The struggle to improve my mood has been as challenging as ever. One of the ways I do so, is to remind myself of the nice bits in my life. The Captain has always been so good to me, not many wives can say that about their other halves. I will offer you an example. I must apologise if any of the following subject matter is a bit darker than you are used to from the likes of me, but the ability to clown around and be witty tends to be nurtured from a foundation of sadness and the generally hard knocks in life.
When I had my first ectopic pregnancy, with emergency surgery, the Captain was flawlessly supportive while bearing his own heartache through it. My likelihood of a second ectopic was high and did in the event, happen, followed again by more emergency surgery. We paused briefly before a foiled attempt at IVF (I was one of 2% of women whose body rejected the foreign tubes in the body). It was only a matter of time before I developed major fibroids which caused endless hell for two years, resulting, after much heartache, in my third major operation, a hysterectomy. Any chance of having children diminished through our first ten years of marriage, which caused serious, dramatic pain to both of us.
And yet, the Captain, at the beginning of this decade of nightmares, bought me membership of the ever-so-chic Hospital Club (I know, ironic, after all the real hospitals I had inhabited) because he felt that some glamour and sophistication would help lift me. He organised a two week holiday in Goa at the impossibly luxurious Leela Palace so that we could recover some love of life. On anniversaries, he has always taken me somewhere delicious and exciting to remind me how he feels about us. On the tenth anniversary,we went to L.A. for three months, archived in this very blog back in 2012 (Kate Terence’s Letters from Hollywood). How lucky I am to have this wonderful romantic man whose kindness is often superimposed by his hilarious imitations of Frank Spencer and Chris Ewbank.
Right, I have actually managed to cheer myself up with the first paragraph, so I will continue on a cheerier note. I actually think that I have been very lucky with my friends. I could mention them all in this blog, but it may embarrass them, so I won’t. But,dear mates, you all know who you are, and I thank you for all the nice things you have done for me. One particular act of a dear friend came to mind from many years ago during the terrible times aforementioned. My confidence, as a result of that era, was so low, that on nights at the theatre with the Captain, I would hide rather than talk to anyone, so certain was I that their interest in me would be non-existent. The way I saw it was that I was a failed actress, failed mother and therefore a failed wife. A particular friend from Wales insisted that I joined him in the pub (The Lamb and Flag, as it happens, in Covent Garden) to help chair his “Welsh Whingers Society”. He insisted that everyone called me Dame Kate and he allowed himself the handle of Captain Robert. Over a couple of months of these events, my self confidence was back on the right road, due to those lovely, warm-hearted, talented Welsh actors. I have to say, I have had a soft spot for Welsh people ever since. It felt as if people came first, in Wales. It must be a Celtic thing. I hope Captain Robert reads this and knows how grateful I will always be to him for his selfless act.
I have not mentioned that we went to Warwickshire to stay with an old friend of my particular Captain. He and his wife, who kindly drove while we intoxicated ourselves, took us to the RSC bar in Stratford, what a snazzy place it has become! A far cry from my days when the Dirty Duck was the only option. They also took us for an amazing meal at The Townhouse, a fashionable, buzzing place with impeccable service and fabulous food. I will not tell of the little village they inhabit, it’s a secret. But you do see what Shakespeare was on about:
“I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips, and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine:”
Oberon, A Midsummer-Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare
The Captain will be attending the Froch/Groves boxing match at Wembley with this old friend, and I believe fun will be had. The anticipation over the match is quite overwhelming the Captain, as it is practically “all he’s ever wanted”. I shall be attending another good friend’s fortieth. She knows who she is. I shall be dressing up, as it is in Soho, and I know she would like that. Apart from which I damn well feel like it.
So if anyone has been watching Monkey Planet (and if you have not, why not? NB * this does not include my dear writer friend who suffers from monkeyphobia…it’s a long story), did you see the Episode where one of the furry tribes of monkeys awaited the arrival of the toxic centipede? They bit the centipede to irritate it, so it would release its toxins, which the furry monkeys spread all over their fur after which frantic activity they sunk into an opiated stupour. They are, infact, Junky-Monkeys It was as ludicrous as people tapping out white powder and snorting it up their noses, or boiling brown powder to inject it. We are no different to monkeys. Except we have politicians who have the power to bomb countries; which makes us very dangerous monkeys indeed.
My latest tax rant is as follows: Picture a scene, for arguments sake, let’s make it Jesus’s birth, and as Mary manages to produce the holy babe, as one of the wise men is giving him a smack to give him the breath of life, a tax man approaches. He has dandruff and a comb-over hairstyle and is wearing a cheap suit. He looks into the face of the bellowing infant and says, ” I’m sorry to disturb you, Baby Lord Jesus, but I’m afraid that’ll be be £1000 please. Birth tax.” He steps towards the mother Mary, who is just having her brow mopped, “Sorry about the timing, but I’m afraid that’ll be £1000 to you as well. Giving birth tax.” He moves towards Joseph, and Joseph says, ” Don’t tell me, Sperm tax? You’ve come to the wrong guy.”
Picture another scenario, a happy family laughing as they watch television. The doorbell rings. Comb-over has arrived. “Sorry to disturb you on this happy occasion but that’ll be £1000 each. Pleasure tax. PAT for short. ” You heard it here first. Don’t say I did not warn you.
Films that I would recommend : Nebraska, Grand Budapest Hotel and Saving Mr Banks. Recent plays that were brilliant: Invincible by Torben Betts at the Orange Tree and Pests at the Royal Court. Television has served us well with the new series of Mad Men and Fargo and the UK’s good offering of Endeavour and of course, Monkey Planet. Retail joy can be found in M & S, H & M and in Ecco shoes. Relaxation can be found at Moroccon Beauty in Fulham for Hammam bliss. The Captain and I go to Sicily in the first week in June. So who on earth am I to complain, eh? I’m a lucky Monkey. That’s what I am.
Kate Terence's Letters from London 