Once Upon A Time

Photo © Rob Jones

Try as I might ….

I just can’t escape Hercules Poirot.

The relationship goes back a long way. I first got into the Agatha Christie detective novels way back when I was living in Brussels, home to the great Belgian detective, though it’s suggested he was born amongst other places in Spa in the Ardennes. One town in Hainault claims to have a copy of his birth certificate.

Altogether he appears in 33 novels, two plays and 51 short stories written by Christie herself. On radio, TV and film, he’s been played by Albert Finney, Peter Ustinov, Orson Welles, Kenneth Brannagh and of course David Suchet.

The fictional character first appeared in 1916, inspired perhaps by the large numbers of refugees from Belgium fleeing the German invasion in the First World War. (Not two miles from where I sit, there is a promenade built by grateful refugees, under Menai Bridge, and called the Belgian Promenade.) His last appearance was in 1975. Christie died a year later.

My Nanna, by the way, had an uncanny resemblance to Agatha Christie.

My next close shave was in the early 1990s when I was within a whisker of buying a flat in a beautiful Art Deco building in Charterhouse Square. Florin Court became Poirot’s fictional residence in the TV series starring David Suchet.

A few years later I found myself travelling on the Orient Express on a reporting trip.

Bang up to date and I am in the middle of narrating a series of Poirot novels. On a rare day off I made a quick trip to London to see a show - sounds so grand - enough time before the matinee to have lunch. The first pub we tried was terribly disappointing. An ancient recommendation. Where to start? They forgot to open the front doors so people repeatedly tried and left. The only way in was down the alley and round the back. Any food? No, the cook isn’t ready yet. We had a pint while we waited, but the situation didn’t change. It was nearing 1pm. The surly bar tender had a personality by-pass, and was borderline rude.

So.. back into Fleet Street we went looking for an alternative, and straight across the road was Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. Another place accessed by an alleyway, which was very crowded, though it turned out they were all in line for a sandwich bar. Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese itself was deserted. Bar to the right, chop house to the left. We were seated straight away. I settled on the Steak and Kidney Pudding and a Pint of Bitter. We were served promptly and with a smile.

Why am I mentioning all this?

The very next day, and nose to the grindstone again narrating a Poirot, only to find The Belgian Detective arranging to meet a client in …. The Cheshire Cheese … and ordering … Steak and Kidney Pudding!

What are the chances of that!

R.