For Phila Claiborne, every day is filled with desire for her Prince Charming. This interview took place on Valentine’s Day, but after reading it you’ll understand why it captures the spirit of a key figure in the CHRONICLES OF CHOICE series.
Reporter – Why did you turn your back to the camera, Miss Claiborne?
Phila – so readers can imagine me with a pretty face instead of one with freckles.
Reporter – Really? That’s too bad. Some readers love freckles. So, how’s it looking for tonight?
Phila – As in a date? Surely you jest about young men knocking my father’s door down to court me? I’m plain, pudgy, and percipient, with insane frizzy red hair, a riot of freckles, no fashion sense, an intellect that petrifies the male sex, and a photographic mind that makes me a victor in any contest of intelligence. What kind of chap will run barefoot over cut glass or soft green grass for that matter to date me?
Reporter – It can’t be all that bad. You have an amusing sense of humor and pleasing personality.
Phila – And my father’s an earl who wasn’t made destitute by the Crown’s death taxes. Oh, that attracts men, of course, homely second and third sons of lesser lords who have no inheritance and little influence.
Reporter – Well then, what kind of a man are you looking for?
Phila – Prince Charming. A knight in shining armor–tall, dark, and handsome of course.
Reporter – Are there any of those still around?
Phila – You mean after Cinderella and Snow White captured theirs?
Reporter– Well, yes. Surely the UK is brimming with handsome young nobles? Especially at Oxford?
Phila – One hopes . . . and dreams. There’s this, not so tall, but dark and handsome chap I rather fancy, but he’s dating a virago who’s decidedly possessive. Todd is a barrister, and I’d love to steal him away from Jacquie.
Reporter – You’d do that?
Phila – Absolutely. Without hesitation. For Valentine’s Day I pinned bay leaves on my pillow and actually dreamed of Todd. I wrote his name on pieces of paper and stuck them to clay balls which I dropped in water, but none of those papers rose to the surface. Dash it all.
Reporter – I’ve heard of some of those Valentine’s traditions and wondered if any really worked.
Phila – There are sillier ones like eating yokeless eggs with salt. They taste insipid. And what’s worse was when the first bird I saw was a blackbird. Me marry a clergyman? Like my granny?
Reporter – Blackbird? Clergyman?
Phila – Legend has it the first winged creature one sees on Valentine’s Day predicts the type of man one marries. Ready? Dove, a mate for life; sparrow, a poor man; robin, a sailor or crime fighter; goldfinch, a millionaire; bluebird, someone happy; owl, one remains a spinster.
Reporter-And blackbird a clergyman.
Phila– Yep. My grandpapa was a Scottish Presbyterian minister, Granny an Irish Catholic. Mum said their life was fiery. But Granny was a saint. I am not.
Reporter – Do you believe any of those traditions have any merit?
Phila – Well, maybe. Do you know about the tradition of the first eligible male a girl meets on St Valentine’s Day she’s supposed to eventually marry.
Reporter – Yes, I’ve heard of that one.
Phila– On Valentine’s Day, I dashed down to the High Street hoping the first chap I encountered would be my prince, but the first bloke I saw was this giant Scot who’s in Mr. Lewis’s and Professor Tolkien’s lectures with me. He’s not at all handsome, old like my brother Hugh, wears an old worn Army jacket, and, of all things, has flaming red hair. How could I ever be attracted to a bloke with red hair like mine? We’d have ugly giant children with disgusting red hair, faces covered with freckles, and I’d have to live in frigid uncivilized Scotland. So much for that tradition.