Mrs. Fry's Diary (9 page)

13 Friday

I always dread this day. Stephen's so superstitious, he's a bag of nerves all day. Last Friday the 13th he was stuck in the pub all day because they were having their sign re-painted and he couldn't leave without walking under the ladder. Poor dear, wherever he is.

14 Saturday

Spent half of last night trying to think of a good Twitter name. @Tirelesslydevotedwifeand mother, @Sophisticatedbeautifuland astonishinglywellreadlady and @Worldclasschefandculturalexpert were already taken, so, in the end, I decided on a name that really encapsulated who I am - @MrsStephenFry. Now I just need to think of something to write, or 'tweet', as they rather embarrassingly call it.

15 Sunday

Still not thought of anything. It isn't as easy as it looks, this micro-blogging malarkey. It's awfully difficult to fit everything you want to say into 140 characters. I think I'd better practise. Perhaps I could start with this diary . . .

16 Monday

Dear Diary, this is my first ever experimental 140 character entry. I only hope that's enough to relate the unbelievably exciting event that

17 Tuesday

Apparently not. Perhaps I shouldn't waste characters by writing Dear Diary. Then I might have enough left to mention the extraordinary thing

18 Wednesday

Oh dear, I don't think I'm getting the hang of this at all. Maybe it's the worry of not knowing where Stephen is that's causing the problem.

19 Thursday

Oh. Maybe I can do it. I must say, after all our ups & downs and ins & outs, it's not Stephen's waywardness that hurts. It's his enormous di

20 Friday

sregard for my feelings.

Oh dear, it's no good. This tweeting business really isn't for me. I'm far too imaginative and eloquent. A free spirit like mine can't be shackled by such arbitrary limits. Besides, Stephen's just texted and I need to get his dinner on the table before he gets home. It seems the sat nav's on the blink, which is why it took him 12 days to get to Gatwick and back.

21 Saturday

Just when I think I know my Stephen, he says something completely out of the blue to make me question everything. Apparently it's his taxi-driver mate Kevin's birthday in a few days and he wants to have a surprise party for him at our house. He asked me to help and, stupidly, I said I would. Which means that I'll be left to organise the entire thing, as usual. Still, if a job's worth doing . . . and I am something of an expert when it comes to social events - my Diana's Funeral Reggae 'n' Risotto street party is still talked about to this day.

Whenever I'm called on to arrange a gathering of this nature, I try to make it as personal as I can, reflecting as many of that special someone's interests and hobbies as possible in the decor and catering. According to Stephen, Kevin is something of a bibliophile and gastronome (actually, what he said was 'he reads things and cooks stuff'). He also likes sculpture, the cinema and naval history, apparently. To be honest, I'm a little surprised that he and Stephen are friends - from what I hear, he sounds like a bit of a snob. I can't imagine what they find to talk about. When Stephen's exhausted his favourite topics of page-three models, football and footballers' page-three model girlfriends, he's generally at a loss conversationally.

I set my mind to work. I would have to think of a theme, decorate, bake a cake and buy a suitable present. All in one day. All by myself. In fairness, Stephen did try to help. He suggested we combine a few of Kevin's interests for a centrepiece and have an ice sculpture and a scale model of the
Titanic
, but I told him that's just an accident waiting to happen.

22 Sunday

Kevin's surprise party tonight; despite my meticulous planning, things didn't go exactly as I'd hoped. In the end I chose a taxi-driving theme, as I suspected most of the guests would be fellow drivers and therefore perhaps not connoisseurs of the arts like Kevin and me - I am nothing if not sensitive, after all. I really outdid myself, I have to say. Aside from the hand-painted 'Happy Birthday Kevin' banner, life-sized posters of Judd Hirsch and Travis Bickle adorned the walls and scented pine trees hung from every light fitting. The crowning glory was, of course, the birthday cake - a scale replica of a London taxi cab, fashioned from sponge and black icing. It was perfect in every detail, right down to the tiny driver and marzipan student vomiting on the back seat.

As eight o'clock drew nearer, Stephen suggested I hide behind the sofa while he went outside to keep watch for Kevin's arrival. I was surprised that none of Stephen's friends was there already - there's usually at least one of them lying around - but I crouched down expectantly, making sure that not even my hat was visible above the back of the sofa. I waited for what seemed like hours in the darkness and silence, until I got cramp up the back of my left leg. I shot bolt upright and hopped about whooping for several minutes until the pain passed. I was about to resume my position when all of a sudden the lights came on and there before me was Stephen with an enormous grin on his face, flanked by Mrs Norton, Mrs Winton and Mrs Biggins.

'Surprise!' they chimed in unison. 'Happy Birthday, Kevin!'

I looked up at the banner.

'But . . .'

Stephen was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. It turns out there is no Kevin - Stephen had made him up as a cover.

There were no words to describe what I was feeling. I was completely dumbfounded. Partly because of Stephen's subterfuge, partly because of my own gullibility, but mostly because my birthday's in September. Still, it's the thought that counts. And I suppose the driving gloves will come in handy, if I ever learn to drive.

23 Monday

Stephen's bath night. I do wish he wouldn't make such a fuss. He's the same every May 23rd.

24 Tuesday

A lovely family evening. We all sat round the television watching that classic eighties rom-com about a lonely guy whose inflatable doll comes to life -
Now You're Talking
.

25 Wednesday

Creative writing cancelled again. That lecturer really does have the most awful luck, poor chap. Apparently, he was delayed coming in on the train when he was shot, stabbed and poisoned by all the other passengers.

26 Thursday

Stephen Junior missed school again today but his latest teacher doesn't seem to mind. He's a class-is-half-full kind of guy.

27 Friday

Just came back from the launderette to find Stephen playing football with the baby. Note to self: Get a sitter for the baby. And a football for Stephen.

28 Saturday

One of my favourite nights of the year - the Eurovision Song Contest. As usual, we had a little soiree - I made my famous European Melting Hot-Pot.

My hot-pot was, of course, the highlight of the evening, with each of the competing nations represented by one ingredient - pate from France, spaghetti hoops from Italy and the United Kingdom's very own woodland delicacy, the cheese and pineapple hedgehog, all covered with my own special mixture of Guinness and Bisto and cooked for 12 hours in a large casserole pot.

I even provided scoring slips and little pens. Well, technically Argos provided those.

This year's final was held in the small principality of Bulgravia, largely because no other European country could afford it. Every one of its 608 residents was crammed into the community centre. The show was presented by the country's leading television personality and caravan tycoon Hjarken Hagaghast, and his beautiful wife and sister, Marionetta.

As ever, there was a captivating array of musical acts, the standard every bit as high as last year's contest. Belgium was represented by a barefoot nun, whose habit was ripped off by leather-clad monks in the final chorus. Switzerland had chosen a sea-lion, and confusingly the Spanish seemed to be dressed as Vikings, while Norway had come as matadors. The bookies' favourite was the Azerbaijani entry - Sasha, a mid-op transsexual, and her medical team.

Of course, we were cheering on the United Kingdom's entrant, winner of the reality television show
The Not-Coming-Bottom Factor
. She'd been voted overwhelmingly by the British public to sing Philip Glass's composition, 'We Love Europe, We Really, Really Do'. We were all full of optimism, especially considering the new changes to the voting system. We felt sure the Nobel committee would back our own Chantelle Ramsbottom.

I'm afraid Stephen didn't enter wholeheartedly into the proceedings, preferring instead to sample the 'Beers of 37 Nations'. To be perfectly honest, Eurovision isn't really Stephen's kind of thing. I'm afraid, when it comes to music, he's got two left ears. But I've known that from the start, ever since I heard his band's one and only demo tape, 'Never Mind the Salad . . . Here's the Kebabstards'.

In the end, the contest was overwhelmingly won by 'Bing-a-Blong-a-Ding-Dong-Ka-Boom', a beautiful ballad about a boy losing his father in a nuclear power station incident. So it's back to Bulgravia community centre for the fifth year running next year.

29 Sunday

Goodness, it's book club tomorrow and I've hardly read any of it. Stephen and I had better try some of these positions. We can start with 'The Coy Glance From Behind A Fan' . . .

30 Monday

Book club today. Nice to see everyone looking far more enthusiastic this month. Everyone had bought a copy and the pages were clearly well thumbed. Although I did notice that everyone else's copies seemed a little different to mine. For a start, the title was spelled differently on each one and the covers were far more . . . well, colourful. It also became apparent that these differences weren't just restricted to the covers. I could only assume that everyone else had resorted to some new dumbed-down modern version with its far more explicit language and illustrations. Typical! Of course, I put them right as soon as I realised their mistake, bless them, and confiscated their copies. I don't know how they would cope without me, really I don't.

31 Tuesday

A nice, quiet evening with my feet up and a cup of tea watching
Celebrity Cul-de-Sac
. I'm getting too old to run around after the kids every night. It's much easier to let the police do it. Plus they've got tasers.

June

1 Wednesday

Stephen wanted to do it with the light on tonight, but I prefer the dark, so we compromised. I switched the light off and he wore his night-vision goggles.

2 Thursday

This month's book club selection arrived in the post. It's Mrs Norton's choice -
The Vicar Crack'd
. A murder mystery, unsurprisingly. Honestly, that woman's obsessed with the macabre. She even used to correspond with a prisoner in Texas. Her daily letters, poems, short stories and Sudoku puzzles proved a great comfort to the gentleman, she says. Right up to the point when he sat in the electric chair. Such a shame, as he was due to be released a fortnight later but the governor granted him special dispensation under the circumstances.

3 Friday

Stephen's off to watch the cage fighting tonight. Personally, I find it distasteful but he insists the hamsters enjoy it.

4 Saturday

Read the first chapter of
The Vicar Crack'd
this morning. As expected, it isn't up to much. Any book with a misspelt title doesn't fill me with hope. And in the very first chapter the author had the audacity to begin a sentence with
And
. Clearly a course in grammar would benefit her greatly, as would a dictionary. In fact, she should take a course in creative writing (I'd recommend my own, but sadly the lecturer is still incapacitated by that iron mask). Honestly, I've never known so many characters introduced in a first chapter! Thank goodness 12 of them were dead by the start of chapter two or I'd never have been able to keep up with them all. Of course, the murderer is staggeringly apparent, even after 20-odd pages. But then I've always had a very analytical mind. It comes from living with Stephen. In fact, I can read him like a book - a great big pop-up one.