A chance reference to R.C. Robertson-Glasgow in a cricketing book I was reading led me back to my bookshelves to enjoy again that author's collection of cod autobiographies "I Was Himmler's Aunt" (Herbert Jenkins, 1940, with dust jacket).
A quick scout through some of these burlesques -- Sir Seemly Mallow's ambitions to influence politics whilst coping with the Rabelaisian doings of his uncle Lamming; an Irish gentleman's tales of the old school (and the threat of his forthcoming book: 'Seventy-five Years a Lifeguardsman'); Squinto Evans' intimate revelations of life, love and song in a Welsh mining village; and, of course, the lady of the title (appearing, appropriately, halfway through the book) -- convinces me of one thing:
A considerable amount of the blogosphere, including, one suspects, this blog, is written by the ghost of R.C. Robertson-Glasgow as if by automatic writing or by the influence of Tiptoes Through Tulips, the well-known Indian spirit guide.
I offer as evidence the final two paragraphs of the title piece:
"The woman-commandant comes into my cell soon after the exercising. I am to be released. It is a mistake that has been made. I am the wrong woman. But I am to go. I tell the woman-commandant that I am Himmler's Aunt. 'You were,' she replies, 'but you are no longer. You are to leave.'**** ****
"But I am Himmler's Aunt. Someone has to be."
Posts
3 comments:
henry Root wrote the other half of the interweb
By golly, I think you're right.
We ought to be proud to walk in her slingback-steps.
Post a Comment