They're filming something in our neighbourhood. We drove past all the crew trucks on our way home from walking the dogs.
"I wonder what it is," J. said.
"I'll look into it when we get home," I said. "It's easy to find out."
"So Marina Dempsey's on the case then?" he said.
When I was 8, I created my first story series. Marina Dempsey: Pet Detective. (Yes, I was more than a little influenced by Jim Carrey). Marina was a tough, sassy third-grader with a knack for locating purloined pooches.
Thanks to my ultra-Italian mother — for whom clutterlessness is actually closer to Godliness than just plain ol' cleanliness — at some point the Con-tact covered polkadot binder that held all the stories, the character sketches, and the notes for future stories, went missing.
It was never recovered. It's something my Mom feels bad about to this day.
But I told J. the story of Marina Dempsey, and whenever my Sherlockian slip is showing, he reminds me of this little person I created, who he sees in me even today. In this way, it's as though Marina did get read by someone, and the little 8-year-old in me always feels a wee bit chuffed.