A Maiden's diary

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Naturally I cannot forget Victoria. Naturally-I am Victoria. Victoria Collins in full-or false full. Not my bosoms-they are quite, quite real; even today, practically in my dotage, they can and do swell (never mind medical opinion to the contrary-I have a first-hand knowledge of physicians; one of them diagnosed my fairly unique condition, to which one of my eminent contemporaries, lamentably a number of years my junior-Mr. George Bernard Shaw-could never have been susceptible; Mr. Shaw, vegetarian that he is, could not possibly entertain the intrusion of meat; but I am anticipating myself). I was saying that my bosoms can and do amplify at the very remotest thought of the male lancet-but more of that in due course, eh? My name, I tell you, I took out of the whole cloth. Nevertheless, that is actually the name I used -Victoria Collins-for a fair part of my life when I thought it necessary, as you will see. At no point was I ever more than a jock's throw from bliss (the kind reader must forgive a certain coarseness of expression he will find from time to time in my narrative, but it is only by such rough grain that the meat and drink of my life, Victorian though I am, can be conveyed). At the start of my life I was of the moneyed and aristocratic. Later, I was Victoria Collins. At the last, now, I am once again with my so-called peers. I am an old lady at this point, a dowager, if you wish, and a marchioness, but I warrant you that my ancient years will not stay the telling of a jot of that blood which had Victoria Collins a living part of that most Sodom of all countries-England. Not to mention Clarissa! Let me tell you how it was.

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