself caught up in a blossoming relationship between his married cousin, Daisy, and his enigmatic neighbor, Jay Gatsby, who has looked across the bay of West Egg to East Egg, to the distant green light on Daisy’s dock as his unreachable goal for ages past.
It’s a story of the ethics of the rich who abide by the law but care for little but themselves, and the poor who strive to reach the unattainable and find themselves shedding laws for passion in their struggle. It’s exciting and tender all at once, so full of symbolism and so very pained in it’s questioning of personal morals against lawful behavior. To boot, the last chapters are the first words in a book I ever read that made me cry.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams
I first encountered The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy when I was ten on an audio book read by Douglas Adams himself, and although a great deal of the wit passed over my head with a jeering ‘whoosh’, I quickly became obsessed. It’s the story of poor old Arthur Dent, who wakes up on Thursday to find that his house is going to be demolished to make way for a bypass, that his best friend is actually an alien from somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, that the earth is about to be demolished to make way for an intergalactic bypass through hyperspace, that there is no tea anywhere, and that - suddenly being the only human left, his head contains a great secret that two mice want.
It’s so witty, hilarious and clever, I can guarantee you’d find yourself audibly cheering and gasping hysterically every few paragraphs.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rowling
I think this must be relatively self explanatory. I’ve grown up with Harry Potter: I waited by the letterbox on my eleventh birthday with the smallest of hopes that I might get an invitation to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I dressed up as Harry or Hermione or Ron for bookweeks (even Bellatrix Lestrange one year), I ignored my poor Japanese exchange students as I furiously read the Deathly Hallows, I cried when just about every character died, I flooded the cinema when the Deathly Hallows Pt II came out, and most recently ran screaming about the Wonderful World of Harry Potter Studio Tour in London. It’s a series near and dear to my heart, and this is the book that started it.

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien
Again, I first encountered the Hobbit on an audio book when I was ten, and I fell very much in love with it. I’ve read it at least once a year every year since, and can (to my great pride) quote much of it off by heart. Bilbo Baggins I especially adore as a true adventurer because he started out as such a domestic creature and grew into a real hero. Also, there will never come a day when I don’t wake up one morning and wish I was lived in Hobbiton.

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
A raven is like a writing desk because the both have quills and nevar (raven) bark. The theory that Lewis Carroll was on drugs first sprouted up during the LSD cult craze of the sixties when Jefferson Airplane wrote White Rabbit - however, it was fashionable at the time to indulge in opium if one had nothing better to do, Lewis Carroll’s real name was Charles Lutwidge Dodgeson - he derived his pseudonym from latin and irish wordplay, he was a mathematician and teacher at Christ Church College.
He took pictures of children as it was the fashion in the day - the theory that he was a paedophile has very nearly been written off as nonsense - however it is very true that he adored children and their ‘unspoiled minds’ appealed to him very much.
The caterpillar was a direct poke at high-society victorians, many of the strange things in Alice are in fact the complex mathematical theories he taught in school, he was - many years after his death - named a suspect in the Jack the Ripper murders (this is, of course, basically nonsense), a collection of his diaries are missing, some pages in a few of his others have been deliberately torn out - to this day no one knows where they are, he may have had undiagnosed epilepsy. I will always want to be Alice. I have a habit of accidentally collecting facts about books I have adored since I was five.

Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie
When I was seven I thought Peter Pan was real, and that he would whisk me away to Neverland at night. I used to write letters to him and put them in jars in the garden, and even talk to him out loud as though he could hear me from far away in his treehouse hideaway on Neverland, when I was nine, I saw the trailer for the live action movie in the cinemas and gave a very loud shout for joy which garnered some glares from the people in from of me. It’s a truly wonderful book, it’s also surprisingly sad in the way it speaks of the fickleness of a child’s heart, but I treasure it all the same, because I do believe in faeries, I do, I do.

The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
I love Sherlock Holmes as a general rule, but I especially love the Hound of the Baskervilles. Possibly, it’s because Watson gets to shimmy a bit more into the limelight, possibly it’s because Henry Baskerville is (in my head) positively to die for (ah-ha), possibly because it’s longer in length and therefore there’s more of it to love, possibly it’s because it’s thrilling and Sherlock Holmes is as brilliant and at the top of his game as he always is. Most likely it’s all of these things at once.
In fact, I went to Hound Tor in May on holiday, and amid all the giggling at ‘Hound of the Basket Meals' cafes and running around in my Sherlock t-shirt with a skull necklace and Benedict Cumberbatch jacket, I got to pose on the top of the Tor it felt like the most fulfilling thing I have done in a long while.

That’s it. I can only apologise for the length. 


Tomorrow is the day of the Judicial Review to see whether Undershaw (the former home of Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of Sherlock Holmes) can be saved.

We desperately need all the support we can get.

You can help by:

1) Checking out the website: www.saveundershaw.com

2) ‘Liking’ us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/saveundershaw

3) Following us on Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/Save_Undershaw (There are lots of things to retweet, and we’re trying to get #SaveUndershaw trending, too.)

4) Watching and ‘liking’ the campaign video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NIXNyL7tng0&feature=player_embedded

5) Reblogging this message!

Thank you in advance for your support. We will try our very best.

(Apologies for the ridiculous amount of tags, but it’s the only way to spread the message widely across Tumblr.)

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