IS IT JUST ME ?

So yesterday was the 200th anniversary of Charles Dickens` birth.   And didn`t we know it with endless references on television and radio, services in Westminster Abbey and other places of worship, a succession of worthies standing up, giving readings and reminding us all just how fantastic Dickens was.   All of which might be true, although I suspect that, like one of this country`s other literary giants Thomas Hardy, another side of Dickens will emerge and disappoint when I get around to reading Claire Tomalin`s Dickens biography.

I guess there are two reasons why I`ve never been a great fan of Dickens and his works.   The first, quite unfairly, is that he was born in Portsmouth although to be fair to that troubled city it`s a bit short of claims to fame.   One might be the fact that Nelson`s flagship, Victory, is permanently parked there along with the Mary Rose - it`s all very nautical you see - and another is its football club, which is really a claim to infamy, so you can`t really blame Portsmouth for going on about Dickens being born there even if he left at the age of two.

The second reason is that, when I was at school back in the dark ages, I was forced to read some of Dickens` stuff, along with Victor Hugo, George Eliot and other rib tickling authors.  Now I hate being forced to do anything and maybe it was that enforcement that made me regard Dickens` novels as dull, boring, heavy going and very contrived.   I didn`t like them much and it`s always been a source of surprise to me that, having been fed on that kind of literary diet, I nevertheless managed to pass English Literature exams.

So they may be they are the reasons why I found little to get excited about with yesterday`s gushing memorials and I whilst I realise I might be in a minority of one, I do wonder if it really is just me.