Singular life
Posthumous dating
PetroneIla Wyatt
Ilike a double life — no, hang about, make that a treble one. The more compli- cated things are the better. Dissemble? Me? As Eliza Doolittle said, not bloody likely (I dissemble, of course). Every girl, you see, should have a Bunbury in the oven.
These days, though, everything is reduced to its quintessence. Yet again, ser- ried sociologists and pig-ignorant psychia- trists have finally woken up to an age-old practice, pretended they've discovered it and lumbered it with a silly name. In this case it's IBS, which apparently stands for Imaginary Boyfriend Syndrome. Come again? Well, the point is you don't, at all.
According to these scientific bozos more and more single women are resorting to 'fantasy relationships'. These are imaginary affairs with men who don't exist. Being non-corporeal lovers, they are never bor- ing, manipulative or unkind, nor do they require their smalls to be laundered or their suppers to be cooked. Each day is more rhapsodic than the last. Until, that is, the woman starts believing in this fantasy. Apparently the psychiatrists worry that those who do eventually go off their trolleys.
I am amazed. Between you and me, I've been like that for years. I do not refer to disembarking from my trolley. Rather to imaginary boyfriends. Since the age of 12, I have been running three or four in tandem. I'm not fussy. The only criterion required is that they are no longer alive. Why should women confine themselves to inventing a beau ideal when there are so many ideal beaux to chose from and I'm not suggesting your average 20th-century icon. One might be a serial time-monogamist.
Of course, one has one's favourites, not to mention the odd crise de foie. There was the time I fell out with Frederick the Great. We broke up over the Treaty of Paris. Though it wasn't as bad as parting from Disraeli following the Treaty of San Stefano, I just don't think his Big Bulgaria was big enough.
But then this is one of the points of DHB — the Dead Historical Boyfriend. Out go the trivialities; the fracas over the restau- rant bill; the TV remote control; the pack- age holiday. In come the things that really matter, such as whether or not the Emper- or Augustus and I should have sent poor General Varus to Germany.
How fondly I remember my assignations — so tender and triste — with William Pitt the Younger. They tried to put me off him, especially that Charles James Fox (I flirted with him for a while but his personal hygiene was execrable and his eyebrows made me think of Denis Healey). They even insinuated that he was cold with women. I can report, happily, that nothing could have been further from the truth. Willie was just shy; a bit like our own young Mr Hague, in fact.
Goodness, what trouble we had 'selling' Willie to the grandees and they were too grand in those days even for my exacting tastes. They said he was diffident, abrupt, unappealing, too thin and bad at public meetings. Everyone said the electorate wouldn't vote for him and besides he had a drink problem. The old port did get one down. Eventually I ditched him for the young Arthur Wellesley.
As for the hours I spent nursing Tal- leyrand's club foot, the man simply couldn't get on without me. I imagine you think he fell out with Napoleon over policy differ- ences and the emperor's atrocious man- ners. Balderdash. The only bas de soie involved was mine.
This country should really give me a medal for the way I supported Robert Peel over his decision to abolish the Corn Laws, which led to cheaper bread for the poor. Now there was a misunderstood man. His hostile critics said he was boring but I can assure you — but perhaps I had better not.
No, there is nothing like a dead statesman with whom to while away the idle hours. I was particularly fond of William Lamb. When his wife became entangled with Byron he turned to me for solace. Sadly, he changed after he became Lord Melbourne and prime minister; an infatuation grew with Queen Victoria and flagellation.
What opportunities there have been to solve some of the great historical riddles. I can categorically state that Richard III did not murder his two nephews. On our last date on the eve of Bosworth, dear, dear Dickie spoke of his fears for their safety if Henry Tudor nicked his crown. If it hadn't been for me, but that's enough about my part. They've told me to get a grip on things. As one becomes older, one should grow out of such fantasies and find some regular guy. So it's back to reality. I'm glad to say that my new lover is a simple, down to earth sort of fellow, called Columbus.
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