The BookBenches speak (parodies)

The Jeeves and Wooster bench was the very first one I visited.

“Jeeves,” I said, massaging the old lemon, “why is there a painted bench shaped like a book with us on it in the middle of a shopping centre?”

“Because,” said Jeeves, with a spasm around the mouth which is the nearest he ever gets to smiling, “this is London, sir.”

*

“We are at last alone, Elizabeth. No one is likely to find us here, in a park in the middle of nowh – why do you suddenly grow so pale?”

“I hear a sound most dreadful to my feelings-the crunch underfoot of that most wearisome of creatures, whose company is less congenial than even that of my sister Mary.”

“Worse-worse than Mary? You do not mean to say-”

“I fear so, Mr. Darcy. An Austen fan is among us.”

*

The James Bond bench airs a grievance:

“They came one night, a whole flock of them, and I asked one of them who they were, and he said they were the London chapter of Death Eaters Reunited and I was a handy meeting spot on account of the skull. And I said no, this bench is for Bond James Bond and Bond James Bond wouldn’t like it because Bond James Bond is on the side of the good and they weren’t and why didn’t they go meet at the Harry Potter bench instead.

And he said well there was no blooming Harry Potter bench and anyway he’d never heard of Bond James Bond. Some useless muggle, he said, not a wizard. And I said he WAS a wizard, with the ladies, at least, and how hasn’t he heard of Bond James Bond, star of the book “You Only Live Twice” among others. And he said that’s funny, that’s the title of the biography of the Dark Lord that Malfoy’s working on. And then they started arguing whether the title was accurate because the Dark Lord didn’t technically DIE that first time. And I said stop it, you’re disturbing the Agatha Christie bench. And then they told me to shut up or they’d sit on me. And then they did.”

*

Hercule Poirot is furious:

“Hastings! Hastings, you have at last picked up the phone, mon ami. Now give to me carefully your ears. The title of this bench, it is ‘Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly’, is it not? So what do the little grey cells say, Hastings? They say that the face of Poirot, and no other, should be on this bench. Mais non! It is instead the face of-how do you English say-the old bag Marple! Nom d’un nom d’un nom, Hastings! Poirot, he uses the order and method, the mathematical precision. Marple, she uses the village gossip! Pah! Never has Poirot been so insulted!

“Now excusez, mon ami, there is a mademoiselle most curious looking who has been following Poirot. She has the look of derangement in her eyes, almost as if she has travelled halfway across London just to see a bench. It appears to be a situation most grave, mon ami.”

*

I visited the Sherlock Holmes bench on the day they tried to create a Guinness Record for the most number of people dressed as Sherlock Holmes in one place:

“Holmes, this is most peculiar,” I exclaimed, glancing my eye over the newspaper, “it says London is suffering from a mysterious shortage of deerstalker hats and magnifying glasses.”

“Quick, Watson!” cried Holmes, springing from his chair, “we must head to Woburn Square, where I fear a considerable crime is in contemplation. But we may be too late.”

(What would Sherlock Holmes be more appalled by: a female Sherlock Holmes or a Batman Sherlock Holmes? I suspect the former.)

*

The How to Train Your Dragon bench has an odd story to relate:

“You meet the strangest people in this business sometimes. Just the other day I saw a man advancing wildly towards me. He was in costume for one of those medieval fairs, to look at him. Big chap. And hairy. Like a bear.

“And where do you hail from, good sir?” I said, trying to get into the spirit of things.

“Bear Island,” he growled.

He’s really thought this through, I said to myself. “And how was the joust, sir? Did you win the hand of a fair maiden?” I said, continuing the merry banter.

“My victory at the tourney at Lannisport is well known,” he said “but that was a long time ago. Khaleesi,” he said suddenly, more to himself than me, “Khaleesi will want this. This dragon book- it is not at the Citadel, I am sure of it, nor at Castle Black, otherwise Maester Aemon- where can I find it?”

“Do you mean How to Train Your Dragon by Cressida Cowell?” I said. “You can get it at Waterstones.”

“Waterstone- I have neither seen nor heard of it in all my travels. Is it some forgotten outpost of Valyria?”

The poor man is quite mad, I thought. “If you go north of the river from here you’re bound to come across it sooner or later.”

“How to Train Your Dragon,” he muttered, heading off. “Khaleesi needs this book. And once I have it, she will need me.” ”

*

The Mrs. Dalloway bench and the Bridget Jones’s Diary bench swap souls:

An imaginary Wednesday, June 1923

10 a.m. Hosting party for Smug Marrieds tonight. Going out to buy flowers myself as everyone else too busy/can’t be arsed. Sometimes I wonder if I can be arsed either, but not going to think about that right now.

10.05 a.m. Argh. I am going to think about that now, and also about war, death, unrequited love, the essential inscrutability of even those closest to us, and the ecstasy and terror of being alive, for the rest of the day

10.30 a.m. Trying to enjoy walk in St. James’s, but can’t thanks to flashbacks to days at country-estate-cum-shag-getaway Bourton with Peter Walsh. Had such a crush on him but he ruined it by going on about Wagner and telling me about the defects of my soul all the time. Is it any wonder had to tell him to bugger off in the end- the place wasn’t so much Bourton as Bore-ton when he was around. Grrr. Wish I’d thought of saying that during the argument we had at this spot three decades ago.

10.50 a.m. Lady Bruton invited Richard to lunch and not me. THE OLD COW.

11 a.m. Now getting flashback to that sexy snog with Sally Seton at Bourton- so romantic out on the terrace with the flowers. Felt like irresistible sex goddess. And then who should show up and ruin it but bloody Peter.

11.02 a.m. Gaaah! Maybe I am a lesbian? No. Maybe? That would explain some things.

12.00 p.m. Fucking Peter swans into the house! Discover still have slightly pathetic crush on him even now. Doom, I think, but then remind myself that am lady with inner poise. Then he tells me about divorcing his wife and some emotional fuckwittage with a younger model out in India. Men.

12.00 a.m. Sally at party. Decided I don’t fancy her any more. Or stupid Peter stupid prat. No, mostly fancy the embrace of the leaden circles of time, dissolving in the night. The embrace of death. But not going to think about that right now.

Her clothes hung in the cupboard. Bridget, plunging her hand into the softness, tried to find the black Lycra miniskirt, but could not, among the folds. Strange, she thought, pausing, but perhaps it was in the ironing basket—or the linen basket—linen, yes, she was a lady with inner poise, wearing white linen and sitting at a table with flowers on it, with Daniel Cleaver sitting across her, in love—and the indomitable egoism which forever rides down the hosts opposed to it, the river which says on,on; even though, it admits, there may be no goal for us whatever, still, on, on; this indomitable egoism charged her cheeks in colour, made her very pink; very bright-eyed, as she gently loosed the skirt from in between the sofa cushions, where she remembered now she had last sat with Daniel Cleaver. So on a summer’s day waves collect, overbalance, and fall; collect and fall; and the whole world seems to be saying “that is all” more and more ponderously. That is all. Fear no more, says the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall.  And the body alone listens to the passing bee; the dog barking, far away barking and barking—and the body decides that, until Daniel Cleaver calls, it needs a Dairy Milk and a fag.

Click here to read about my summer following the BookBench trails (with lots of benches and pictures)