My first week as a 30-year-old is nearly up and I’m happy to report that I’ve neither discovered any grey hairs yet nor transformed into a sex-mad sex bunny (no, I didn’t like SEX & THE CITY all that much …). In fact, I’m still very much … well, me. *wipes her brow with relief*
So on my b-day I got this Regency-set crime novel I’ve been rather looking forward to reading. It all started quite well: interesting, unusual hero; nice Regency details; setting was London and then —
— hero went into Pudding Lane and found himself surrounded by medieval, half-timbered houses.
Okay, let’s repeat this again:
Regency London. Pudding Lane. Medieval houses. Half-timbered.
Now, what’s wrong with this picture?
Regency London. Pudding Lane. MEDIEVAL houses.
Woah, a time-warp in the middle of London! Totally scary! Regency hero walks around the corner and – bang! – he’s been transported into Restoration London! Because, my dears, the medieval houses in Pudding Lane all burnt to cinders in 1666 during the Great Fire of London which just happened to start in a stupid bakery in stupid Pudding Lane. Fire patrol didn’t yet exist. Fire raged out of control (due to these lovely medieval houses — lots of wood!) and most of the City of London burnt down. Luckily for the Londoners, the rats burnt, too, and there was never again an outbreak of the Black Death in London — mainly due to the fact that the City decided to rebuild in stone.
It was a nice enough novel, but boy, did the medieval houses in Pudding Lane drive me mad!