My dear Stephen,
I would kick myself for the rest of my life if I didn’t write this letter, so please forgive me for being so informal in my greeting to you. I am also trying not to gush all over you, but if I do – again I am sorry, but where you’re concerned, I tend to get a bit overexcited.
I have tried to write this so many times, but I crumple the paper and start over and over again. I’ve now resorted to typing, because at least then I can cut and paste to move the words around more easily. I hope this time I will finally articulate what I need to say to you, and I must try, because I know this opportunity will never be given to me again. In a way, I am glad you had to decline my offer of a cup of tea via Twitter; I would have spent all week cleaning the house and then stood there and stared at you for the duration of your visit.
I can remember being allowed to stay up and watch A Bit of Fry and Laurie, (goodness that makes me feel old). While my parents thought the humour was a bit older than what they would normally let my younger brother and I watch, but because you and Hugh were hugely funny without resorting to smut, they made the exception for your programme. My first trip to see a musical in the West End was to watch Me and My Girl. Jeeves and Wooster led to me buying book after book of Wodehouse. Even the final scene in Blackadder Goes Forth reinforced the pain and futility of First World War Poetry that I was studying at school. But this isn’t to rehash your CV; this is a simple love letter to a man who has enhanced my world by being in it.
In reality the acknowledgement of the impact you’ve had on my life can be summed up in two simple words: Thank You. The longer version is somewhat more problematic and begins with this: You’ve been cast in a central role in my life, but you’ve never been aware of it until now. I find it ironic that I had to emigrate to Australia nearly two years ago to finally see you on stage. I tried to get tickets to see you in, well anything, in the UK so I could stammer my thanks to you. Even now typing this, if I am lucky enough to get Moab signed by you at the Stage Door, I will only be able to give this letter to you and hope you read it. Because I know that I will be overcome with emotion to be anywhere near you. (I warned you I might gush).
Here I sit, my fingers hovering over the keyboard trying to find the words to tell you how wonderful I think you are. How brave you are for wearing your heart on your sleeve, and how you stand up passionately for people and causes you believe in. And I can’t do it; I simply don’t have the words to tell you. I know tomorrow night I will either burst into tears when you walk on stage, or wet myself with excitement. I am sincerely hoping it is the former.
So I close now, forever in your debt. I don’t know you, but I love you. You have enriched my life beyond all measure simply by being here, being you and working as hard as you do, on the huge range of projects that just tickle your fancy. And now I am crying, as this is my only chance to tell you, I hope I’ve not blown it.
With all the love that I can spare from my long suffering husband,
PS If you ever want children, I’ll carry them for you, but hurry up, I am 36 in January