My husband and, appropriately enough, Watson sent me some of these things this past week. I had the rest tucked away for just such a random occasion.
Egg-lamentary, my dear
You’ll be relieved to know I’ve worked all the eggs puns out of my system.
Until next year.
Elements of my dear
I knew about the first and third one, but not the rest
Number four is odd—why give a character a fellowship for using forensics in popular literature, instead of the author?
Then again, characters are often more familiar to the public than their creators—and Sherlock’s popularity has been insane since his stories were first published.
I was discussing this with friends when someone at another table leaned in and said:
“Maybe they just gave the fellowship thing to Sherlock because they can’t give it to a living person. What? Sir Conan Doyle is dead, right?”
Well, yes, but . . .
Periodically, my dear
Qwertee had these available of tee-shirts, but they ended the run already.
I’m hoping it earns enough votes so they’ll do another batch before my birthday—or Watson’s.
Duh, my dear
My husband sent me this—Batman is his like Sherlock Holmes is mine.
Though I don’t think he’s quite so
fixated on aware of, say, Christian Bale’s cheekbones.
Alimentary, my dear . . . Never mind
I only included this because I could make a horrible pun out of it.
I regret nothing.