Just Call Me Miss Marple

 

In a previous life I worked in an advertising agency doing public relations and media analysis.  The media analysis involved working out which journals, magazines and newspapers were best for reaching our clients’ target markets.  

I spent many happy hours looking at advertising rates, circulation figures and, in business to business advertising, how that circulation broke down into professions or occupations.  For example Pipeline Weekly magazine might have a circulation of millions worldwide but only a tiny percentage of those millions might be interested in the specialised gizmo our clients sold.  So Gizmo Monthly, with a much smaller but more specialised circulation, might be a better option, costing much less per gizmo purchaser to buy.

One of my PR colleagues had a much less analytical mind than I and was fascinated when I explained this all to her.

“Oh you’re like a young Miss Marple” she said “with your little grey suit and analytical mind.”

I’ve misplaced the little grey suit and the analytical mind is mostly engaged in doing the Guardian crossword but in many ways my colleague was quite prophetic.   

Over the years I do seem to have morphed into Miss Marple, as played by the magnificent Joan Hickson.

For example on Saturday I took myself up to the St Oswalds Hospice Shop and bought a naked doll to dress, in a knitted outfit, for my great-niece’s Christmas Box.  Then to the local community centre’s plant sale where I purchased two pots of aubretia, and one’s of aqueligia (which I always call Gypsy Bonnets as my mother did) and wallflowers.  

In the afternoon I took some Cyparus plants I’d grown from cuttings over to Mrs Quilt’s (she’d given me the original plant) together with a knitting pattern book she lent me.  After a very pleasant coffee and chat I came home with two knitting pattern books (one I’d loaned her and one I was borrowing), a blue glass jug, two bottles of champagne and a bag of kapok.  The latter two I shall deliver to LDNorthEast for raffling and crafting purposes.

I'm beginning to wonder if St Mary Mead is not so much a place as an attitude of mind and a way of living.  If I’m not gardening I’m knitting things for charity or my niece’s offspring.

Thankfully I’ve never been called upon to solve any murders.