She awoke with a start, and it amazed Mr. Polly to see swift terror flash into her eyes. Instantly it had gone again.
“Law!” she said, her face softening with relief, “I thought you were Jim.”
“I’m never Jim,” said Mr. Polly.
“You’ve got his sort of hat.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Polly, and leant over the bar.
This blog is also about the weather of life: the people, the situations, the circumstances and accidents that conspire to piss on my parade; because they’re always there. I don’t buy the myth that everyone (else) is super happy, super talented and simply overwhelmed with having fun. Shit happens, and you have to keep going even if it means taking the risk of challenging it.
And because “Polly” is a true grail story, you wouldn’t expect Mr Polly’s arrival at the Potwell Inn to be unchallenged, and in this case it’s Uncle Jim – the drunken and violent brother of the landlady of the Inn, who’s only really named in the book as ‘plump’. She does have a name – Jim calls her “Auntie Flo” but Polly just calls her the plump lady and Wells’ description of Polly’s first sight of her makes clear that Polly finds her deeply attractive. The second half of the novel describes how Polly faces his fears and finally drives Uncle Jim out of the Potwell Inn for ever. The posts in this category will be my attempt at ejecting Uncle Jim – in whatever form he presents himself – from my Potwell Inn.