Detective,
by Leonor Henríquez

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      It is another of my frustrated vocations.

I always wanted to be a detective.

Perhaps it was the influence of the books that I devoured on the school bus from a very young age, the novels by Enid Blyton, English writer, “The Secret Seven” and “Famous Five”, a club of children who solved mysteries and had all kinds of adventures.

Then I continued with Agatha Christie, and as an adult, with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the most famous detective in history, Sherlock Holmes.

Nowadays, I love police series, especially the British ones.

In Venezuela it is not that easy to study to be a detective, so life led me to civil engineering, my biggest mystery, and if I had to design a hut today, it would fall down in a second.

But this long explanation is to tell you that my frustrated vocation has returned, with impetus.

More than a job, a hobby, a distraction, in the broadest sense of the word.

Every day of my life I confront enigmatic situations on which I need to open an investigation.

I have to focus all my attention, analyze the evidence, connect the dots.

I dreamed, in my youth, of solving a major robbery, discovering a serial killer, but no, my daily mysteries are smaller in scale, but no less complicated.

Where did I leave my glasses?

What did I come to do in the kitchen?

What’s the name of that guy who greeted me so warmly?

I have the consolation, as I heard once a doctor saying, that if we remember, that we don’t remember, then there is no problem.

Anyway… what were we talking about?

“Elementary, my dear Watson.”
Sherlock Holmes

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