It was a Wednesday, of that I was certain; I awoke several hours before call time when I would have to be at the Granada studios to become Holmes. I had entered what Watson would call a "black mood", as is nearly the case with me within midweek. I paced the floor deciding how to break this melancholia when I decided on the idea to write to myself as if I was a fan. For this I sat at my breakfast table with a biro and a piece of lined paper, also to keep the illusion true I affected a different handwriting then my own, I was made so jolly by this that I almost was tempted to use my right hand instead. Deciding against the idea, I made quick work of my own letter, stuffing it in an envelop, licking it carefully and making sure to put a first class stamp on to ensure that I would get it in all hast. I then quickly got ready to go into work all the while thinking of my words. On the way there I put the letter in a postbox and got on with my day.
The next day I went downstairs where a stack of post was waiting for me, I flipped through them discovering my letter that I had completely forgotten! With work being quite difficult and demanding it was easy to forget this whimsical fancy that had befallen me yesterday. I dropped all the other mail, and made my way into the sitting room, I grabbed my pack of Rothams, lit one and set into the idea of reading such a strange fan correspondence. I ripped at the envelope an exhumed the contents with a flick of my wrist and a grand flourish. As I carefully read every word I started to hearten and to laugh quite considerably.
On Friday I was sitting next to my close friend and costar David Burke getting our make up done before shooting, I could not contain myself any longer and I went into a peel of extreme giggles. David turned his head to enquire what exactly was so funny when I had admitted to my quirky bit of subterfuge.
"I was feeling so low the other day that I sent myself a fan letter." I admitted.
"Are you serious?" David asked razing his eyebrow.
"I'm absolutely serious." I replied, my cheeks going slightly pink at my own silliness.
"What did you write to yourself?" he asked, his face twisted to keep his composure.
I would just like to say what a wonderful actor you are. Your Sherlock Holmes puts every other attempt at the part in the shade. Basil Rathbone is not fit to clean your boots; and Douglas Wilmer and Robert Stephens should beg you to give them lessons. You're much prettier than all of them, for a start. There is only one word for your performance - magic. Please send me a signed photograph.
Your's Joe Bloggs.
P.S. I've heard that you're really nice person, too."
"Did you really write that?" questioned him, his face now turning beet red from keeping himself from laughing.
"Yes, I did." Telling him pointedly, with just a faint hint of amusement.
"Did you send it?" he asked as genuine curiosity crept into his voice.
"Yes. I put a first-class stamp on it. I wanted to get it as soon as possible. It came the next morning." I told him.
"And did you read it?" he asked, continuing his gentle interrogation.
"Of course I read it. I read it a dozen times. I felt wonderful afterwards." I said wriggling in my chair from the shear nonsensical delight of my small caper.
"Well, did you send yourself a signed photograph?»"
"David, I may be mad - but I'm not barking mad! In any case, the bugger didn't send a stamped addressed envelope!"
After my tale was done, we both looked at each other and burst into the most boisterous laughing session we had shared yet, which I might add was something indeed. And poor Deborah had to redo both of our make up for the tears of joy streaming down our faces.