Barry Norman's moving tribute to his late wife

The film critic on Diana, who died two weeks ago.

At this time of year, with the red-and-pink assault of Valentine's Day looming, it's very easy to be cynical about love. As a corrective to that, may I suggest reading Barry Norman's wonderful tribute to his wife, Diana, who died two weeks ago? The couple had been married for more than 50 years.

In the piece, published in today's Daily Mail, Norman writes of finding Diana with "her glasses perched on her nose, a novel by Patrick O'Brian (one of her favourite authors) in her hand . . . She was resting peacefully against the pillows." She had died in her sleep.

As the death was so sudden, the police and paramedics arrived, followed by family members and the undertaker.

Once his representatives arrived, the whole situation began to resemble the stateroom scene in the Marx Brothers movie A Night At The Opera -- more and more people pouring in and the family (me, my daughters and grandsons Bertie, Harry and Charlie) being totally outnumbered by complete strangers.
Thus passed the worst morning of my life. The only word to describe what we, the family, were feeling was desolation. I always thought we'd had a pact, Diana and I, that I would die first, but I should have known she'd have the last word. She usually did, sometimes because I let her, often because she insisted on it.

Norman then pays tribute to Diana, whom he married within months of their meeting. "She was beautiful, witty, highly intelligent, quirky, stubborn and always immense fun to be with. She was a devoted wife, mother and grandmother and she was also -- this is not just my opinion -- one of the most gifted historical novelists around."

But perhaps the most moving part is his description of their marriage -- and all its ups and downs.

People who have been married for more than 50 years, like Diana and I were, are given to making remarks like: "We never had a cross word." To which I can only ask: "What kind of a marriage was that?" The only person I could imagine living with for any length of time without a cross word would be someone for whom I felt total indifference. Diana and I had many a cross word because we disagreed frequently and I loved her to death and beyond.

It's a beautiful piece of writing, from someone who -- from my very limited personal dealings with him -- seems to be a thoroughly decent person.

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt