Tea with Mr Pickwick

It's time to come clean. There is another man in my life.
I take him to my bed each night. 
Frankly, if I could I'd rip off  his manties and molest him amid his manuscripts thrice daily.
Humphrey appears unconcerned, despite the fact that this affair has been raging for many years.  He even lets Charles sleep with us - provided I turn the off the light after an hour or so.  I believe I'll remain besotted for many years to come, despite Charles's advanced age.  He sets my heart a flutter with his turn of phrase,  into a swoon with his caustic wit, I sweat to a lather at his sense of social justice  and quiver at his marvellous understanding of human nature.
Nothing will e'er come between us Charles. I remain your most devoted and humble servant.

Read an article the other day and the interviewee declared that if she could invite anyone to dinner the guest list would include P.Diddy, Nelson Mandela, Bono and Britney Spears.  Could you imagine the scene?
Nelson would sit there benevolently smiling and occasionally offering pearls of wisdom. Bono would be on his mobile brokering some kind of peace accord between Palestine and Israel. PDiddy would be preening and swatting away groupies and Britney would be like....ah...."haven't I seen you guys somewhere before??"

Me? 
I'd just invite Charles Dickens.  Champagne, candelight, Charles and me.  I would happily listen for hours as he lambasted the judiciary, raged against the class system and fed me tidbits of his genius on a heavy silver fork. sigh.
Shakespeare would come a close second, but I'd have trouble understanding his RRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrollling accent.  Besides, he'd probably sniff and look down his nose at a humble wench like me.

I confess to be in utter awe of these masterful men.  Perhaps it is that rare ability to distill what it is that makes us human into a few well-placed words and to conjure scenes with a tiny phrase that separates the genius wordsmith from the literary hack.  Of course there are some fabulous contemporary writers too.  Anna Funder, Margaret Atwood, Robert Hughes, Frank McCourt (bless him), Tim Winton and Peter Carey to name but a few.  Robert Hughes's Fatal Shore was exceptional, in my humble opinion, because (among other things) he expressed so well the reasons our indigenous people appear so apathetic about many things, including self-determination.

Hopefully I haven't bored you all to death with my little missive today, but I have been warned that too much talk of wobbly thighs, fashion and morning breath may alienate my Blogland boyfriends (sorry Bushtripper, please don't leave me!!).  I shall swot up on carburettas (?), limited slip differentials and aerodynamics for a future blog.

Pray, I must leave dear friends,  for the time has come for my bodice to be torn in preparation for a ravishing by Charlie's luscious loquaciousness.........