The Sunday Philosophy Club : An Isabel Dalhousie Mystery

McCall Smith’s work was introduced to me by the seriously voracious intellect belonging to dear friend Linda Levy. Years ago, Linda recommended The... (show more)

McCall Smith’s work was introduced to me by the seriously voracious intellect belonging to dear friend Linda Levy. Years ago, Linda recommended The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, and the no-nonsense mischevious optimism of that series’ African protagonist delighted me. I didn’t know about the Sunday Philosophy Club until I came across it by chance in the library of my neighbors, Chuck & Lynn Woodbury. (It’s so pleasant when one finds literary commonality right next door.)

Sometimes, I’m brain-blind. This author’s name: Alexander, is unmistakably male, yet all through The No. 1 series, I was imagining one of those precocious Englishwomen in a flyaway silver bun and spectacles, scribbing away. Then, I saw the author’s portrait on the back flap of Sunday Philosophy, and was shocked. The personage penning these words looks more like a venerable, albiet dusty, host for Masterpiece Theater. Think of that.

Although his gender (and demographic perspective) never glinted between the No. 1 lines, I can’t say the same about his tale of Isabel, the philosophical meddler in murders who moves through the heart of the Sunday Philosophy Club. Isabel is described as a sexy 45-year-old art lover of independent means and a fine mind. These glowing attributes are disappointingly offset by the stuffiest set of social mores this side of an octagenarian grave. Sadly, I cannot help but conclude that Isabel is McCall Smith stuffed into sexy girlskin and pretending that no one will notice.

Well. I noticed.

Isabel starts her day with coffee and a crossword puzzle (and you’ll get a sticky mouthful of obscure crossword clues with answers that were utterly unintelligible to at least my wee wit), then proceeds to edit reams of philosophy articles for the journal by which she is employed. I found her article musings more interesting than the crossword schtick, but then, I was a philosophy major. She has a Scottish housekeeper who fetches her paper, cooks her meals, cleans her house, and measures ettiquette with an iron yardstick. Now, come on. Does this sound like the lifestyle of a wealthy sexy 45-year-old professional woman, or like the lifestyle of a retired college professor in his dotage?

Isabel berates herself for her impropriety when curiosity prompts her to tail her niece’s boyfriend. Then, she decides that she has an ethical imperative to keep mum when she catches the cad cheating on her niece. (Contrarily, she has nary a qualm about intruding willy nilly into the lives of total strangers after she happens to witness a man-also unknown to her-fall to his death at the symphony. This ethical cherry-picking vexed me.)

There wasn’t a single good girlfriend in her life, and she looked upon all women with a hard eye. Her idea of sexy men’s fashion is (you are not going to believe this): strawberry-colored cordoroy pants. I know. I know. It strains credibility to snapping.

When Isabel persists in simpering over a younger fellow, but won’t give him the slightest inkling of her feelings, I commenced pounding my forehead with the flat of my palm while uttering loud incoherent protestations. Then I recalled my own motto: When Vexed, Do Not Pound Self. Pound Chicken.

I would not wish to be friends with this fusty man-woman, would you? I didn’t think so.
Stick with McCall Smith’s No. 1 series. It’s lovely light reading. (show less)