My imaginary friends
It’s not unusual for people to have an imaginary friend when they’re kids. I had one – a rather dull little creature called Mrs Snuffles, who only materialised when I visited an aunt of mine who was rather afraid of. Mrs Snuffles spoke in a snuffly, nasal voice which I can still hear in my head 60-odd years later.
Because as an adult, I’ve been plagued by a constantly dripping nostril (yes, just one nostril, the right one), it’s possible that my imaginary friend Mrs Snuffles could foretell the future as well as soothe the nerves, although this function of imaginary friends is not borne out by the literature on the subject.
During a recent insomniac night, I consulted Dr Google in a desultory way about my maddeningly ill-mannered nostril. I discovered that it could be allergic or non-allergic rhinitis. Or brain fluid leaking out of my nose.
Brain fluid is more likely to leak out of just one nostril, don’t you know. And as Dr Google felt obliged to warn me: ‘‘There are very few sentences with the words ‘brain’ and ‘coming out of the nose’ that should not raise concern.’’
My concern was suitably raised. And not in a desultory way.
I lay in the dark attempting to calculate the amount of cerebrospinal fluid that might have leaked since the nostril began misbehaving about 15 years ago, and the degree to which this might be affecting my intelligence and longevity.
A few of my surviving synapses fired anxiously in my desiccated brainpan, and Mrs Snuffles came to mind for the first time in years.
The thought of her, and the support she gave my nervous child self, got me to wondering why so few adults have useful imaginary friends.
Agatha Christie was apparently one of the rare exceptions: she claimed that she kept the imaginary friends of her childhood well into her 70s, because she preferred them to the (more acceptably imaginary?) characters in her books. Agatha and Mrs Snuffles inspired me to fill the next few hours of non-sleep by inventing a useful gang of imaginary friends for my adult self:
My Imaginary GP Friend
A divorced, post-menopausal woman from a working-class family with delinquent teenage children, one dead parent, one parent with dementia, plus health challenges of her own. Smart. Wellinformed. Pragmatic. Warm heart. Warm hands. Warm speculum.
My Imaginary Hairdresser Friend
Deeply sympathetic. Has fine mousey hair. Understands that no shampoo, conditioner, mouse, gel or spray – however pricey – makes an iota of difference to fine mousy hair. Does not attempt to sell me shampoo, conditioner, mouse, gel or spray for my fine mousy hair. Communicative, but not a chatterbox. Small, warm hands. Her fingernails are her own. Gives a hell of a head massage. A miracle worker.
My Imaginary Boyfriend
Smells like fresh laundry. Looks a lot like Sean Connery when he still had hair on his head and not just on his chest. Big, warm hands. Clever. Witty. Has his own library card. Knows things I don’t, but never mansplains. The strong, silent type – unless asked to talk about his feelings. That’s when he leaps up to put the jug on and can’t wait to begin chatting. Good at making things. Or repairing them. Revels in dog hair on the carpet. Eats gluten. Doesn’t eat kale.
My Imaginary Shop Assistant Friend
Can smile. Has eyes. Has 20/20 vision. Able to see me if I am standing at the counter, waiting to be served. Never too busy gossiping that they fail to see me standing at the counter, waiting to be served. Never, never, intentionally ignores me standing at the counter, waiting to be served. Knows at least as much about the shop’s stock as I do – preferably more. Can count and do basic arithmetic. Can count out change into my hand. Does not, therefore, give change by simply thrusting a pile of coins and crumpled notes at me. Never instructs me to have a nice day.
My Imaginary Help Desk Friend . . . is the first, last and only person I need to talk to in order to get a problem solved.
My Imaginary Help Desk Friend
Doesn’t live in Delhi or Manila. Is the first, last and only person I need to talk to in order to get a problem solved. Asks good questions. Gives useful answers. Does not assume I am completely ignorant about the subject under discussion. Uses a minimum of technical jargon and acronyms. Is willing to go off the corporate script if it will solve the problem more efficiently. A miracle worker.
My Imaginary Ear, Nose and Throat Specialist Friend
World-leading expert in cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) leaks. Paid-up member of the CSF Leak Association. Understands that my brain is very important to me. Has access to the best available diagnostic tools. Is a skilled and highly qualified surgeon, very experienced in the surgical repair of CSF leaks. Steady hands. Nerves of steel. Excellent bedside manner. Favours conservative, non-invasive treatment of CSF leaks in the first instance, including bed rest and caffeine infusions. A miracle worker.