17 Sunday
Quite a start to the day! And not in the normal Sunday morning way. Stephen jumped out of bed this morning shouting ‘Europa’ – I assume he meant ‘Eureka’. He pulled on his jumper and ran straight out of the house. He returned briefly to put his trousers on, then shot off again.
He eventually returned a few hours later, proudly announcing that he’d been to TakeU4Aride Cabs down the road and he was going to be a taxi driver. What a relief!
18 Monday
A big day for Stephen today. He had to go to the test centre to take his private hire taxi exam, also known as ‘The Ignorance’. Luckily he passed with flying colours, although apparently there was one sticky moment when, in answer to question 17, he said he felt immigrants weren’t to blame for the state of Britain’s roads, hospitals and education system.
Then, proudly gripping his diploma in his hand, he drove straight to Reasonably Honest Al’s used car lot, Jalopy Seconds, and traded the van for a Ford Viagra. I have to say I’ll be sad to see the back of that old van. We had many happy times in it before the children arrived. Generally, around nine months before. But I am very relieved that Stephen’s finally back on track and so enthusiastic about his new career. He says he can’t wait to get out of the house and on the road, bless him!
19 Tuesday
Coffee morning with the ladies. As my creative writing course has been cancelled yet again – apparently, the lecturer couldn’t make it this week because he was being pursued by a great white whale – I suggested we start a book club. I was pleasantly surprised that my idea was met with such a positive reaction, considering Mrs Winton’s Amazon rainforest sit-in and Mrs Biggins’ fear of paper. Given Mrs Norton’s limited literacy skills, I proposed we choose just one book to read and discuss per month. I had no wish to impose my own somewhat erudite tastes on the group (at least not for the first month) so I asked for suggestions. Having dismissed Mrs Winton’s suggestion, Enlightenment Through Chickpeas, and Mrs Biggins’ Sudoku Monthly, we plumped finally for Mrs Norton’s choice, The Brown Conundrum. Apparently it’s a bestseller, although I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.
20 Wednesday
Ordered Mrs Norton’s book online. Apparently it’s some kind of mystery thriller. People who bought it also bought The Cat in the Hat and the Miracle Wonder Mop, so I don’t hold out much hope …
21 Thursday
It’s so difficult constantly having to find things to keep the kids amused throughout the Easter holidays. Luckily, this afternoon they’re going blackberrying. And if they don’t get caught, they’ll go iPodding too.
22 Friday
Off to the supermarket. I’ve decided the house needs a proper spring clean, so I’ve made a list of a few items I need to get …
SHOPPING LIST:
1 can Pelvic Floor Polish
Several boxes of Shake ’n’ Wipe toilet tissue
Cillit Ka-Boom – extra large
2 bottles Embarrassing Stain-Away
Toilet Swan U-bend Cleaner
1 pack disposable vacuum cleaner bags for a Scumsucker Deluxe 3000
Hopefully, that lot should do the trick. After all, the baby must be somewhere.
23 Saturday
Stephen’s out at the Red Lion’s St George’s Day Karaoke Night. He’s hoping to wow them with a stirring medley of English classics – ‘God Save the Queen’, ‘Jerusalem’ and ‘Tiger Feet’.
Gone midnight. Stephen’s not back yet and I’m going to bed with a headache. What a waste of a perfectly good headache.
24 Sunday
Easter Sunday. I must say, this morning’s egg hunt was a great success. The kids found loads – Golden Eagle, Peregrine Falcon, Fabergé …
25 Monday
A lazy day today. We just sat around watching the usual Easter Monday films – The Great Escape, The Sound of Music and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Actually, I like to think of myself as a modern-day Julie Andrews. I sing, I dance and only today I made a lovely set of curtains out of the children’s clothes.
26 Tuesday
Mrs Norton’s book arrived today. It seems to have a blood-stained begonia on the cover. Oh well, I’m nothing if not open-minded, so here goes nothing …
CHAPTER ONE
Professor Dirk Duval, blond, square-jawed, six-foot-two-inch Professor of Religious Horticulture at Cambridge University, England, picked up the green telephone.
‘Religious Horticulture department. Professor Duval speaking. What was that, Giselle? Professor Johnson dead? Murdered? Beaten to death by a hoe? I’m coming straight over.’
Professor Duval slammed the telephone down onto his antique teak writing desk and grabbed his tweed jacket. The one with the leather elbow patches. The one women couldn’t resist him in. He walked out of the door. And closed it behind him. He was that kind of guy.
Good grief! What absolute tosh! I can’t believe I paid good money for this drivel. Oh well, as I said, I’m nothing if not open-minded. I may as well read the rest of the first chapter before I take it to Oxfam with Stephen’s Cheeky Girls posters …
27 Wednesday
Forced myself to read a bit more of this ridiculous book. After all, I can’t very well lead the book club meeting if I haven’t read at least a few chapters, can I? It appears that this Professor Duval has developed some kind of theory that the Garden of Eden was in fact designed by the renowned landscape gardener, Capability Brown. He travels the world on a quest to find the garden with his beautiful French research assistant, Giselle. Oh, and people keep getting killed in mysterious circumstances, by a one-armed gardener who may be acting on behalf of an ancient sect called the Interflora.
Honestly, it really is the most appalling old twaddle. If it doesn’t start to improve soon, I’m not sure I’ll bother reading the last chapter.
28 Thursday
Today was the inaugural meeting of our little book club. Would you believe it? I was the only one who read that silly book! In fact, I was the only who bought it. Actually, it wasn’t too bad in the end. Luckily, I could just about recall enough of it to fill in the rest of them and they seemed to really enjoy my retelling, although Mrs Winton did have to leave after six hours to pick up her little girl from school. All in all, I think it was an extremely worthwhile exercise. I have a feeling this book club is going to be a huge success!
29 Friday
What an evening! Tomorrow is Mrs Barrowman’s divorce hearing so she invited me, Mrs Norton, Mrs Winton and Mrs Biggins on her Hen Divorce Night. These things don’t generally appeal to me but I don’t remember the last time I went on a proper girls’ night out, and I must say it was quite an eye-opener!
I left Stephen in charge of the kids. Or vice versa, I forget which. I think it’s important for a father to spend quality time with his children. Or any time.
We began the night at something called a shot bar. I wasn’t particularly impressed as the drinks seemed a bit on the small side, although they were all sorts of pretty colours – particularly when they were set on fire. Ex-Mrs-Barrowman-to-be had had T-shirts printed for us all with the slogan ‘Happy to be footloose and hubby free!’ I wore mine under duress – and a cardigan. They were a ghastly cherry pink colour – not me at all, although obviously I agreed with the sentiment.
From there we attended a number of establishments, none of which was exactly my cup of tea, but the highlight of the evening was undoubtedly at the end. Ex-Mrs-Barrowman-to-be had booked tickets to see Arnold Askew, the world’s second best ventriloquial clairvoyant. It was quite a show! The arena was shaking to the rafters as he bounced onto the stage accompanied by thumping rock music, multi-coloured pyrotechnics and his spirit guide, Mr Pebbles.
Now, I have to say that in general I’m fairly sceptical when it comes to these things – my own Aunt Margaret, also known as Madame Jalfrezi, was herself convicted on three counts of obtaining money under false pretences after the infamous Clerkenwell pet seance. However, I don’t know whether it was his reassur
ing manner, his trustworthy eyes or his rotating bow tie, but I have to say he was thoroughly convincing. From the moment he raised his arms to the ceiling and cried tearfully, ‘Can you hear me, Mother?’ I was sold.
We gasped in amazement as Marilyn Monroe’s voice came from that little penguin’s beak, we thrilled as Eleanor Roosevelt spoke to us while he drank a glass of water and Elvis Presley while he ate a cheeseburger. Then came the highlight of the show. Mr Askew asked the audience for questions for their loved ones now ‘on the other side’. Mrs Winton was straight in there – she wanted her father to tell her what it was like in heaven. Apparently, it was wonderful – he spent his days enjoying something called a gottle of geer. Via Mr Pebbles, the spirits happily supplied answers to any question fired at them. Then a sudden thought occurred to me. Before I knew what I was doing, my hand shot up.
‘Yes?’ said Mr Pebbles. ‘A kestion frong the lagy in the thirg row?’
‘Er … yes. I have a question for my Great Aunt Audacia … I mean Maude Blenkinsopp,’ I said. ‘Could you please tell me … what’s wrong with my Stephen?’
I’m afraid my head’s spinning too much to write any more tonight, oh Diary. And not only from the absinthe & Red Bulls.
30 Saturday
Woke up this morning shaking. I had two Alka-Seltzers and went back to bed.
Woke up this afternoon still shaking. Not because of a hangover, but because of the information that old lady’s voice had given me last night. Her strident words are echoing around my head right now, just as they echoed around the Bacardi Breezer Arena last night. Who would have thought it? After 16 years of marriage, the thought had never even occurred to me. My Stephen? I can’t believe it, but it must be true. I heard it straight from the penguin’s mouth.
May
1 Sunday
It’s no use! I can’t keep it bottled up any longer. I’ve been worried sick ever since Friday night. I’m going to have to confront Stephen about Maude Blenkinsopp’s terrible revelation. I’ll do it after lunch. I can’t abide marriage-threatening confrontations on an empty stomach …
Well, that was traumatic. I hope I never have to go through a conversation like that again. Stephen claimed he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, particularly the bit about the penguin. He repeatedly denied the accusation, but in the end he was grudgingly forced to admit it.
I still can’t believe it. My own husband, a vegetarian! Of course, it all makes perfect sense now I think about it. The unfinished chilli con corned beef, the spoonfuls of steak and kidney trifle in the plant pots, the uncontrollable vomiting. Clearly, all those takeaway kebabs and burgers were just a feeble attempt to disguise his condition. I only wish he’d told me before I bought that year’s supply of Spam. I imagine he does, too.
2 Monday
May Day Bank Holiday. The kids love the Morris Dancing. I can see them through the window, skipping gleefully round the traditional blazing Morris Minor.
3 Tuesday
I’ve just read the tea leaves at the bottom of my cup and it’s not good news. I made coffee.
4 Wednesday
I must say, I’m terribly impressed by Stephen’s enthusiasm for his new career. He’s taken to taxi driving like a duck to vodka. Every day he’s up at the crack of noon, fully dressed and prowling the highways until well past midnight. I have to admire his dedication. It’s the freedom of the open road that appeals to him most, he says. That and a captive audience.
5 Thursday
Book club meeting this morning. Hopefully this time will prove more successful than the last, with the other members at least reading this month’s choice. As the meeting was held at Mrs Winton’s maisonette, it seemed only fair to allow her to choose this time. She plumped for something called The Calmer Suitor. At least, I think that’s what it was called. It’s awfully hard to hear in there, what with the wind chimes and Now That’s What I Call Vuvuzelas CD. She said it was a very enlightening book and reading it would benefit us all, particularly Stephen and myself. I’m not sure exactly what she meant by that. I do know it took me ages to find a copy in the online bookstore. For some reason it kept trying to correct me, insisting the spelling was Kama something.
6 Friday
I have to admit I’m finding it a little difficult to adjust to this taxi-driving lark. Stephen was back very late again last night. I waited up for him, although I probably shouldn’t have smashed him over the head with the alabaster sailor. Turns out there’s a difference between ‘I had that Meryl Streep in the back of my cab’ and ‘I had that Meryl Streep in the back of my van’.
I also have to remember to make up Stephen’s packed lunch every morning before he goes out. I’m not having him buying fat-filled, calorie-packed meals from all-night garages and greasy cafés every day – not when he can have them for nothing. But on balance, I must say I’m finding it a very positive experience. It’s almost like having a brand new husband – one that I don’t see very much.
7 Saturday
I’ve decided Stephen and I need to spend more quality time together, so we’ve joined the National Treasure Trust. We get discounted entry into all the country’s greatest national treasures and a lovely big sticker for the car – that’ll get the neighbours talking. Had a good leaf through the Trust’s alphabetical handbook, ‘Where’s Where’. So many marvellous places to visit – Ayckbourn House, Titchmarsh Folly and of course Mirrenhenge. Such a shame the ‘F’ page was missing. Must have been a printing error, although it almost appears to have been ripped out. I’m looking forward to our first excursion tomorrow – Lumley Manor. According to the guide, it’s an elegant property of a certain age, particularly appealing to gentlemen with a touch of refinement. I’m sure Stephen will like it anyway.
8 Sunday
What a lovely day. I must say Lumley Manor was gorgeous. Exactly the kind of place I could imagine living in if only I hadn’t married a good-for-nothing window cleaner. Stephen and I decided to take the two-hour audio tour – specially recorded information on a portable cassette-player designed to ‘enhance the visitor’s experience and bring the past to life’. Unfortunately Stephen got us the children’s tour by mistake, meaning we spent five minutes in the house and the rest of the time in the gift shop and the adventure playground.
All in all, though, it was a thoroughly refreshing and culturally enriching experience. Next time, we think we’ll try the Dame Judi Dench Otter Sanctuary.
9 Monday
Beginning to wonder where Stephen’s got to. Must be over 12 hours since he went out on his taxi shift and still no sign.
10 Tuesday
Thirty-six hours now. It isn’t the first time but if he’s gone much longer, I’ll begin to get worried.
11 Wednesday
My book arrived today. Goodness, what a dusty old thing it is, too! I had a quick browse. It seems to be some kind of Edwardian romantic manual – heaven only knows why Mrs Winton would think that sort of thing would interest Stephen. The preface says it’s written by the acclaimed author of The Joy Of Walks and One Hundred And One Things You Never Knew About The Act Of Reproduction – And Quite Right Too.
Each page carries a detailed diagram and an explanation of how to recreate the illustrated position accurately and safely with your partner, and bears a heading such as ‘The Eyes Meeting Across A Crowded Room’, ‘The Taking A Brisk Walk’ and lastly, ‘The Wedding Ceremony’. If Stephen gets back tonight, I thought we might try out page 46 – ‘The Extended Quadrille’ …
12 Thursday
Seventy-four hours now. Not so much as a text. Maybe I’ll check that Twitter thingy to see if he’s mentioned on there where he is. Although he knows I don’t go on it, so I can’t imagine why he would bother.
Well, according to @StephenFry, he’s gone to New York for the opening of the new Museum of Modern Aesthetics. Apparently, he spent last night at the Metropolitan Opera watching Tosca and tomorrow he’s filming a documentary on the life of George Gershwin. Ridiculous. I
don’t know why I bothered looking. Goodness only knows where he really is; probably shacked up with her at number 38. What’s the point of being on this Twitter thing if all you’re going to do is make stuff up? Anyone would think his real life wasn’t fulfilling enough for him. I mean, if anyone should be living in some kind of online fantasy world, it’s me; it would beat sitting up half the night wondering where he is. In fact, I think I will! Why ever not? If millions of people are prepared to read his inane ramblings, why shouldn’t they read mine? Right, that’s it. I’ll do it. I’ll open an account right now. I wonder what name I should choose?
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.
Mrs. Fry's Diary Page 5
