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Hi, All.
The name's Barbara Thompson and I'm new to the place. I thought I'd have a look-in, grab a pint at this lovely Casebook drinking establishment, and introduce myself.
I'm like all of you, I would imagine, having had knowledge of the Whitechapel murders since I was a wee tyke. It might have been the first murders to which I was aware, and although I grew up and life continued, those grizzly slayings remained as a low frequency hum threading their way through my years.
For no obvious apparent reason, the case recently jumped to the forefront of my mind and I've found myself here, in this vast warehouse of knowledge, not having a clue as to why.
I am a literary novelist - 20th century historical -- and article writer by trade, but I have no aim to write a book on the case. Realistically, it would take me years to digest all this data before I ever felt I could contribute a decent work.
So, why am I here?
*takes another sip of her Guinness*
Maybe because the world has been going to hell in a handbasket and the Ripper case is one of the few status-quo standards left salvaged from a past life that was once stable and free of fear and worry.
Maybe to tread through yesteryear's dark and dank alleyways is an adventuresome quest -- the thrill of taking risks without the risk taking itself.
My late father was a Constable in the RCMP -- Royal Canadian Mounted Police -- so I harken from a cop's world, and as such, I have little use for coincidence or conspiracy. Rumour and innuendo make me grin. And Tell-All books are rife with all the above, fact-finding achieved anywhere but there.
To begin my Ripper quest, I've been binge-listening to the Rippercast, using Google Maps to virtually walk all the streets, measuring sight-lines and examining horizons, then as now.
The stench, the noise, of Whitechapel 1888 has to come from my writer imagination, and is too easily done. I've learned the difference between cobbles and setts, where the main pubs sat and many of the escape routes Jack had on offer.
The one thing I do know is that I'm not looking to adopt a pet suspect and miraculously solve this case. If you put a knife to my throat I'd say Jack is still a complete Unknown, not any of the suspects currently ID'd.
Streets, locales, the geography of the Ripper, intrigues me more. His ability to know the ins and outs of his killing grounds.
Questions like:
Where did he work?
Did he work?
What hat did he wear?
Did he have more than one?
Did he have a favourite publican or did he do the rounds?
Could he hold his liquor?
Did he do drugs?
Was syphilis what diseased his mind?
How did he carry his knife on his person?
Was there any person in his life who feared he may be the Ripper?
Did he have a wife?
A mother?
A child?
And ultimately what was the cause of his roiling rage at women that birthed his psychotic break and had him lash out?
Maybe, at the core, we all are here for fairly baseline reasons, if we are being honest with ourselves...
Men, to find and protect.
Women, to know and to avoid.
It's not 1888 Whitechapel which worms its way into our minds and takes us hostage. Maybe it's the dark and dank alleyways of the here and now, knowing full well the Ripper has never truly died, and can cast his shadow upon us all, wherever we live, whatever air we breathe, on this very night.
*sliding a tray of newly poured pints over to your table as a thank you for allowing me into this rarefied space*
Cheers, mates!
Nice to be in your good company.
When we leave the Casebook pub tonight, can we leave in a group?
I don't want to walk home alone...
;-)
The name's Barbara Thompson and I'm new to the place. I thought I'd have a look-in, grab a pint at this lovely Casebook drinking establishment, and introduce myself.
I'm like all of you, I would imagine, having had knowledge of the Whitechapel murders since I was a wee tyke. It might have been the first murders to which I was aware, and although I grew up and life continued, those grizzly slayings remained as a low frequency hum threading their way through my years.
For no obvious apparent reason, the case recently jumped to the forefront of my mind and I've found myself here, in this vast warehouse of knowledge, not having a clue as to why.
I am a literary novelist - 20th century historical -- and article writer by trade, but I have no aim to write a book on the case. Realistically, it would take me years to digest all this data before I ever felt I could contribute a decent work.
So, why am I here?
*takes another sip of her Guinness*
Maybe because the world has been going to hell in a handbasket and the Ripper case is one of the few status-quo standards left salvaged from a past life that was once stable and free of fear and worry.
Maybe to tread through yesteryear's dark and dank alleyways is an adventuresome quest -- the thrill of taking risks without the risk taking itself.
My late father was a Constable in the RCMP -- Royal Canadian Mounted Police -- so I harken from a cop's world, and as such, I have little use for coincidence or conspiracy. Rumour and innuendo make me grin. And Tell-All books are rife with all the above, fact-finding achieved anywhere but there.
To begin my Ripper quest, I've been binge-listening to the Rippercast, using Google Maps to virtually walk all the streets, measuring sight-lines and examining horizons, then as now.
The stench, the noise, of Whitechapel 1888 has to come from my writer imagination, and is too easily done. I've learned the difference between cobbles and setts, where the main pubs sat and many of the escape routes Jack had on offer.
The one thing I do know is that I'm not looking to adopt a pet suspect and miraculously solve this case. If you put a knife to my throat I'd say Jack is still a complete Unknown, not any of the suspects currently ID'd.
Streets, locales, the geography of the Ripper, intrigues me more. His ability to know the ins and outs of his killing grounds.
Questions like:
Where did he work?
Did he work?
What hat did he wear?
Did he have more than one?
Did he have a favourite publican or did he do the rounds?
Could he hold his liquor?
Did he do drugs?
Was syphilis what diseased his mind?
How did he carry his knife on his person?
Was there any person in his life who feared he may be the Ripper?
Did he have a wife?
A mother?
A child?
And ultimately what was the cause of his roiling rage at women that birthed his psychotic break and had him lash out?
Maybe, at the core, we all are here for fairly baseline reasons, if we are being honest with ourselves...
Men, to find and protect.
Women, to know and to avoid.
It's not 1888 Whitechapel which worms its way into our minds and takes us hostage. Maybe it's the dark and dank alleyways of the here and now, knowing full well the Ripper has never truly died, and can cast his shadow upon us all, wherever we live, whatever air we breathe, on this very night.
*sliding a tray of newly poured pints over to your table as a thank you for allowing me into this rarefied space*
Cheers, mates!
Nice to be in your good company.
When we leave the Casebook pub tonight, can we leave in a group?
I don't want to walk home alone...
;-)
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