This was the title of an email I received the other day from a very old and dear friend who worked on my Fengate project back in the latter 1970s. And we’ve stayed in touch ever since. You’ll be glad to know that she gave me permission to reproduce it here. Anyhow, it made me laugh a lot. I haven’t dared show it to AC yet, though.
Dear Agony Doctor,
I am in love, and the object of my affections doesn’t even know I exist. He’s an archaeologist, of course, because I don’t ever meet anyone else. He has a chiselled jaw, steady grey eyes, floppy dark hair and a cute butt. He’s younger than me by about 65 years, but that’s never stopped me before. He’s so brave, but kind of sensitive too? He even cried when his Land Rover blew up? And he’s right-on PC; he even likes the Fuzz! And here’s the bit I really like: he’s a thinker. And he drinks whisky and keeps trying to stop smoking – what not to LURVE???
Trouble is, he’s in love with this draggy moralistic bitch called, oh I can’t remember, but he calls her HARRY, I ask you, what a give-away and it isn’t a REAL relationship, because he keeps getting out of bed to solve Big Problems. I tell you, he wouldn’t get out of bed with a real woman like ME, not for any old tank of maggots.
Do you think he’d notice me if I changed my third Ph.D. from ‘Kicking Arse with the Incas: narratives of power in the Late Horizon of Guatemala’ to ‘It’s all about Incest: new light on the Deverel-Rimbury’???
Love-lorn of Stratford-upon-Avon.