Mrs. Fry's Diary
Page 11
Following our usual free-ranging chat, I hesitantly brought up my concerns about Stephen – the long hours he spends on the road, and recently the even longer hours in his shed. I knew it was a mistake the minute I opened my mouth. Mrs Norton seemed only too keen to be distracted from her meal and I was subjected to a stream of banal platitudes and homilies. In the end, it was left to Ms Hurley to give me the advice I needed. As she cleared my plate she said curtly, ‘Sounds like you need to have a look in his shed, love.’
Of course! It was all so simple. I left the other ladies to finish their meals and shot straight off home. At last I knew the way forward. Better to know what was going on than continue a life of worry and uncertainty. As I headed down the street, my head was full of calm and soothing thoughts, interrupted only by Mrs Norton’s plaintive cry, ‘When shall we three eat meat again?’
30 Friday
Stephen’s out in his cab taking a fare to an address a couple of streets away, so I should have a few hours to carry out my little plan. I suddenly feel a little sick. What will I find? Oh well, here goes nothing …
Oh well. There went nothing. I should have known the shed would be locked. I didn’t expect it to be electrified and surrounded by infra-red beams, though. Whatever Stephen’s got in there, he clearly doesn’t want me to find out. Or, by the looks of it, the SAS, MI5 or the CIA.
October
1 Saturday
Stephen’s just got back from the Red Lion and he doesn’t look at all well, even by his standards. I asked him what was the matter but he just slumped on the sofa without saying a word, staring at the flying ducks. After well over an hour I finally managed to get it out of him. Apparently, the pub’s got a new landlord. Stephen doesn’t cope very well with change.
2 Sunday
Oh dear. Stephen’s just back from the pub and he looks even worse than yesterday. This time it took all my powers of persuasion, and a four-pack of Stella, to get it out of him. It turns out that not only has the Red Lion got a new landlord – it’s getting a complete makeover. Stephen doesn’t know all the details but there’s talk of ferns and bookshelves and flatbread wraps. Actually, I have to say it sounds rather nice.
3 Monday
Stephen’s spent all day on the phone to the brewery to find out exactly what’s happening to his beloved Red Lion. It would appear that it’s going to be the flagship for the brewery’s ‘foray into the young professional market’ and ‘spearhead a new economically relevant chain of continental-style socio-alcoholic environments’. Apparently, it’s going to be completely redecorated and renamed ‘Le Lion Rouge’. Poor Stephen. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He just keeps rocking back and forth in the foetal position, sobbing and mumbling, ‘Gastropub … gastropub …’
4 Tuesday
Just had a phone call from the pub. It sounds like Stephen found out what to do with himself. I’d better get over there straight away …
Deary me! Whatever is that husband of mine like? As soon as I’d finished watching Murder She Thought and drunk my second cup of tea, I set off for the Red Lion. The landlord ushered me directly to the gents’ toilets, where Stephen had chained himself to the urinals. Apparently, they’re due to be demolished on Thursday to make way for a modern unisex arrangement, and Stephen finally cracked when he heard the news. Of course, I did all any wife could do. I told him not to be such a pillock, and went home.
5 Wednesday
Now, that’s more like it! Finally, this poetry course is coming to life. Ms Wordsmith has obviously recognised that the rest of the group are holding a true poet like myself back from really nailing my muse. The subject of this evening’s session was Existential Verse. At last, a proper opportunity to show those literary wannabes what real poetry’s all about. While exploring the deepest, darkest recesses of my soul, of course.
Inevitably, the others floundered. It should be interesting to hear their attempts next week. Meanwhile, all I have to do is follow Ms Wordsmith’s instructions to ‘reach into the soulless abyss and touch the futility and despair of human existence’. I told her I would get straight to it, just as soon as I’d been to visit Stephen in the pub toilets, cooked the kids their dinner and watched Diagnosis Natural Causes over a slice of Battenberg. She said that was exactly the kind of thing I should be going for. I always knew I was a natural.
6 Thursday
D-day. Or possibly bidet, if the brewery gets its way. The demolition of the Red Lion toilets is due to begin at noon so there’s no time to lose … I’m heading down there now to see if Stephen’s come to his senses.
Goodness, Diary, what a traumatic day! I arrived only just in time (I had the dry cleaning to pick up, and Mrs Norton’s coffee mornings do drag on so). Stephen looked terrible. Tired, drawn and clearly in need of a meal.
From the other side of the toilet wall, I could hear the low rumble of a bulldozer. Without stopping to think, I reached inside my hatband and drew out a small key. Weak from lack of lager, Stephen only put up minimal resistance as I unlocked one of the cuffs. I took a deep breath as I heard the rumble increase steadily but it was too late. I had already done it! Stephen smiled wearily at me and I smiled back. If he was going to go then so was I. I placed the empty cuff around my wrist and locked it. As I kneeled before the porcelain, I braced myself …
Suddenly, there was a loud roar, and I saw my life flush before my eyes …
7 Friday
I’m sorry, Diary. I was shaking too much to write any more last night after the traumatic events at the Red Lion. Stephen and I were only inches from death when the urinal’s automatic flush doused us both. Luckily, the shock of the sudden shower brought me to my senses and in an instant I’d unlocked the handcuffs and dragged Stephen to the safety of a cubicle. No sooner had the sign clicked to ‘engaged’ than we heard a thunderous crash of steel, brick and porcelain and the urinals were no more.
8 Saturday
First Saturday morning lie-in with Stephen for ages. Unfortunately, it was because TakeU4ARide Cabs have chosen to dispense with his services. They cited a number of reasons – poor customer relations, no sense of direction, complete disregard for the Highway Code and failure to turn up for work for three days as a result of being chained to a public urinal. Thank goodness Stephen has an alternative career to fall back on. I’ll fetch his ladder and bucket …
9 Sunday
For a special treat, we took the kids to the snow dome this afternoon. They just love it when it’s turned over and all the pretty snowflakes float down on top of the plastic Tower Bridge.
10 Monday
The kids are at school and Stephen’s out on his window-cleaning round so at last a bit of peace and quiet for me to write my poem for Wednesday’s class. I’ll try some ideas out on you, Diary, before writing the final version on my best notepaper.
But first, a cup of tea. Just to give the brain cells a bit of a boost.
Time for a second cup of tea. Then I’ll really be ready to get started.
Just one more cup, I think. To get me firing on all creative cylinders.
Maybe it’s too peaceful and quiet. I’m clearly not used to it. Perhaps I’ll just pop the radio on for a little background noise to help me focus properly. I’ll try that new station. Ooh lovely, Bryan Adams …
I must say, listening to Infinity Number One FM is really helping. They only play singles that topped the charts for at least two months, which is a sure sign of quality and means every one of the half-dozen records on their playlist is a classic. Whitney Houston, for example, is the perfect accompaniment to a Cup-a-Soup, no matter how many times you hear her.
Hooray! Out of absolutely nowhere, inspiration has struck. I knew my plan would work. I’ve finally got a title. In fact, I have two. Goodness knows where they came from. Now I just need to choose which one to use – ‘I Will Always Love Soup’ or ‘Everything I Brew, I Brew It For You’.
11 Tuesday
Stephen should be on his window-cleaning round right now
but he’s forgotten his bucket. And his ladder. And to get out of bed.
12 Wednesday
Poetry class tonight and the world premiere of my existential masterpiece! And all my classmates’ poems, too. I have to admit to feeling ever so slightly nervous when it finally came to my turn. After all, I had invested a great deal of time, soul-searching and tea in my creation. But, ever the professional – in approach, if not remuneration – I put my fears aside, stood proudly up, cleared my throat and began …
‘Bohemian Spam For Tea’ by Edna Fry (Mrs)
Am I his real wife?
Is this just fantasy?
I’ve bought up the large size,
No escaping there’s Spam for tea.
Open your eyes,
Look at Stephen Fry and see
He’s not a poor boy,
He needs no sympathy
Because he’s easy come, easyJet,
Littlewoods, little bet,
When he’s cleaning windows,
Nothing really matters to Steve
To Steve …
Stephen,
Just gone to shop,
Put my coin into the slot,
Took my trolley, off I trot.
Stephen,
I am almost done,
(Better leave before my husband hits the roof …)
Stephen,
(Oo-oo-oo … any way the wheels go …)
Didn’t mean to make you wait,
If I’m not back by ten, just watch a movie …
Carry On, Carry On … Doctor, Nurse or Up the Khyber
Midnight,
That time has come.
Got jelly down my thigh,
Strawberry mivvi in my eye.
Lie back, think of England, this can’t go on,
Gotta leek in my behind that faces south.
Stephen …
(Oo-oo-oo – did we close the windows?)
You used to be so shy,
I sometimes wish you’d never watched porn at all …
I see a little pink stiletto in the van,
Sharon Hughes, Sharon Hughes, did you do the hand tango?
Underpants and night things really quite enlightening me.
Gallivanting, gallivanting,
Gallivanting, puff ’n’ panting,
Gallivanting, there she blows.
Fellatio-oh-oh-oh!
I’m just a poor wife,
Nobody loves me.
(She’s just a poor wife from a poor family
Spare her some time and a nice cup of tea.)
He’s an ape. He’s a beast. Should’ve been a priest …
Gorilla? Me? I’m waiting for my tea!
Let me be!
Gorilla? Me? I’m waiting for my tea!
Let me be!
Gorilla? Still waiting for my tea!
Let me see!
I’m going down the pub!
Watch TV!
Then maybe to a club!
Oh please don’t go oh-oh-oh!
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
Sitting here, with a beer and Mamma Mia video!
He’s down the pub and there’s devilled eggs and Spam
For tea
For tea
For tea … !
So you think you can treat me like some kind of slave?
And I don’t mean the times when we just misbehave!
Oh Stephen!
Just want something more even!
(Just gonna drink stout. Looks like we’re all right out of beer …)
Ooh yeah, ooh yeah …
Nothing really matters,
Easy to believe,
Nothing really matters,
’cept beer and birds and ladders
To Steve …
(When he’s cleaning windows …)
I think it’s safe to say I made quite an impact.
13 Thursday
I can’t believe it! The Daily Herald’s running a poetry competition! What perfect timing, given the reception my poem received at the class last night. It clearly deserves to be read by a wider audience. Why should all those thousands of people miss out on the opportunity to read a work of pure genius and originality like ‘Bohemian Spam For Tea’? I’ll send it off this morning! Fame beckons …
14 Friday
Received a very prompt telephone call from the editor of the Daily Herald this morning. She said that although my entry had a great deal of merit, regrettably they were unable to consider it for inclusion in their poetry competition due to its ‘evident plagiaristic nature’. I told her I had no idea what she was talking about and she said something about the Queen and mercury. Poor woman’s clearly been spending too much time around the printing ink. I was about to slam down the receiver in disgust when she asked if, instead, the newspaper might possibly interview me about my life with ‘the great Stephen Fry’. She said her readers might find my story highly entertaining. I said I had no idea what was so great about Stephen nor whether my ‘story’ would be in any way entertaining, but I would be only too happy to oblige, so she told me to expect a reporter on Monday morning. What a strange woman.
15 Saturday
Stephen’s sleepwalking again. It’s amazing – every night he manages to find his way to the pub just before last orders.
16 Sunday
Honestly, I told Stephen not to eat Spanish food in the bath. Now he’s got his toe stuck in the tapas.
17 Monday
What a fascinating afternoon. The reporter from the Daily Herald turned up just after noon. Apparently, he’d been delayed by the protracted birth of the local zoo’s first albino polar bear cub. He was a very well-dressed young man, clearly terribly intelligent. He complimented me on my home and my custard creams. We chatted for hours – or rather I did, while he scribbled away in his little notebook. He asked all sorts of questions, mostly about Stephen, although I managed to redirect him to the subject of my literary prowess most of the time. He smiled and nodded attentively at every answer and before I knew it, it was six o’clock and he had to go. He told me the article would be appearing in Wednesday’s edition. It was sure to make quite a splash, he said.
18 Tuesday
Poor Stephen. Ever since the Red Lion closed for renovations he’s been forced to venture further and further afield to satisfy his karaoke habit. Tonight he’s at the Ballad ’n’ Blues Burger Bar on the high street.
19 Wednesday
Couldn’t sleep last night. I was far too excited. As soon as Stephen had gone off on his round and I’d given the kids their Alcopoptarts, I dashed straight round to the newsagent to pick up today’s Daily Herald. To my astonishment, they said they had sold out. Already! I checked my watch, disbelievingly. It was still only five past nine. That reporter must have been right. I clearly had made a splash! I hurried to the 24-hour garage but it was the same story there. Goodness. I had no idea I was so popular. Well, I had an inkling, obviously, but I’m far too modest to admit it.
After scouring the entire district, I was reluctantly forced to return home empty-handed. I was out so long I even missed tonight’s poetry class, ironically. Or is it metaphysically? Anyway, in the end, I tried ringing the offices of the Herald but even they didn’t have any copies left. They’d never known anything like it. Not even when Princess Michael of Kent opened the new Matalan.
20 Thursday
I knew I shouldn’t have offered to help Brangelina make that giant butterfly costume for school assembly. Me and my big moth.
21 Friday
An interesting morning, to say the least. I was busy doing a spot of cleaning when I noticed something sticking out from under Stephen’s side of the bed. At first I assumed it was just another copy of East Anglian Babes, but when I looked closer I had quite a shock. It was a copy of the Daily Herald. Wednesday’s Daily Herald. And there on the front cover, next to a rather fetching photograph of myself holding a teapot, in bold black letters, were the words: ‘STEPHEN FRY’S SECRET WIFE LIFTS THE LID!’
22 Saturday
Usual Saturday night in. Stephen’s at Sing-along-a-sushi. I hope the Red Lion opens again soon.
23 Sunday
Still no idea who the father of Viennetta’s child is. We’ve narrowed it down to three, we think – it’s either Darren, an assistant tattoo artist; Gavin, a shelf-stacker at Foodland; or Raymond, a one-legged Dutchman. We’re hoping it’s Raymond. He’s got a PhD in Physics, the clever clog.
24 Monday
Wonder what’s happened to Hugh Junior this evening? He’s not generally this late home from school. I hope he hasn’t wandered off again with his imaginary friend, Hugh Junior Junior.
25 Tuesday
Finally found Hugh Junior late last night, sitting in the local woods with a torch and a pile of Stephen’s Razzle magazines. No wonder he was in a spinney. An educational night all round. Hugh Junior discovered that Britnee from Newport likes broad shoulders and Curly Wurlys and I found exactly who – or what – Hugh Junior Junior is. And why he enjoys playing with him quite so much.
26 Wednesday
Apologised to Ms Wordsmith for not attending last week’s class. She said it hadn’t been the same without me. What a nice lady. Today we tried our hand at rhyming couplets. I managed several – Wayne and Jane, Andy and Mandy, and Belinda and Gurinder (although strictly speaking, I think that last one’s a mixed metaphor).
27 Thursday
Oh dear. Brangelina’s nightmares have started again. She keeps going on about this man who’s been invading her dreams. According to her, he always looks exactly the same. He wears a long striped jumper and a hat and he can be absolutely anywhere – standing behind a tree, lurking in an alleyway, even hiding behind her wardrobe. I do wish Stephen wouldn’t read her Where’s Wally? at bedtime.
28 Friday