If I were a billionaire I would absolutely tell my secretary to send wedding gifts to anyone who sent me an invite regardless of if I knew them, because- A. I know how expensive that nonsense is. B. I would be a billionaire and when else am I gonna do with that much money? Honestly… and C. I would totally make showing up at random weddings with crazy awesome gifts my new stress relief hobby. “Congratulations random strangers! I admire your daring and stratigic planning. Here’s that 700$ tea set you wanted but assumed no one would ever buy.”
the reason I like tumblr is because it’s so easy not to be found here. I don’t have to worry about people from real life being able to find me bc I can hide my blog from search engine results. I can be openly gay here and have a little space to myself to explore my interests and stuff. Social media has always made me really anxious as I’m a naturally reserved person. I’m reluctant to use such widely used sites like Instagram and twitter because I don’t want my family or friends I’m not too close to find me on there ! And also why the fuck do twitter and Instagram make your following and likes public
exactly like these sites DEMAND access to your contacts and phone number and even when you say no they still recommend you to other people based on your phone number and real life proximity to other users. That’s so fucking creepy. I do so miss the old days of the internet where everything wasn’t so connected to your day to day life.
This is a collection of words by Arthur Conan Doyle in different works about the events surrounding his move to Portsmouth, where he lived from 1882 to 1890, struggling to build a medical practice following his betrayal by George Turnavine Budd.
By the way, an extraordinary card arrived from Cullingworth during my
absence. “You are my man,” said he; “mind that I am to have you when I
want you.” There was no date and no address, but the postmark was
Bradfield in the north of England. Does it mean nothing? Or may it mean
everything? We must wait and see.
— Arthur Conan Doyle, The Stark Munro Letters (1895)
Doyle and Budd were friends at the University of Edinburgh; in 1882, Budd convinced Doyle to join his thriving practice in Plymouth, where they worked together for just six weeks, until suspicion, driven by critical letters by Mary Doyle (Arthur’s mother), drove them apart. Although their time together was short, these events influenced Doyle greatly; Budd was an important partial inspiration for Sherlock Holmes, Professor Challenger, and many other Doyle characters. Their relationship was the subject of Doyle’s 1895 novel The Stark Munro Letters [x] [x].
It occurs to me that many of the deductions Sherlock makes about Faith
in The Lying Detective resemble events from this period of
Doyle’s life.
Presumably
you downsized when you … when you left your job … and maybe when you ended
your relationship.
There
wasn’t anything physical going on, was there? Quite some time, in fact. (The Lying Detective)
In a book written some years afterwards called The Stark Munro Letters,
I drew in very close detail the events of the next few years, and there
the curious reader will find them more clearly and fully set out than
would be to scale in these pages. […] the whole history of
my association with the man
[George Turnavine Budd]
whom I called Cullingworth, his
extraordinary character, our parting and the way in which I was left to
what seemed certain ruin, were all as depicted.
— Arthur Conan Doyle, Memories and Adventures (November 1923)
There are two [letters], the fifth and the ninth, from which some
excisions are necessary; but in the main I hope that they may be
reproduced as they stand.
— Arthur Conan Doyle, The Stark Munro Letters (1895)
He was a man born for trouble and adventure, unconventional in his
designs and formidable in his powers of execution—a man of action with a
big but incalculable brain guiding the action.
[…]
For some reason he took a fancy to me, and appeared to attach an undue importance to my advice.
[…]
People flocked into the town from 20 and 30 miles round, and not only
his waiting-rooms, but his stairs and his passages, were crammed. His
behaviour to them was extraordinary. He roared and shouted, scolded
them, joked them, pushed them about, and pursued them sometimes into the
street, or addressed them collectively from the landing. A morning with
him when the practice was in full blast was as funny as any pantomime
and I was exhausted with laughter. […]
— Arthur Conan Doyle, Memories and Adventures (November 1923)
That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done. (A Study in Pink)
Two friends, divided by a letter, the events later fictionalised by one of the parties… brilliant.
MYCROFT: And Sherlock played among the funny gravestones.
JOHN: Funny how?
MYCROFT: They weren’t real. The dates were all wrong, an architectural joke which fascinated Sherlock.
—The Final Problem, Sherlock S4
There were, however, certain obstacles in the way, and the true history of this curious case remained entombed in the tin box which contains so many records of my friend’s adventures. Now we have at last obtained permission to ventilate the facts which formed one of the very last cases handled by Holmes before his retirement from practice. Even now a certain reticence and discretion have to be observed in laying the matter before the public.
—The Adventure of the Creeping Man
When one considers that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in active practice for twenty-three years, and that during seventeen of these I was allowed to cooperate with him and to keep notes of his doings, it will be clear that I have a mass of material at my command. […] Concerning these latter, I may say that the writers of agonized letters, who beg that the honour of their families or the reputation of famous forebears may not be touched, have nothing to fear. The discretion and high sense of professional honour which have always distinguished my friend are still at work in the choice of these memoirs, and no confidence will be abused.
—The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger
I have never known my friend to be in better form, both mental and physical, than in the year ‘95. His increasing fame had brought with it an immense practice, and I should be guilty of an indiscretion if I were even to hint at the identity of some of the illustrious clients who crossed our humble threshold in Baker Street.
—The Adventure of Black Peter
It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and yet it is with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time, even with the utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been impossible to make the facts public; but now the principal person concerned is beyond the reach of human law, and with due suppression the story may be told in such fashion as to injure no one. It records an absolutely unique experience in the career both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse me if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he might trace the actual occurrence.
—The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton
The architect (someone who creates the structure of something) played a ‘joke’—he messed about with the names and dates. Just like John Watson (the narrator), just like ACD (the writer), just like the Sherlockian fandom itself. It is worth noting that the episode circles around Sherrinford, a concept/person which grew out of ACD messing around with a name, and which became a fanon creation with a life of its own.
The ‘architect’ also includes Mark/roft—who tells this story, constructs and filters this part of the episode, even to the extent of transporting sections of memory back and forth in time using the cinematography—normally something only Sherlock’s mind palace can achieve.
Green Violin Bow 