Sextortion: Alas! I am undone

Half a century ago I received an anonymous telephone call from a woman who said she had found my name and number in a message on a wall in the ladies’ lavs in Victoria Station where, she said, I offered some (unmentionable) services free to all and sundry.

Initially taken aback, this incident soon became a cause for much household falling about laughing. This came to mind this morning when I received an email saying that if I did not dispatch $2000 in bitcoin, my online life would be revealed to all and exposed to the gaze of my employers, family, and friends.

The Upside

Needless to say, I have not rushed into immediate reputation control, but my mind did go to the upside of such revelations. Finally, the world would know just how clever I am with Spelling Bee and admire my Wordle strategy. 

People could also learn how much I enjoy the weekly Book Jotter, the daily Cats in Cambridge, and the TwitterX timeline of Richard Morris @ahistoryinart.

Tugboats, Tomboy, Tomato Curry, and Transwidows

This exposure would also show my latest video consumption. One highlight is a childhood favorite book from childhood  –  Tuffy the Tugboat  as read by a woman to her grandchildren.

And also this:  Behind The Looking Glass – the first Documentary about the Wives and  Children of Trans-Identified Men.  Released last Friday, It’s directed by Vaishnavi Sundar an independent filmmaker from India.

Watch it. 

The exposure would also reveal my habit of following recipes in the NYTimes Cooking section and my lingering over the appealing – but as yet untried – recipe for tomato curry. 

As for revelations about my reading habits, this would indicate a current fad for pre-war mysteries, the Abinger Pageant, and the poetry of Jack Anderson. 

Also this gem from Angela Brazil (1868-1947) – her first novel – A Terrible Tomboy,1904

This is not a boarding school story and it’s said to be somewhat autobiographical.

‘Good sooth! I know not be she wench or swain;
Her face proclaims her one, her deeds the other!’

In one episode Peggy confronts the bully who has been tormenting her brother Bobbie:

‘Here,’ she cried indignantly, ‘you Jones! Just stop that, will you?’

‘Mind your own business, you—whoever you are!’ cried the boy rudely. ‘I’ll do what I like!’

Bobby tried to dodge away, but the bully caught him by the arm, and, partly to show off, commenced such an excruciating twist that the tears started to his victim’s eyes, though he did not utter a sound. It was too much for Peggy. She looked carefully round to see that no one was near, flung down her books with a bang on the pavement, and—simply went for Jones minor.

The assault was so utterly unexpected that he rolled over like a ninepin. Peggy might be small for her age, but she was strong and muscular, and she had the spirit of a Cœur de Lion and the courage of a Joan of Arc. Her method of boxing was certainly not scientific, but she set to work to punish Jones minor according to her own ideas of warfare. With two well-directed blows she nearly closed his eyes before he had time even to see his assailant. She punched his head, tweaked his ears, and hammered into the soft portions of his body until he roared for mercy, for, like all bullies, he was a coward at heart, and had a vague impression that some very superior force must suddenly have descended upon him.

‘Have you had enough?’ said Peggy at last, with her foot on her foe’s chest, and her fist at his swollen nose.

‘Yes, thanky!’ faltered the snivelling Jones.

‘Then swear on your honour, if you have any, that you’ll never lay a finger on my brother again. If you’ll promise that faithfully, we’ll neither of us tell, but if you break your word, I’ll let all Warford know that you’ve been knocked down and thrashed by a girl!’

Reducing Jones minor to a quivering pulp is rewarded by the admiration of two boys who witness it.”By Jove! you’re a girl worth knowing!” says one giving the prostrate Jones minor a gratuitous kick. 

‘Golly! if you were my sister, I’d be proud of you!’ he continued, while the other boy picked up her hat from the roadway, and collected her scattered school-books. ‘I like a girl with pluck, and you’ve got enough for ten of ’em. I say, Vaughan, I’ll try you to fag for me, if you like. You’re a good runner, I hear, and no butter-fingers. You can begin to-morrow.’

‘And he is the Captain of the school eleven!’ said Bobby afterwards, who would have felt it scarcely so great an honour to be noticed by the Prince of Wales. ‘There isn’t a boy in my class who isn’t yearning to be Farrar’s fag. They’ll be just wild with envy! Peggy, you’re about the biggest trump on the face of the earth, and I’ll never forget this day if I live to be a hundred!’

Trigger Warnings Ahoy

If ever you read any Brazil, it’s worth remembering that she wrote without the benefit of DEI training. Bias and -isms of all kinds are on full display. In one of the milder samples, her aunt questions a new friendship:

“I cannot have you making friends with any shopkeeper’s daughter from Warford.”

In addition to such shocking and unenlightened social attitudes,  I am sure modern health and safety and child protection might want to have a word with the family. 

I don’t think this is one of Brazil’s best books but it has it’s entertainment value and some of the lines are fun:

“Peggy treasured the letter for days, until the new pet lamb accidentally chewed it up.”

“a diet of ginger-nuts, mint-rock, and lemonade is not exactly sustaining,”

The good thing is –  Peggy is a spirited girl who is allowed to grow up to be herself.

The worst of it was poor Peggy really did not mean to be naughty; she was so eager, so active, so full of overflowing and impetuous life, with such restless daring and abounding energy, that in the excitement of the moment her wild spirits were apt to carry her away, simply because she never stopped to think of consequences. She had always a hundred projects on hand, each one of which she was ready to pursue with unflagging zeal and that absorbing interest which is the secret of true enjoyment.

The family mostly follow the advice of the Rector:

“Let her alone,”  the Rector, who rejoiced in Peggy, was wont to say….she’ll turn out a fine woman in the end.’

And so she does.

Life was always so well worth living to Peggy, whether at work or play. Her friendships were so keen and her affections so warm, that I think she found the world a very pleasant place to be in, and made it better and pleasanter for other people too (which is, after all, the grand secret of happiness), and the energy and enterprising spirits which had caused the tomboy pranks of her childhood were qualities which, turned to good use, proved of the utmost service to her in after-years.

Peggy does not feel the least little bit older than when she climbed the water-wheel, or thrashed Jones minor behind the paling of the cricket-field—if growing old means losing your ideals, and your keen enthusiasm, and your hopefulness, and a certain appreciation of other people’s worth which is our birthright when we are young. She is still capable of climbing a tree or scrambling over a hedge when no one is looking, and pursues her hobbies with all her former vigour and energy. She is sometimes almost ashamed of feeling, as she says, so ridiculously young, but after all one’s age should not always be measured by one’s years, and wherever she may go, or whatever she may do, Peggy will keep that most priceless of possessions, the heart of a little child, without which, equally in this world or the next, it is impossible to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.

Autobiographical? Sounds like it.