Reading a book is not only entertainment. The reader feels and absorbs the author’s ideas and his vision of reality.
Reading creates a deep connection between them based on trust. The reader trusts the writer's stories, and the writer firmly believes the reader's opinion. In the past, readers use to write letters to the author, asking information about their characters and works. Thanks to the technology, nowadays the process is simpler and faster. But, if you had the opportunity to write a letter to your favourite author, what would you write? I’ve often thought about that, and I came out with my letter to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Dear Arthur, You can’t believe what I’m going to tell you! Years have gone by as fast as I couldn’t even imagine since I arrived in London, but anytime I go out for my daily stroll, I can’t help getting to Baker Street. I know, I know. Probably you don’t love this part of the city anymore. Probably I’m just bothering your deserved rest, but you have no idea how this street has changed since you aren’t in London. I can barely imagine how it appeared. An aristocratic area full of good-mannered and well-dressed ladies who paced up and down the stone pavement and talked about the last upper-class event or the successes of their husbands. I supposed, five o’clock was a crucial hour for them. You saw them there, exactly over there, entering the elegant and ancient pink walls tea-room. They neatly rushed in to get the best teas just arrived from India, enriching their conversations with the most sensational gossips in the city. Nowadays, Baker Street is pleasant, but not as quiet as it used to be. London has expanded faster and faster. It’s part of the centre of the city – yes, you read correctly, the centre of London – and people rushing out their workplaces at five o’clock to get home as soon as possible substituted the once strolling gentleladies. The clopping of horses and shouts of bad-tempered cabbies which characterised the road traffic have gone, too. The stylish and refined wooden carriages were converted in motorised and noisy, black, six-seats cars which are always driven by specialised and bad-tempered jockeys who systematically swear at the traffic light turning red. But I haven’t talked about what has become a symbol of the city: the double-deck red bus! You should see them, Arthur! They are as long as three carriages in a row and as tall as two! But there’s more about them! They can transport almost one hundred passengers to any corner of the city: from North to South, from East to West and vice-versa! At any time! Even though they might seem astonishing, I can swear that travelling by bus, especially when they get stuck in the maddening traffic, would drive crazy any person on this planet. Do you remember those long and expensive works they had been doing when you were going to your study? They built a station for the underground railway. A train which runs beneath the ground. In the beginning, there was one line only, but afterwards, Baker Street station was extended to four lines. You can go to the quietness of Richmond Park in less than half an hour and get to the farthest opposite side in the same span of time! Arthur, you should definitely have used this means. You would have enjoyed! Mrs Hudson wouldn’t like the development of the street. Every morning she went to the bakery for buying those delicious croissants and mouth-watering butter biscuits to provide a scrumptious start of the day to Sherlock and Watson. She was harsh in appearance but soft-hearted. Do you remember that time when she scolded those bunch of young lads, the Irregulars, because she saw them stealing some apples from the grocer’s stall? She was upset and threatened them to call the police, but, then, in the evening, she left a big basket full of food in the back alley, so they could relieve their hunger. Do you remember when she menaced Sherlock of evicting him if he had carried out his noisy scientific experiments? She was mad at him! But – you know, don’t you? - she would have never ever done that! Her heart was too fond of her tenants. You can’t figure out what now that house has become. It’s been turned into a museum! A museum to celebrate your creation! Everything has thoroughly been recreated: the black, wooden front door with its bad-working locker still has its golden plaque reading 221b Baker Street. The red-carpeted stairs led straight to the first floor into Sherlock’s room. How many times Mrs Hudson heard them running down those steps? Endless! The thumping of their paces and the slamming of the door accompanied her days. The sitting room where Sherlock used to question his clients is warm and welcoming. A hearth on the left of the entrance lights two armchairs where the detective and Watson used to sit. I can imagine the scene: Watson sat on the armchair on the left side sipping tea and taking notes, while, on the opposite side, Sherlock sat with his eyes closed and his long, thin fingers-tips put together, hearing the desperate narration of the unlucky fellow. It’s incredible how they set everything up! The modern Baker Street, as you will have reckoned, has nothing to do with the Victorian age street you saw, but, in the evening, when the sun has already gone down the horizon to let space to the darkened sky, soft and silent clouds of fog come slowly up from the ground, giving an old resemblance to the entire area. A chilling breeze starts blowing, and seems to carry the pleasant melody of a violin as a reminder that the Greatest Detective is still at 221b Baker Street ready to jump out and chase off London’s criminal. Yours sincerely, Samuele
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