No. 1,204

You again. Very well.

As of late, and for no reason in particular, I have turned my attention to the question of marriage, and unsurprisingly have arrived at a conclusion that has escaped even the most hopeless of romantics: the difficulty was never in the marrying. Any fool can marry. The most hopeless man in any room is, statistically, someone's husband. And even Elizabeth Taylor, somehow, married eight times. The challenge, and the finer art of the civilised among us, is in the divorcing, and it is to this that the most serious of men must apply himself.

So I will state without hesitation that I do not seek a wife. Such endeavours are better left to men of more modest appetites. No, I seek a woman with whom I might divorce flawlessly, and I am prepared to marry her to secure the opportunity.

Let us consider for a moment what such a union would require. We would have to be so perfectly opposed in our tastes that we desired none of the same things, or better yet, so perfectly aligned that we had wisely acquired two of everything. I can't help but regard the whole enterprise as the soundest investment available to a man of means: one puts in a fortune, and in time withdraws exactly half, a dignified end without the volatility of the markets.

Such an enterprise would prove ruinous to the family-law profession. There would be no acrimony to bill for, no assets to contest, no frequent-flier miles to fight over. The miles, in fact, we should divide as amicably as everything else, and then spend together, on a holiday taken in celebration of the divorce itself. So, though I regret the harm to the legal trade, I do not regret it nearly enough to quarrel with my wife for their benefit.

But I can contain myself no longer, so I close at last by addressing my future ex-wife directly, for I assume she is out there, and that these papers, in time, will reach her, and find her well. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she sits, even now, stuck in a listless union. If that is the case, I hope this letter illuminates the gentler path of becoming unstuck with me.

Madam: I do not know your name, though I cannot wait to affix it briefly to my own. I intend to make you the finest former wife in all my earldom. I will give you everything, and then, without incident or concern, spare you the half you do not require. We shall dissolve as perfectly as an Alka-Seltzer in a glass of water. But we shan't be needing one. And I can guarantee you our parting will be spoken of in drawing rooms for generations, so gracious, so equitable, so entirely without rancour that lesser couples will despair of ever matching it. Some, I expect, having seen in us the evidence of their own folly, will choose to begin anew themselves, only to suffer endless mediation. I know we are but strangers at present. Yet rest assured, my lady, we will be strangers again soon enough, and far better at it.

Yours, as ever, unsatisfied.
—Maundersby