To her birthday, a little memory note.

I am definitely more a fan of Margareth Rutherford’s incarnation of miss Marple, than the actual massacres of the crime oeuvre by post modern media scriptwriters side lining the main protagonist to highlight some overacting young brats flattering an immature public.

Ah, Hercule, my favourite Belgian,                                                                          without a cornet de frites, but always with a flower.

What would the world be, without the humble but determinate Witt of Virgos.