OH I KNOW. Human cloning. Moral outrage. Bad man. Evil deeds. Eugenics. Playing God. Unethical. Unsafe. Yeah, yeah and yeah. I have no argument with these arguments. The more life resembles the sci-fi films of my youth, the more I remember they all ended badly. And yet…
The part of me that hates magicians is the part of me frustrated by unsolved mysteries. I'd fail Zen 101 because the koans drive me insane. What do you mean they're unsolvable and how dare you tell me that's the point? Cue twitching eyelids and a ren
ewed dental attack on my ravaged cuticles.
My subversive inner imp, exhausted by my rational side's need for explanations, sees a way to finally shut her up for good. It tugs on my concentration, making endless suggestions. "Think of the fun we could have," it coos. "Think of all the lovely answers we'd find and the nice, pat solutions."
Look, here's William Shakespeare risen from the grave. Come on, sweetie, don't be shy, show us your face. Goodness knows we've been arguing about it for the past four hundred years. And while you're here, a few more questions, please. Can I clarify what you're on about with this second best bed? Who's the Dark Lady? Did you really write all this stuff or were you covering for a pal? And by the way, who killed Christopher Marlowe?
Ah, here's Eleanor Dare with baby Virginia, the first English child born on American soil. I am hoping you'll reveal what happened to you on Roanoke Island. How do 117 people vanish without a trace?
(You're doubtless unaware of this, being newly revived, but here in the 21st century – Yes! Two. One. Amazing, isn't it? – we're mad keen on forensics. We can track a criminal from the tiniest fingernail paring. Why, we rebuilt you from a single blood cell!)
Some say your entire colony decamped for Hatteras Island. Perhaps an epidemic decimated the community instead? Or did you merge with the local Indian tribe, as some historians have suggested? Maybe they massacred you, as others insist?
Calm down, Mr Oswald. If I could ask you to please take a seat next to Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov, I'll get to you both shortly. Ah, Mr Pollock, just a quickie: does it go this way, or this way? Great, thanks, that's all I wanted to know.
Miss Austen, it's so nice to meet you at last. If you'd just tell me how Sanditon and the unfinished novel about the Watsons wrap up, then I'd like to float a couple of exciting entrepreneurial possibilities past you. Believe it or not you're big business. The films, the spin-off novels, the biographies, the scholarly studies. Honey, you are literature's "It" girl, and there's loadsamoney to be made! You'll be out of your brother's parlour and into a room of your own in no time. All I ask is 10 per cent of the gross.
Cleopatra, Queen of de-Nile! If you'd turn sideways, I need to see your nose. Blaise Pascal insists it changed the course of history. But what I'm curious about are your legendary seduction techniques, because –
Finally, Gary Cooper! I've waited all my life for this moment. Questions? There are no questions, not for you, you great big hunk of masculinity. In fact, you don't need to talk at all. I've booked the bridal suite at the Villa San Michele in Florence. We leave at once.
Cleo, sit down! Don't you dare! Listen, lady, I brought you back into this world and I can take you out again. But I'm feeling generous. Give me five minutes and I'll rustle up a Napoleon for you.
