Mrs. Fry's Diary

by Mrs Stephen Fry

  28 Friday

  What terrible luck! Hugh Junior fell on the icy school playground this morning and twisted his ankle. We were hoping for at least a broken leg. It’s not as if I didn’t push him hard enough. Last year we got a fortnight in Benidorm out of Brangelina’s fractured wrist, thanks to So-U-Claim.

  29 Saturday

  The snow’s falling heavier this evening. Stephen just texted to say he might be stuck in the pub all night. He hasn’t even left the house yet.

  30 Sunday

  Our 16th wedding anniversary. Who would have thought? Apparently, 16 is Tupperware. According to Stephen, at any rate. I feel so silly now, buying him that diamond-encrusted gold signet ring and chain set. Still, he didn’t seem to object. Luckily, Stephen’s karaoke injury compensation came through just in time, so we’re off to a show and a slap-up meal tonight. I can’t wait. I can’t remember when we last went out together, just the two of us. The last time must have been our honeymoon. Of course, strictly speaking, that wasn’t just the two of us. Although it was nice of the bouncers to let us take the pram into the casino.

  Amazingly, we’ve found someone to take care of all our kids tonight. Social Services won’t normally take more than two at a time. Stephen’s dressed up to the nines in his best Hawaiian shirt and leather trousers and I’ve had my hat specially reupholstered for the occasion. I’ll tell you all about it, Dear Diary, when we get back …

  Goodness, what a night! What a show! Such timing. Such precision. Such incredible grace. I have to say, when it comes to thoroughly spectacular cultural entertainment, it doesn’t get any better than Monster Trucks on Ice. Such a shame Stephen got over-excited and the manager of the arena had to ask him to leave. Of course, Stephen being Stephen, he wouldn’t go quietly. He swore, he emptied his bucket of buffalo wings over row J and finally gave the manager the finger. His giant foam one.

  Still, he calmed down once we got to the restaurant. After his first four lagers, anyway. Mrs Biggins recommended it to me. She and her Chris have been to the Rings of Fire curry house several times. It’s a fantasy-theme restaurant where all the waiters dress up in costumes. The smaller ones are hobbits and the rest are wizards and orcs. We had a hobbit, although I must say there was no discernible difference in the quality of service. All in all, it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. We had a wonderful time. In the end, Stephen and I went for the C.S. Lewis Special set meal. It’s like the regular set meal, only naanier.

  31 Monday

  Just time for a quick entry while Stephen gargles and scratches himself in the bathroom. You know, I’m glad I decided to write this diary. In all the hustle and bustle of day to day life, it’s so easy to forget how lucky you really are. This evening, for example. Me washing the pots and doing the ironing, Stephen lying on the sofa with a can of lager in one hand and his genitals in the other, watching Dame Kiri Te Kanawa Does the Funniest Things, and the children all safely tucked up in bed looking at their internet porn. I really am blessed.

  February

  1 Tuesday

  Oh dear. Poor Brangelina’s still having nightmares. They began a few weeks ago after her teacher mysteriously spontaneously combusted. She was really quite traumatised, particularly as she was the only child in the classroom at the time. It didn’t help when the head teacher confiscated her lighter. If ever she needed a smoke it was then, poor thing. Stephen started to read her bedtime stories to see if that helped, but if anything it only made things worse. I spoke to Mrs Winton about it when I popped round for a herbal coffee and she told me we should hang a dreamcatcher over her bed. I’d never heard of such a thing, but apparently they catch all your bad dreams and allow you to have a restful night’s sleep. I expected Stephen to pooh-pooh the idea but he was surprisingly enthusiastic and even made one himself – out of one of my hanging baskets and a badger he ran over last week in the van. Brangelina looked a little sceptical – or possibly terrified, it’s so hard to tell with children – but I’m sure she’ll get used to it.

  2 Wednesday

  Social Services called round this morning but I refused to let them in. Last time, they wanted to give us our kids back.

  3 Thursday

  Disappointed that my first creative writing class was cancelled due to the weather, although the evening wasn’t a complete write-off. All that gorgeous, newly fallen snow did bring out our romantic side, so we went out to make snow angels. We managed to knock over 12 snowmen before Stephen crashed the van.

  4 Friday

  Went to the garden centre this afternoon. We didn’t buy anything. We just like to pretend we’ve got a garden.

  5 Saturday

  An early start this morning. Stephen and I popped along to the recreation ground to watch Hugh Junior in his first game for the school under-thirteens, the Midwich Cuckoos. It was all very exciting. I don’t know much about football but he seemed to play terribly well. So well, in fact, that the umpire said he could go and have a rest after only 10 minutes! Stephen was glowing with fatherly pride, particularly when Hugh Junior was given the red Man of the Match card. All in all, it was terrific fun. We even joined in the Glasgow Wave, which is like a Mexican Wave crossed with a tsunami.

  6 Sunday

  Woke this morning to the sound of church bells. I’d better tell the kids to take them back before the vicar notices.

  7 Monday

  Beginning to wonder whether Stephen still finds me as attractive as he used to. I caught him watching me in the bath earlier and I’m sure he was mentally dressing me. Maybe we need some time to ourselves, away from the kids, to rekindle the flame – somewhere romantic, like Rome or Paris. Perhaps if I leave a few brochures lying around he’ll get the hint. Or I could roll them up and hit him around the head with them …

  8 Tuesday

  Very disappointing. Creative writing class was cancelled again, due to it being a dark and stormy night.

  9 Wednesday

  I have to say, Stephen’s home-made dreamcatcher has proved a great success. Brangelina hasn’t had a single nightmare for a week. And hopefully that will continue when she’s finally prepared to go back into her bedroom.

  10 Thursday

  What an extraordinary day. No sooner had I woken up than Stephen had blindfolded me and bundled me into his van. Normally, it’s at least lunchtime before we do anything like that. I was beginning to get slightly concerned until he kissed me gently on the cheek and told me it was my Valentine treat. I must say I was pleasantly surprised – being driven around blindfolded in the back of a Transit van is possibly the most romantic thing Stephen’s ever done, although it does make writing a diary a little awkward.

  After what seemed like six or seven hours and a series of uncomfortable questions from the garage owner, the waitress at the Little Chef and the police, the van finally reached its destination. I felt my blindfold being untied and I blinked at Stephen’s beaming face. Once he’d finally moved it out of the way, I stared through the windscreen in disbelief. My little plan had worked! There it was in front of my very eyes, peeping over the roof of our small hotel – the Eiffel Tower! And I hadn’t even had to hit him around the head.

  The Hotel Aznavour is delightful – terribly French, bien sûr! The walls are adorned with paintings of the Eiffel Tower and Toulouse Lautrec prints in extravagant gold frames. There’s even a signed photograph of Edith Piaf – right next to the one of Syd Little. It’s everything you’d imagine a Parisian hotel to be. The proprietor, Madame LaRue – a large, extravagantly attired woman of a certain age – greeted us with a multitude of what I imagine must be French kisses. They were certainly accompanied by a good degree of stubble. She handed over our key and told us that we had the bijou room at the end of the corridor on the first floor. It sounded very exotic! Unfortunately there was no lift and the bell boy was off with some strain of French social disease, so we had to carry our own luggage. As Stephen sensibly pointed out, he couldn’t risk his infirmity allowance by being seen carrying heavy items, but it onl
y took me three journeys. Our room was lovely, but a little on the small side, and I was a bit disappointed to find it wasn’t en suite – odd, as I’d always thought that was French. However, there was a luxurious pink communal bathroom, or Lavvie en Rose as Madame LaRue calls it.

  Apparently, Stephen’s booked us in for five nights. Being self-employed, he can take time off whenever he likes. That’ll be 26 days this year, now. I must admit I was a little worried about the children being left on their own in the house but Stephen reassured me that he’d renewed our contents insurance and besides, they’d be fully occupied taking care of the baby.

  11 Friday

  How wonderful to wake up in Paris – Mrs Norton would be steaming with jealousy if she knew. I must remember to send her a postcard. Breakfast was delicious, although Stephen made the faux pas of ordering the full English (to her credit, Madame LaRue seemed really quite adept with a frying pan). I, of course, went continental – croissants, café au lait and a bowl of Sugar Puffs (apparently they’re quite à la mode in Parisian high society).

  We took a stroll after breakfast and I was astonished to see that the city had a beach. According to Stephen they create one every summer on the banks of the river Seine. I must say it looked awfully realistic – almost as if it had been there for years, what with the deckchairs, the piers and the long-eared French pony rides. And the Seine was a great deal wider than I’d imagined. I couldn’t even see the other side and there even appeared to be a number of oil tankers travelling along it. Sadly, we had to cut our time on the beach a bit short – partially due to the distinctly bracing February weather, but mostly due to Stephen attacking a family of holidaymakers with his deckchair after their two-year-old trod on his sandcastle.

  Spent the afternoon sightseeing on board an authentic, illuminated French tram in the shape of a rocket ship. I learned so much. I had no idea the Moulin Rouge was a chip shop or that the Mona Lisa was actually painted on a T-shirt (and topless – those art history books simply don’t do her justice). In the evening, we sampled some of the local delicacies – chiens chauds and of course a bag of that traditional Parisian delicacy, flosse de candie. The French really have a way with food that puts the English to shame (or most of us, at least).

  12 Saturday

  Dear Diary, after years of dreaming, I’ve finally made it to the Eiffel Tower! If truth be told, I was slightly disappointed. It appeared a little shorter than I’d been expecting, but Stephen assured me that was because the foundations had collapsed due to the sheer weight of tourists. Undaunted, I made straight for the lift. Stephen’s not good with heights so he stayed on terra firma, as they say here in France. As chance would have it, he managed to find a genuine British-style pub not 100 feet away, so he was quite happy to wait for me there.

  The view from the top of the tower was breathtaking. Or at least, I’m told it was. Unfortunately the lift got stuck halfway up and it took two hours to get it working again. Poor Stephen must have been worried out of his mind, although typically he tried his best not to show it when I found him singing with his trousers round his ankles on the bonnet of a Nissan Micra. Despite his evident concern, he still managed to take me for a few turns round the floor of the famous Eiffel Tower Ballroom. For a few wonderful minutes, it was like our honeymoon all over again – gyrating rhythmically to the strains of an unwieldy organ until, all too soon, it was over.

  13 Sunday

  Stephen was a little the worse for wear this morning after yesterday’s trauma, so I ventured out alone into the city, armed only with the more summery of my hats and my schoolgirl French. Unfortunately, it appears that Mademoiselle Depardieu must have taught her charges some kind of provincial dialect, as every time I asked for directions to the Arc de Triomphe I was met with a blank stare. Mind you, I have to say that Paris caters far better for the English tourist than London does for the French. Not only are almost all the signs in English, but so are the newspapers, magazines and comedy headwear. Keen to enter fully into the French joie de vivre, I was forced to improvise with a magic marker. I like to think the locals were suitably impressed when they noticed ‘Baise-moi Vite!’ on my sunhat.

  Two posters caught my eye as I wandered through the Parisian streets – one advertised a literary evening at a local theatre, featuring readings by a special guest author. Unfortunately, the corner of the poster was hidden beneath another for the North West Regional Karaoke Finals. The only letters visible were S, t, e. Goodness, I wondered. Could it be possible? Was Stephen King really appearing? What a shame it was on Valentine’s evening – Stephen was bound to have something special planned and that sort of thing really isn’t his cup of tea. In fact, he’d be far more likely to be found at the event on the other poster! Just as well that’s also on the 14th!

  Sadly, my efforts to find the Arc de Triomphe were in vain, but I still had a lovely day wandering aimlessly through the streets of Paris. They just have a certain something about them. If only I knew the French for je ne sais quoi.

  14 Monday

  Breakfast this morning was a real treat. Madame LaRue gave us an emotionally charged rendition of ‘Je ne regrette rien’ before launching into a dramatic medley of Serge Gainsbourg hits, all while delivering our breakfast plates and continental coffees. It really was an extraordinary performance, mostly due to her highly expressive – and surprisingly large – hands. After breakfast she announced to the guests that tonight she would be hosting her annual City of Love Valentine’s Dinner in the Sacha Distel dining room, which doubles as the guests’ TV room the rest of the time. I glanced across at Stephen. His face was like stone. Obviously, he didn’t want me to guess that he’d booked a table for us this evening. He’s such an old romantic at heart. Almost makes me feel glad I married him. I can’t wait for this evening …

  Dear Diary, forgive my tears but I’m utterly distraught. How could he do this to me? The disappointment, the humiliation … I’ll never forgive him for this! Never!

  And to think, everything seemed so perfect this afternoon. A relaxing stroll along the ‘1.609344 kilomètres d’Or’, a light lunch at the ‘Folies Burger’ and when I got back Stephen was out of bed and even putting on his dinner jacket and dickie bow. I, of course, slipped immediately into the bathroom to change into the evening dress I wore last time we enjoyed a sophisticated evening meal together. For some reason, it seemed to take a little longer to put on than last time, but I believe fine fabrics are prone to a little shrinkage, particularly after 16 years. Finally I emerged from the bathroom, like a beautiful swan in a hat. Stephen was truly gobsmacked, even if I do say so myself. He was absolutely speechless for several minutes before finally kissing me softly on the cheek, saying ‘See you later,’ and leaving the room, hurriedly.

  Stephen’s bladder has seen better days so I made my way downstairs to wait for him in the dining room. Madame LaRue made a pretence of being surprised to see me – no doubt Stephen had informed her of his little subterfuge – and ushered me to the one unoccupied table in a darkened corner of the room (presumably their most romantic table). I selected a bottle of the exotic sounding ‘Vin de Maison’ and waited …

  If anything, the third bottle of Vin de Maison was even more delicious than the first two and by the time my Crème Sarkozy arrived, I’d almost forgotten that Stephen wasn’t there. In fact I might have forgotten altogether, had it not been for Madame LaRue’s sudden rousing burst of Manhattan Transfer’s ‘Chanson d’Amour’. I’m not generally given to public displays of emotion but I have to admit I welled up. Then my shoulders started to shake. Then tears began to flow down my cheeks. Then I punched the accordionist. Rat-a-tat-a-tat, indeed!

  I’ve no idea what time Stephen finally made it back to the hotel. Hopefully in time to pay for the taxi I charged to our room. Exhausted by the events of the evening, I slept all the way home. Au revoir, Paris.

  15 Tuesday

  16 Wednesday

  Gave Stephen the silent treatment yesterday. He didn’t notice. Tried the n
oisy treatment today. Still nothing.

  17 Thursday

  Tried the crockery treatment today. I think I’m beginning to get through to him.

  18 Friday

  I need to get out of the house – all that shattering china’s put my nerves on edge – so I’m just popping round to Mrs Norton’s for a quick cup of tea. Hopefully that will help calm me down and get things in perspective.

  19 Saturday

  ‘So, how was your holiday?’ she asked me. There was an edge to her voice – I didn’t know how, but it was almost as if she knew something had gone wrong. Well, I wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of telling her about that awful last night, so I simply replied, ‘Didn’t you get my postcard?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, taking it down from the mantelpiece, ‘“Having a glorious time in the City of Love. So much nicer than those awful British seaside towns you and Graham are so fond of. Your dear friend, Edna x”’

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ I said curtly.

  ‘So you really enjoyed Paris, then?’ she said, a grin widening across her overly rouged face.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I? It’s the most beautiful city in the world.’

  ‘Is that right?’ she said chirpily.

  And then she showed me.

  The postmark.

  Clear as day. Well, almost.

  BLACKPOO

  Honestly! I haven’t been so humiliated since Monday. I grabbed the card and Mrs Norton’s holiday gift, a stick of authentic Parisian rock (I’m beginning to think even that may not be genuine now) and charged straight back home.

  I confronted Stephen with the evidence and under extreme duress he was forced to admit it. I’m not proud of my methods, but I had no choice. I’d hit rock bottom.

  20 Sunday

  Visited Stephen in hospital this morning. The surgeons were able to remove it successfully, although they had to break it in several places first. I knew it. Blackpool all the way through.