For Competition 3385, with Valentine’s Day looming, you were invited to submit a passage in which one well-known character from literature goes on a date with another. There was a very full inbox, with enough excellent entries to fill weeks’ worth of competitions. It’s tempting to think that some of these imaginative pairings would have real potential. Lady Chatterley’s Mellors rendez-vous’d once with Lorelei Lee and twice with Clarissa Dalloway: it was hard to choose. Sadly I had to disallow Mrs Mala-prop’s encounter with Revd Spooner (‘too late, I understood what he’d meant by a “nosy little cook”’). Her other date was with Holden Caulfield (‘Golden Cornfield?’).
There was a suggestion of ‘shipping’ – that branch of fan fiction that spins romance between pre-existing characters. Some other promising couples: Jay Gatsby and Elizabeth Bennet; Mr Darcy and Mr Rochester; Miss Marple and James Bond; James Bond and Mrs Dalloway; Emma Bovary and Sherlock Holmes; Philip Marlowe and Olive Chancellor; Flora Poste and Beowulf. The list could go on, but to maximise the space for your entries, the £25 vouchers go to those below.
‘This is right; this is charming. It is the perfect place to meet,’ said Clarissa Dalloway. ‘My aunt brought me here often. We ate eclairs usually, and once we saw dear Lady Bristow enjoying tea and a scone all by herself.’
Mellors fixed his resentful gaze onto a lace doily. ‘Is this, then, what tha calls civilisation?’ he asked. ‘This artificiality? Where t’waitresses are deferential and biscuits are soft to the teeth?’
‘Would you have preferred a Lyons?’ she asked.
His eyes took on an undefinable look of derision. ‘Tomorrow let us go into the woods, where we can meet as humans, aye as a male and female, and not ashamed of it. And I shall search there for wild flowers, for bluebells and campions, that I may lay caressingly to decorate tha Lady Jane?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Mrs Dalloway firmly, ‘I shall buy the flowers myself.’
George Simmers (Mrs Dalloway/Oliver Mellors)
My mother arranged me date with older man (cringe) Mycroft, thinking career as old man’s darling preferable to slave of usual fuckwittage. Uncoincidentally, Mycroft something big in Whitehall. Humongous, actually. Mycroft insisted meet at Pall Mall club Diogenes. Dressed for dancefloor. Club proved virtually oak-panelled care home without even muzak. Mycroft v. sweet, encouraging smoking, even sharing snuff and no, that is not euphemism. Sneezing played havoc with makeup. Food scrummy, nursery stuff plus copious alcohol. Tried answering questions about self while he, typical man, constantly corrected. Mycroft’s sole topic of conversation his irritating little brother whose faults he listed across two long hours, leaving me wishing I was dating Sherlock instead. At ten, Mycroft, typical older man, declared himself too lazy to attempt sex. Told me I was thinking of making my excuses and leaving. Oddly, had been doing exactly that, so perhaps there is chemistry between us?
Adrian Fry (Bridget Jones/Mycroft Holmes)
Before I am run away with my feelings, I must say that I singled Miss Fanny Hill out as my beloved on our first picnic. An elegant female who spoke of men’s instruments with great passion, her accomplishments will surely impress my patroness, Lady Catherine. Displaying an interest in astronomy and economy, Miss Hill recommended the mysteries of Venus, as well as the value of a maiden’s trinket. Suitably, as a potential clergyman’s wife, she reveres missionary positions. I informed her that gardening is one of my most respectable pleasures, and Miss Hill agreed that a lady’s well-tended garden is indeed a pleasure. She admired my firm hillocks, my church’s mounting spire, and my fine seat of nature, showing particular interest in my proffered olive branch. As she is so amiable, modest and delicate, I intend to solicit her for future intercourse, and expect us to reach particularly intimate terms.
Janine Beacham (Fanny Hill/Mr Collins)
It had taken much persuasion to get Miss Havisham onto Tinder, but now she was determined to make the most of it. Fourteen dates so far, all disastrous (the worst with a narcissistic ‘consulting detective’ called Sherlock who paid more attention to the handsome waiter than to her. Definitely light in the loafers). She wondered if wearing an ageing wedding dress was putting the men off. But tonight’s date was different. He was not the tallest, but those twinkly eyes, the mop of curly hair, the homely bulge of his waistcoat – they gave him the air of a favourite armchair, one in which Miss Havisham could imagine settling, perhaps for ever. And there was his haunted look, which was irresistibly beguiling. She was not even surprised when he proposed. ‘You’ve got the dress, I have the ring… will you marry me?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Yes Frodo, I will.’
Joseph Houlihan (Miss Havisham/Frodo)
Paddington glanced at his phone, double-checked the time, and scrolled again through the Grindr profile. ‘Older Bear, long-term relationship many years ago, seeks slightly younger companion. Sweet tooth appreciated.’
Having come from darkest Peru, where these things were barely mentioned, a London club surely now offered the chance to broaden his acquaintance with the community. What was keeping the hirsute hero of his dreams? Just then, a short, rather threadbare individual, looking very much the worse for wear (and indeed ‘older’ than his line drawings would suggest) came bump, bump, bump, down the entrance steps. Paddington’s sense of decorum fought valiantly with that of disappointment.
‘Paddington?’ said Pooh fruitily, in pre-war accents both antiquated and somewhat dazed. ‘As in the railway station? And marmalade on your sandwiches? My dear boy, how very petit bourgeois. Prefer honey myself. But topping titfer, sweetie.’ And so Paddington embarked on his career meeting queens.
Andrew Bowyer (Paddington and Winnie-the-Pooh)
No. 3388: Stockpiling
You are invited to submit a poem written from the point of view of a prepper (150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by midday on 19 February.
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