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Issue 07 – Saint Rose 2021

Nunc Dimittis

A Little Tea Shop

On T.V. detective shows.


During the last year and a half people baked sourdough, developed workout routines, and adopted pets. My sourdough starter died (to be replaced by another, which also died), my exercise bike broke after one use (and gathered dust in my apartment thereafter), and I already have a small, beautiful, opinionated dog. When I try to recollect how I spent my days, the easiest way is to ask myself: “What detective show was I watching?”

There was Columbo, which proved to be too good to use as a distraction. There was Agatha Christie’s Marple (which I cannot recommend). Then Murder, She Wrote. Then Midsomer Murders. Then Murder, She Wrote, again. There were brief forays into other English detective shows that did not, for whatever reason, have the magic power to absorb me: Vera, about an irritable woman detective who calls everybody “love,” Grantchester, about one of world’s worst clergymen, and Agatha Christie’s Poirot. As I type this, I have begun on The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, starring Jeremy Brett. Somewhere in the space between these shows and the daily crossword I have fed myself and walked the dog and perhaps even read a book or two. But mostly, it’s been detective shows.

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About the author

B. D. McClay

B.D. McClay's writing has appeared in the New York Times Magazine, Gawker, The Baffler, and other publications.

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