What the Dickens?

To the Bishopsgate Institute, bangslap in the middle of the Square Mile, the Temple of Mammon, the Belly of the Beast, The Den of.........sorry.......overdraft extension been turned down. Emerging from Moorgate station I am made aware of a sudden aridity in the oesophagal region but, oh the pubs in this Slough of Despond, this Bedlam of................(all I wanted was an extra 50 quid!)...........but I digress. I enter one establishment near Liverpool Street and my jaw is thwacked by a steaming babel of bellowing testosteronic inanity. I am forced to dart furtively down a side street to find a decent pub with some actual human beings inside.

A young lady behind me tells her companion in a doom-laden tone: "She hasn't been on her Facebook page since October. I'm very worried about her". The digital equivalent of milk bottles remaining uncollected outside the front door. I quench lingering aridity with another cheeky one in Dirty Dick's (don't Google it).

I am in the Pit of Malevolence, the Bowels of...........apply cold flannel to forehead......... to attend a discussion on 'Dickens's Tales of the City', looking at how London influenced the life and work of bearded scribbler and adulterer Charlie Dickens, author of such timeless classics as 'A Tale of Two Twists', 'Great Dorrit's Papers' and 'Barnaby Chuzzlepip and the Goblet of Doom'. The fading grandeur of the hall is enlivened by a table groaning under bottles of wine. I seek to alleviate the burden.

Fings wot I learned, innit:

- Charlie D used to hire a couple of bobbies to protect him on his nocturnal forays into the rookeries of Old London Town
- Omnibus drivers apparently used to just grab people and haul them on board even if they had no desire to go anywhere
- Chazza was such a stickler for order he used to inspect his kid's bedrooms every morning and leave little notes detailing any failings. Daft Victorian bleeder.
- Waterloo Bridge was known as 'The Bridge of Sighs' as so many of the bereft and the lovelorn would volley themselves into the Thames from its ramparts

One of the participants then gave a spirited rendition of one of Dickens's short stories. Sadly, a member of the audience, clearly well-refreshed, had to leave to inspect the facilities and I missed most of it. On conclusion of the talk, I seek to alleviate the table's burden still further.

Nearing home, I realise I am in thrall to the grape and duck into a local hostelry to indulge in a few more glasses of fruity red, washed down with a delicious duck and smoked sausage cassoulet. Must ask the bank for overdraft extension.