Mrs Hudson,
I have a problem. My mate Nigel won’t speak to my girlfriend, because she called him a mealy-mouthed little dung beetle without a brain.
Not only that, but she also glued the sleeves of his rugby jersey together and hung them from the lamp posts in front of his house. When he complained, she stole his underwear at Christmas and strung it up over the town nativity crèche. Now she’s taken to spying on him when he leaves his flat, shouting rude remarks when he gets into his car or comes home at night. She even bought a telescope so she can see into his flat through our bedroom window.
The thing is, I quite like my girlfriend and all, but Nigel and I have been together since our days at Eton, and I don’t want to risk losing him. What can I do to make peace between the two of them?
Signed,
Hamstrung in Hampton
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Dear Hamstrung,
I wouldn’t spend too much time trying to make up between these two; obviously, your girlfriend is in love with Nigel. She is also clearly unbalanced. In fact, if I were you I would sell your house quickly and move away from Hampton and leave no forwarding address.
With sympathy,
Mrs Hudson
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Dear Mrs Hudson,
I have a dog question for you. My poodle insists on peeing on my husband’s best shoes. We tried hiding the shoes, but little Puddles always finds them, drags them out of their hiding place and piddles on them. If we put them up high then she finds his Wellies or something else of his and pees on them. My husband is threatening to poison her and I am very worried. The last time he made a threat like this my neighbor’s child disappeared and is still missing.
I’ve noticed he recently purchased a rather large supply of rat poison, and we don’t have any rodents in all at our house. What should I do?
Frightened in Ferncliffe
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Dear Frightened,
First of all, shame on you for owning a French breed of dog. You should get something wholesome and thoroughly British like a bulldog or a retriever, or even a terrier. But a poodle! I can’t imagine what self-respecting English woman would go to town with a curly-haired little scrap of a dog like that; personally, I’d be ashamed to show my face at my local green grocer if I owned a poodle. Your dog is probably exacting revenge in the sneaky way any French person would—clearly her motivation is political. So getting rid of the dog is the obvious solution.
As for your husband, I would be tempted to ditch him at the same time. I’ve noticed that poisoning can become a nasty habit, and someone who is comfortable poisoning dogs and children will likely not hesitate to move on to doing away with his spouse, should you displease him in any way. I suggest moving to Hampton—I have reason to believe that a house there will soon become available at a good price.
A votre service,
Mrs Hudson
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Dear Mrs Hudson,
I am becoming concerned about my brother-in-law. I mean, I’m as patriotic as the next fellow, but Roger’s attachment to the Royal Family goes beyond all rhyme and reason. He not only attends every public function where the Queen makes an appearance, but he has started collecting Royal Family memorabilia. Plates, plaques, mugs, coins—you name it, he collects it. In fact, his collection is so extensive that the local paper has written an article about it, featuring photographs of his “Royal Collection Room.” It is growing every day, and now threatens to overtake my sister’s house, in fact—he has already filled up the study and now is threatening to move into the guest bedroom. My sister is at her wit’s end about it.
The worst part of it is that he’s not even English—he’s Canadian.
Sincerely,
Worried in Woolich
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Dear Worried,
I regret to say that there’s nothing you can do—this disease has progressed too far for a cure now. And the fact that he is Canadian makes it irreversible, I’m afraid. I also detect a note of envy in your letter—I feel I should warn you that this malady is contagious. If you find yourself in a shop looking longingly at a bust of the Queen, or a likeness of the Prince Consort, or a nicely framed needle point of the royal crest, move away quickly and do not look back. Once you succumb the first time, I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done for you. I had a distant cousin who suffered from this highly virulent disease (God rest his soul), and he was eventually forced to move out of his house and into his tool shed. (He was Scottish, so more’s the pity.) But do heed my warning—be vigilant, and be prepared to take your sister into your own home when her husband makes hers uninhabitable.
Sincerely,
Mrs Hudson
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And now, dear readers, here are a few more recipes from my kitchen in 221 Baker Street. I do hope you like them.
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Hot Crab Sandwiches
This was passed down to me by my mother, who was a great cook. Dr Watson is especially fond of them.
1/4 cup crabmeat
1 cup diced sharp cheddar cheese
1/4 cup celery, diced
1/4 cup mayonnaise, homemade or store bought
1 tablespoon onion, finely diced
2 tablespoon pickle relish
3 tablespoons chili sauce
Combine ingredients in a bowl and mix thoroughly. Pile liberally on good homemade bread and bake in a 350—degree oven for twenty minutes. May be frozen and cooked for thirty minutes straight out of the freezer. Excellent with a good bottle of ale or a pint of bitters.
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Creamy Broccoli Soup
Here is an excellent recipe for broccoli soup. Sometimes when Mr Holmes comes in late at night, I have a bowl waiting for him.
2 cups water
4 cups chopped fresh broccoli
1 cup chopped celery
1 cup chopped carrots
1/2 cup chopped onion
6 tablespoons butter
6 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3 cups chicken broth, homemade if possible
2 cups milk (mix in some cream if you like it creamier)
