Letters

Sir:

May I trespass on your valuable space?

Whereas I am a university professor, I do not fall within the category that James Joyce had in mind and through which he sought immortality by keeping professors busy "for centuries." In fact, my academic discipline is somewhat closer to diseases of the ox—particularly when pathogenic microbes are involved. In short, when it comes to Ulysses, I am a complete amateur—in the true sense of the term.

About three months ago in seeking refuge from the rain in Stockport, Greater Manchester, I stepped into the Central Library there. Within was a small exhibition on a local mill owner (whose name I did not note). Alongside a brief biography of the man's rise in Cottonopolis were objects that once belonged to him. My attention was transfixed by a small porcelain pot bearing the marque G. W. Plumtree, Manufacturer of Home Potted Meats, 13 Railway Terrace, Southport. I simply had not known that the product mentioned in Ulysses had actually existed as a foodstuff! I asked for permission to take a photograph, a request instantly granted by a somewhat baffled security guard.

Just over a week ago, I was in the city of Lincoln. As I trudged towards the cathedral, I spotted a small antiques center. I stepped in, and a thought flitted through my mind: would I find a Plumtree pot? I immediately dismissed it as purely wishful thinking; what, in reality, I asked myself, would be the chances of discovering such a thing? I pored over cases containing Neolithic arrowheads and Roman brooches, and, on turning away from these, I transferred my attention to a case containing Victorian bottles; there among them it was! I literally could not believe my eyes. I became so moved by the prospect of owning it and transforming my house into "an abode of bliss" that I was unable to speak and to indicate to the antique shop owner that I wished to purchase the item. I eventually regained the power of speech and did so. The price tag on it read £9, but, in fact, I would have paid £90 for it without hesitation.

In the act of composing this letter, it occurred to me that the antiques center was actually across the road from a medieval stone building known in Lincoln as the Jews' Court, and the ballad of Little Harry Hughes that Stephen Dedalus sang to Leopold Bloom came to mind. The ballad is based on the supposed ritual murder of a young boy, Hugh of Lincoln, in the year 1255. Subsequent research revealed that among the many allegations made concerning the murder was that the boy's body had been disposed of in a well adjacent to the Jews' Court!

While to a professional Joycean, none of the foregoing account represents either new knowledge or an insightful novel analysis, I was seized with a desire to share the joy of my experience with your readers. My colleagues will no doubt dub me with a new name: that blinking beef-rendering Bert.

Thank you for the hospitality of your columns.