Dear ______,
People always seem to misunderstand me. I do my best but it always works out wrong. Here's an example. For God's sake, take it.
You know Fiona's presentation to be given to women's groups? This relates to the wives of Thomas Hardy. The character of the man is explored through the conversation between the two women. They discuss their separate lives with him, describing his life and times. She told me that she had attempted to get bookings through the Women's Institutes. It was surprising how professional they were – holding an audition and the like.
As you know, everyone likes a Fiona, so I fixed up an interview with the Town Ladies Sorority. (Later I learnt that this was a cover for the Febrile Feelings Federation.) I felt sure I could "Sell Hardy", as they say.
Their head office is in Corsica Street, just off Kingsway. It's on the fifth floor of that great black and white tiled 1950s building, known affectionately as The Lav. I reported to Reception and explained my exploratory mission. The receptionist, a mellow yellow blonde of some forty summers named Serena, listened intently and said: "You realise we can't arrange for a tour programme for you without an audition?" I nodded assent. She continued, "I'm sure you will be successful. Hardy is very popular with everyone, particularly the children. Come back in one hour dressed in your costume. Meanwhile, I'll make the preliminary arrangements."
I scurried downstairs to telephone Fiona to ask about the costumes and the dates when she would be available. Unfortunately, she was away at the time, leading a learning group on oral communication. (This week they were tackling the Aspirates.) I would have to do the whole thing on my own!
I rushed to Shaftesbury Avenue and explained my needs to a sympathetic costumier. In thirty minutes I emerged looking somewhat like W.C. Fields playing Mr Micawber.
Actually, it was quite pleasant to stroll back to Corsica Street, enjoying the appreciation of the office workers. (One American even asked for my autograph.) I climbed up to the fifth floor of The Lav to report to Serena. She was not there! Her replacement, a rat-faced creature named Fetch, explained between sniggers that "We operate a fluid human resources policy here. Serena now works as a focus group organiser for the Prison Service. Come upstairs with me."
Upstairs, Fetch examined my costume more closely. "It's OK, I suppose. But shouldn't you be wearing a bowler hat? Just carry it, for now. But hurry! They're all waiting!" She explained that today was an audition day and they had assembled representatives from the Town Ladies Sorority UK plc to assess the presentations which could be offered throughout the organisation.
We peeped through the curtain. At once, the powerful smell of Parfum Asphyx assailed my nostrils. There they were, my judges, in rows of Miss Selfridge suits and clusters of Laura Ashley. What was truly frightening were what appeared to be helmets. In reality, these were tight steel-grey coiffures, dominantly shaped into wire coils.
Fetch was now addressing them. They were silent. This was not the quiet of an attentive, accepting audience. It was more the alert stealth of a trained hunting pack. Suddenly, she was by my side. "Right, you're on!" she hissed, pushing me sideways.
I put my hat on and moved centre stage. Then I raised my hat in greeting. "Good afternoon", I said. "I think I should offer a few words to explain the relationships between Hardy and his wives. As you know, they provided him with the inspiration for much of his work. If we consider Hardy's poetry . . ." I got no further.
"Where's your moustache?" someone shouted. "Let's see you dance!" another cried. Then they all started whistling in unison, during which someone called. "Where's Stan Laurel?"
Then it struck me! Someone had confused Thomas Hardy the novelist with Oliver Wendel Hardy the film actor.
It made no difference! The whole audience was infected with a mass hysteria. They had me rolling up my tie, looking sulky, ballet dancing, the lot! The more I protested ("Here's another fine mess . . .") the more they liked it. (My tutu act was a riot.)
I got off the stage at 6pm to resounding applause and encore requests.
Fetch, the receptionist, has now told me that THE HARDY ACT has already been booked at fifty branches by computer, starting in Oldham. Anyone want to be a Hardy wife? Experience and gender are immaterial. However, a resemblance to Stan Laurel will be a distinct advantage!
Conrad
