I guess that all of us in England--certainly the ones from my generation raised in the Sixties--have had a Nancy Sphinctergritzel in our lives!
Think back to those famous smutty postcards we used to spend so much time reading when we went to the seaside--but which we were sometimes scared of sending in case Aunty Molly hit the roof! "No, nurse, I said prick his boil!" exclaims the doctor after the busty nurse has poured the kettle all over the screaming patient!
She was a mucky old bugger, Our Nancy. She did all the wrong things in life, everybody hated her, but no one ever dared tell her to face what they were telling each other. Everyone threatened to give her a piece of their mind when she came around for tea--and the minute she walked through the door, taking in the whole room with one ferret's glance, they were all over her like a rash.
I'm surprised how Nancy has taken off. In some ways as "Our Annie's Funeral" did, a few years ago. It's a short-ish story--just 15,000 words with some quite nice pictures (never being one to blow my own trumpet, I can boast about the pictures because they're not mine) but folks appear to like it.
Therefore it's to be part of a trilogy, with the prequel coming next--followed by the story of Nancy's most infamous marriage (there were six more--she put it about and wasn't called "Old Iron Insides" for nothing) to Lord Cecil Wilde, one of the nicest chaps around during the last century. God knows what he saw in Nancy!