I love Dickens.
No, oh filthy-minded readership of mine, I refer to the author Charles, not to any below belt activity.
About six years ago I was living in a part of London called Somers Town. It is where Boz (as I like to call him) lived, and it is mentioned in several of his books. This coincided with a Dickens spree I went on. (Again. No! I merely am refering to reading several of his novels, cover to cover, back to back.)
I'd read of the exploits of Nicholas Nickleby, tales of him walking from Somers Town to the court on the Strand. I'd wander those same streets and wonder what it was like to live in Dickensian London.
Last week I got a little glimpse into that life.
That food poisoning I got in Morocco. Well, a stool sample confirmed it was, in fact, dysentery.
Luckily it had sorted itself out by the time I got the result.
Now I'm steering well clear of the young cock-er-ney scamps round my flat in case they impishly start to pull ribbons of brightly coloured 'kerchiefs from my waist-coat pocket whilst doffing their top hats and calling me guv'ner.
What is the most Victorian happening that you have encountered of late?