The London Prat

Late Husbands Now Vetting Widows' Dates LONDON - A Hampstead widow says her late husband has started recruiting her next husband from beyond the grave, and that heaven now runs an agency to handle the paperwork. Pamela Threlfall-Hughes, 61, said she booked a sitting with a medium above a vape shop on Coldharbour Lane in Brixton to find out where her husband Derek had left the loft insurance documents. Derek, who died in March, had other priorities. "I asked about the insurance," Mrs Threlfall-Hughes told reporters outside the shop. "He wanted to talk about an architect." Neighbour Graham Pettifer, 66, confirmed that Derek had never arranged anything in his lifetime. "He once booked a coach to Margate for the wrong weekend," Mr Pettifer said. "Twice." Medium in Brixton Confirms Afterlife Matchmaking The medium, who gave her name as Madame Rosalind and her address as Streatham, said Derek had recommended an architect from Muswell Hill to take over his duties. She explained that Derek no longer has the necessary architecture to carry on as a husband himself, and would like the position filled by somebody who does. Madame Rosalind charges £85 per half hour, which she said covers the introduction but not the follow-up. She said the arrangement is now standard across the afterlife. It begins at the Pearly Gates, where Saint Peter stands holding a clipboard, greeting newly deceased husbands with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for Border Force officers at Heathrow. According to Madame Rosalind, the exchange runs as follows. "Welcome to eternity. Before we assign your cloud, would you be interested in mentoring your replacement?" "My replacement?" "Yes. Your wife is still alive, attractive, reasonably healthy and quite frankly could do better." "But we've been married for 35 years!" "Exactly. We've reviewed the files. You forgot her birthday seven times, bought her a Henry Hoover for your anniversary and spent your final decade insisting the A406 was quicker. We've decided she deserves another opportunity." Heavenly Department of Romantic Redeployment Explained Saint Peter then directs the deceased husband to the Heavenly Department of Romantic Redeployment, where departed spouses are encouraged to recommend suitable successors. Madame Rosalind described the building as roughly the size of Croydon and about as welcoming. The department also operates a celestial rating system, which she recited from memory. Five stars: Finds his widow a thoughtful, financially responsible gentleman who remembers birthdays, listens when she speaks and can assemble IKEA furniture without questioning the existence of God. Three stars: Recommends a reasonably decent fellow who forgets anniversaries, watches football during dinner and believes putting his plate beside the dishwasher constitutes helping with the housework. One star: Arranges a date with a 58-year-old divorced podcast host who lives in his mother's spare room in Swindon, describes himself as an entrepreneur and explains that all four of his former wives were emotionally unstable. Zero stars: Sends her back to her first husband. The program also includes an annual performance review. Saint Peter, Madame Rosalind said, examines the file, shakes his head and asks, "You had all eternity to find your wife a decent man, and you recommended somebody who owns a timeshare?" "Well, he seemed nice." "That's what you said about the fellow who sold you the timeshare." Late Husbands Compete to Recruit Better Men The most serious problem, according to the medium, is competition between deceased husbands. A man who spent 35 years being jealous of his wife's male colleagues at the Hampstead Heath tennis club might suddenly discover that heaven expects him to recruit someone younger, richer and better looking. Madame Rosalind said she has heard the following more than once. "You're telling me I have to find my wife a new husband?" "Correct." "And he gets my house?" "Yes." "My car?" "Yes." "My golf clubs?" "She already sold those." "And he gets to sleep with my wife?" Saint Peter checks the file. "That's generally how marriage works." The husband considers his eternal reward. "Is it too late to apply for hell?" Mrs Threlfall-Hughes said she has met the Muswell Hill architect once, over coffee, and found him very pleasant. He asked a number of questions about the loft. She has booked a second sitting for Thursday and intends to ask about the insurance. Five Humorous Observations on Heaven's Dating Service The dead have become marriage counsellors. For 35 years this woman couldn't get him to book a table at Nando's. Thirty-five years of "I'll sort it." Now he's dead and he's running a recruitment process. Screening applicants. Checking references. Where was this guy in 2009? It took a funeral to turn him into a thoughtful husband, and he still can't be bothered to tell her where the loft paperwork is. Heaven now operates a dating service. Forget Tinder, Bumble and Hinge. The afterlife does free matchmaking. No subscription, no photos from 2011, no 57-year-old claiming he's 42. And the dead husband already knows exactly what she can't stand in a man, because she's been telling him since the Blair government. A dead husband recommends an architect to replace him. Of course he does. The guy's being replaced, so he wants somebody who understands foundations, load-bearing walls and unauthorised extensions. That's marriage, though. It's a building project. Gorgeous drawings, then somebody's asking why it's double the quote and the council's involved. The medium says the dead husband no longer has the necessary architecture. So heaven's got magnificent gates, streets paved with gold, and the bedrooms are decorative. Two thousand years of Christians arguing over the resurrection of the body and the real issue is the plumbing. It's a show home. Lovely kitchen, nothing works, and nobody's allowed to sit on the sofa. Psychics have become executive recruiters for the afterlife. Cupid used to fire arrows for free. Now it's a woman in Streatham charging £85 per half hour. The dead husband writes the job description, the medium does the interviews, the widow gets a shortlist. I only have two questions. Does the medium take a commission, and can he put the matchmaking on his final tax return with HMRC? No late husbands were consulted before publication, although several have asked to see the final draft. The Heavenly Department of Romantic Redeployment, the medium and her hourly rate are comedy, not a recommended dating service. Grieving readers deserve kindness; this is one of our funny news stories, not advice from beyond.

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