In Competition No. 2610 you were invited to submit an extract from the diary of the partner of a famous person, past or present.
The puns came fast and furious this week. ‘I’ll make him a nice bombe for his tea tomorrow,’ writes Guy Fawkes’s other half (Juliet Walker), while Caligula’s long-suffering steed Incitatus (Frank McDonald laments that ‘…one can’t say neigh to an emperor’. But John Plowman took the biscuit. Francis Nisbet records an exchange with her husband Nelson about his purported infidelity: ‘I said he was in denial. He did admit he was — in Egypt.’ Ouch!
Honourable mentions to Josh Ekroy for an entertaining account, courtesy of John Bercow’s wife, of a fraught trip to John Lewis. But the winners, printed below, are rewarded with £25 each. Top prize of £30 goes to Alan Millard.
Peter can be so pedantic. This morning I mention the fog and he says, ‘Fog in what sense, my love?’ It’s always the same — never a straight answer. When I tell him how irksome he is he replies, ‘As in tiresome, tedious or oppressive, my dearest?’ Dearest indeed! I might be his dearest but daily he costs me ever more dear. We never communicate like ordinary couples. If I ask what he wants for breakfast all I get is an endless list of words he associates with ‘breakfast’ and by the time he’s finished whatever I cook is too cold to eat. Perhaps I should have realised my mistake at the altar when he asked the vicar if by ‘lawful’ he meant by ‘sufferance’ or by ‘claim’. Mother was right! He really can be annoying bothersome, exasperating, infuriating, irksome, irritating, maddening, provoking, tedious, trying, vexatious, wearisome, etcetera, etcetera…
Alan Millard (Mary Roget)
I know that my husband is endeed a good man in all things but his codpiece, but I will not let him have his cockerel crow on every dunghill that he chooses. I saw him this day with the girl in his chamber, she combing his hair, he with his hand up to what you will under her petticoats. Though sorely vexed I held my tongue until bedtime then flew out at him, calling him all the names I had stored up in my akeing head. He meek at first, knowing that he deserved every thing, then growing high, reproached me for using foul words. I returning that only foul words fit foul deeds, he blushed like fire and left me to weep out my rage. For certain he did run to scribble in his journall. I bless God that neither that nor this will be read by other eyes.
W.J.Webster (Elizabeth Pepys)
He said to me, he did, he said it straight out, he said, take a day trip. I said, where? He said, Ware — good idea, where flora have aura. I said, what d’you mean? He said, it’s in Herts, isn’t it? Herts and flowers. I said, you want to watch I don’t have a holiday romance. He said, after some Bucks? I said, no, next door in Beds. I asked him for money. He said it was a bank holiday. I went off to the beach. This girl was stark naked. She said, I want to be brown all over. So I tanned her behind. Then I walked across the links with friends. We were a chain gang. I can’t play golf but I drove right up the fairway. Well, it’s quicker than walking. Back home late. Tom has more jokes, I said, I don’t know where you find them.
Bill Greenwell (Mrs Tommy Cooper)
Wonderful to have Will home for two days, though worrying too. He swears he is faithful and longing to return permanently from his London lodgings, but I fear he is leading a wild life on the South Bank. In his sleep, he groans for Ophelia, Celia, Viola, Rosamund and so many other loose women. When I reproach him, he swears they are all young men disguised as women. A likely story! He is involved in shady business too: ‘It must be by his death…’, he mutters, as he paces the cottage garden. Well, I must be grateful he has returned at all, and relieved if he has turned to women and away from that young man to whom he used to address his poems. The children are ecstatic, though, sadly, he has forgotten their names. ‘Hamlet’, he shouted, in last night’s nightmare. Fortunately, young Hamnet did not hear!
Shirley Curran (Anne Hathaway)
Another vexatious day. How I deplore this Gough Square life! I had imagined it would mend, with Mr Johnson working at home instead of carousing with his low Grub Street acquaintances. But he is never to be seen, except at the meals which I diligently prepare, and which he denounces as inedible, often with a Latin quotation, but only after he has consumed every bite. Then, back up the attic, poring over his words with those dull Scotchmen. For company, I have but his old schoolfriend Garrick, a theatrical of sorts who I know to mock me behind my back, or this doubtful apothecary Levet who looks only to the meanest, ignoring people of quality. Well, I must again make do with a measure of wine and an old romance. And so to bed — alone, unless Mr Johnson attempts one of his artless approaches, which I could well spare.
Barry Baldwin (Mrs Samuel Johnson)
May 22: Out all day at the Aesthetic Bazaar. Just going up to bed when Oscar came in with a rough-looking youth. They went into the library and shut the door. Slept alone.
May 23: Eight for dinner in the evening. Oscar made a joke about missionaries which made me worry that he may be a stranger to Our Lord. After guests departed, Oscar said he had to work so would use the divan in his study. Odd youth from yesterday still here. Slept alone.
July 8: Oscar’s new friend Lord Alfred Douglas called. He said, ‘Please call me Posy’ and I essayed a little joke about this: ‘Posy is as Posy does’ but Lord Alfred looked at me as though I were mad and Oscar ushered Lord Alfred out and told me not to wait up. Felt rather a fool. I wish I were funny like Oscar. Slept alone.
J.C.H. Mounsey (Constance Wilde)
No. 2613: Cautionary tale
You are invited to submit a cautionary tale for our times, in the style of Hilaire Belloc, about the consequences of too much time spent texting or on social networking sites (16 lines maximum). Entries to ‘Competition 2613’ by midday on 9 September or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.
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