A Study in Scarlet

I went to secondary school about 500 metres away from Baker Street, the famous residence of Sherlock Holmes, so that meant growing up seeing constant hordes taking pictures of themselves by his larger than life statue. Up until quite recently, they had a rather handsome tall man dressed up as the great detective walking about posing for Japanese tourists.
So, in my mind, Sherlock Holmes was most shockingly over-exposed. Well I guess sometimes book characters are famous for a reason, wait, maybe they're always famous for a reason, that reason being that they are supremely well written.
Then, a happy accident occurred when the news-agent near my work was throwing out some free-books-from-newspapers, and there was old Sherlock, lying dejectedly upon the floor. I can't ignore a book in pain, so I picked him up, dusted him off, and made off with him. I decided to give the book a try, and I'm so glad I did, my ignorance of the Holmesian glory has been banished!
Such elegant, gripping writing, too spare to be called thrilling. Sherlock Holmes is a fantastic invention... well, what can I say? I am now thoroughly hooked, already reading the next mystery, and I beg my lovely readership (I love all four of you) to forgive me for my lack of reviews over the next week or so, as
a) I am moving house this week (funeral march here) and
b) more Holmes action is on the cards.

But, every cloud has a silver lining, so I promise not to rhapsodise any more about Arthur Conan Doyle/Sherlock Holmes and his incredible skills of deduction (except for that last bit).