Mrs. Fry's Diary

by Mrs Stephen Fry

  My room was terribly nice. No doubt it had been designed to be calming. The decor was light and simple, the bed firm but comfortable. And the Valium tablet on the pillow was a lovely touch.

  26 Saturday

  Woke up feeling refreshed and full of energy. I thought I’d find it difficult to get to sleep without Stephen in the bed but it actually proved a great deal easier than with him next to me.

  After a light breakfast of llama yoghurt and assorted berries, I examined the brochure to see which treatment to choose first. I opted for the reflexology, although I have to say I was a little disappointed. The therapist just kept hitting my knee with a small hammer.

  I had been hoping for an aromatherapy treatment after lunch but apparently the therapist had unexpectedly passed away from exhaustion during the night. According to the new manager she’d been burning the candle at both ends.

  Instead, I plucked up my courage and decided to try an enema – Mrs Winton’s been raving about them for years. They had a variety of different options – water, even coffee. Of course I chose the English Breakfast tea. I have to say, it was an eye-watering experience, but it was all right in the end. Although it might have benefited from a HobNob.

  27 Sunday

  Was awakened in the early morning to the sound of screams. When I went to investigate I was informed that one of the guests had unfortunately passed away. Apparently, he was having one of their festive treatments, the Santa Special – Beard, Sack and Crack – when he reacted badly to the wax they were using. The new manageress said it was a simple accident. They’d made a list of guests with life-threatening allergies but they hadn’t checked it twice. It certainly wasn’t foul play of any kind, she insisted.

  After breakfast, I checked the brochure again. I was tempted by the wildebeest semen hair treatment, but I do so hate to remove my hat in public so I just went for a quick brim bleach instead. Unfortunately, there were only sandwiches for lunch as the chef had unexpectedly drowned in his own jojoba and coriander soup.

  I decided to spend the afternoon in my room. It seemed the safest option. Besides, the chalk outlines around the hall weren’t particularly conducive to relaxation.

  28 Monday

  Not a very restful night. I was woken at midnight by a blood-curdling scream, at one by a gunshot and at two by a series of explosions. At breakfast, I spilt most of my hypoallergenic cereal due to my hand shaking and could barely sign my own name as I checked out.

  I was practically in tears as the receptionist thanked me for my stay and asked if I’d manage to solve it. I asked her what she meant and she said that was the whole point of the triple M weekend. Triple M? Didn’t she mean ‘Mmm’, I said? She frowned and handed me a leaflet. I stared down at the small piece of paper fluttering in my fingers and read it. Typical! Trust Stephen to book me into a Murder, Mystery & Mayhem weekend.

  29 Tuesday

  Funnily enough, despite everything, I think that weekend away has actually done me a lot of good. I haven’t seen Stephen’s face anywhere other than where it should be and I feel calm, relaxed and perfectly sane. In fact, I feel so good I think I’ll write a poem. After all, the sun is singing, the clouds are shining and there’s not a bird in the sky.

  30 Wednesday

  Went to poetry class. I read my poem, ‘All Work and No Play Makes Edna a Dull Girl’. Ms Wordsmith seemed suitably impressed, noting the ‘particularly effective use of repetition throughout the entire 37 pages’. In fact, she said it was so powerful and evocative that it would be a good idea, for a change of pace, to listen to a completely different reading, and she took a CD from her bag. She placed it in the player on her desk and sat back with her eyes closed, instructing us to do the same so that the words may ‘wash over us and cleanse us’.

  I shut my eyes and waited. And then came the voice: cool, precise and mellifluous – and Stephen’s. I opened my eyes, stood up and left the room.

  Now I see what it is I have to do. There’s no question about it. I have no choice.

  December

  1 Thursday

  Dear Diary, I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you about my plans yesterday. I couldn’t risk you falling into the wrong hands. I knew it would take military precision for my plan to work so I synchronised my watch and waited …

  08:25 Children leave house and turn left down street in direction of school before carrying out 180-degree turn and heading to Brian’s Bowl-a-rama.

  09:15 Stephen leaves house to go out on window-cleaning round. Heads in direction of her at number 38. Estimated time of return 12:00 to 16:00 hours, depending on level of blue pill intake.

  09:23 Leave house in best hat, carrying one large holdall, empty.

  10:46 Return to house carrying one large holdall containing saw, industrial strength bolt-cutter, flame-thrower, gelignite and book, A Bluffer’s Guide to Breaking and Entering.

  11:15 Go back to Argos to get best hat.

  11:28 Return to house. Employ reasonable force to gain entry to Stephen’s shed.

  11:52 Employ unreasonable force to gain entry to Stephen’s shed.

  11:53 Place remains of shed door in appropriate bin.

  11:58 Enter shed.

  I stepped into what was left of Stephen’s shed and looked around. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There, through the slowly clearing smoke, sitting on a small leather-topped desk was a computer, just like the one I had dreamt about in Fry Hall. And beside it were reams and reams of bound and severely charred sheets of typewritten pages. And not a can of beer or copy of Humungous Hooters to be seen.

  I brushed the cinders from the chair and my hair and sat down heavily. So, all the time he was in his shed, Stephen wasn’t attempting to brew the perfect lager, after all. But then what? Had he been writing something all this time? How could this be? What with his aversion to literature and to adjectives in particular. It didn’t make any sense.

  And then it struck me – as the shed wall collapsed. A bookshelf. I stared down at the floor. There they all were, lying at my feet – Roget’s Thesaurus, The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde, A Guide to the Poolside Flora and Fauna of Stelios … And as I rubbed my head, it slowly started to fall into place – the long hours spent in this shed and on the road, the Blackpool débâcle, the newspapers under the bed, Fry Hall, Stephen’s face and voice everywhere I went …

  So what now? I stared at the computer, the books, the sheets of paper and the smouldering remains of the shed and I knew I had no choice. I had to confront him. To find out what all this was about. To find out just who my husband really was.

  12:09 Stephen returns home to get more blue pills.

  12:10 Explain to Stephen about gas leak.

  2 Friday

  Oh dear, Diary. I wish I knew what to do. I feel as if I’ve been living a lie all these years. Or rather, Stephen has. At least now I know I wasn’t going mad. Maybe it would have been better if I was. At least I wouldn’t be feeling so lost and empty. Or maybe I would, but with a potato up my nose. I think I’ll just go back to bed. I doubt anyone will notice.

  3 Saturday

  I was right. No one noticed. Still couldn’t face getting out of bed this morning. There didn’t seem any point. Brangelina came up at one point to see how I was and to ask could she please have a raise in her pocket money? Stephen seems to be avoiding me. He hasn’t said any more about the shed – or what’s left of it. Neither have I. I just don’t know what to say. I can’t even bring myself to read the sheet of paper I pocketed from the shed. I may as well tear it up and throw it on the floor.

  I was about to turn over and try to get back to sleep for the eighth time when I heard a strange noise drifting through the window. At first I assumed it was just another car alarm but then I realised it was more melodic. Well, slightly more melodic. I reached across and opened the window to see a small group of hooded youths standing on the doorstep with their hands in their pockets, swaying back and forth. I watched them blearily for a little while before eventually I real
ised what they were. At once, I felt my heart lift and a broad smile cross my face. Carol singers!

  I leaned out of the window and shouted down.

  ‘You, boy, what’s today?’

  The tallest of the three frowned and looked at his digital watch.

  ‘Today?’ he cried. ‘Why, it’s the third of December.’

  ‘Oh, good!’ I shouted back. ‘Then I haven’t missed it. Now why don’t you all toddle off and come back nearer Christmas Day. And get a bit more practice in while you’re at it.’

  I shut the window and jumped out of bed with a huge smile on my face. A Christmas miracle!

  4 Sunday

  I do love this time of year! There’s nothing quite like Christmas to help you push your worries to one side and focus on a whole new load. There’s the cards to write, the presents to buy and the Spam to baste. So much to do! I’ll start with brushing these pieces of paper under the carpet.

  5 Monday

  Before I do anything else, I’d better write the traditional Fry round-robin Christmas letter. I know how desperate everyone must be to know what we’ve been up to this year.

  Dear All,

  A very warm and yuletidy festive period to you all. We in the Fry household hope this finds you hale and hearty. I have so much to tell you, dears. Goodness, what a year it has been!

  To begin with, the biggest news is that Stephen and I are soon to be grandparents. I can imagine what you’re thinking – how is that possible, at our tender ages? – but it’s true! Our very own little Viennetta isn’t quite so little at the moment. In just a few weeks she’ll be giving birth to a bouncing baby boy. Or girl. Or twins. We’re not sure – the scan wasn’t entirely conclusive. Of course, she and her husband-to-be, Blaine (a brain surgeon and part-time pilot from Boston in America), are as over the moon as we are and have already put him/her/them down for Yale.

  Stephen Junior has started drama school and has already been marked out as a star of the future. According to his acting coach, he possesses the brooding intensity of a young Brando combined with the comic timing of Chaplin and hell-raising potential of Rourke. Of course, we wouldn’t want to second guess the Academy but Stephen’s putting up a shelf big enough to fit the odd little gold man, just in case.

  Hugh Junior, I’m afraid to say, is our only disappointment. He just sits in his room all day doing his homework and playing with his chemistry set – hardly proper behaviour for a young teenage boy. If it wasn’t for the excessive bouts of self-abuse, we’d be really quite concerned.

  Brangelina continues to astound her teacher, currently excelling in the areas of alternative religion, and the twins are a year older and beginning to develop their own, highly distinctive personalities – in fact, they’re so individual, sometimes I struggle to tell they’re twins.

  As for Stephen and I, we’re still the very epitome of love’s young dream, walking hand in hand down life’s rose-tinted highway. We shared a beautiful weekend in Paris – more like a second honeymoon, really – had a glorious holiday in the Mediterranean, together enjoying the culture and landscape of the beautiful, unspoilt island. And without wishing to boast, despite our – or rather Stephen’s – age, our nocturnal endeavours continue to confound medical science and, on occasion, gravity.

  All in all, yet another wonderful year I know you’ll have delighted in reading about. Merry Christmas and as Happy a New Year as I’m certain we will have.

  Much love,

  Edna, Stephen and family

  PS. Oh, yes, and our baby’s doing well. Will send you details of the christening as soon as we’ve decided on the date, the name and the sex.

  Ha! Derivative, unimaginative and aesthetically redundant, my foot! I only hope I didn’t go too far. Perhaps I ought to remove the bit about Stephen putting up a shelf …

  6 Tuesday

  Received another email from Mr deClarkson this afternoon. Brangelina’s behaviour is still a cause for concern. Apparently, she’s been acting the class clown again – and the official class clown isn’t happy. I must say, he really has introduced some interesting new initiatives into the school.

  7 Wednesday

  I’m so proud. Brangelina’s got a part in the school nativity. She’s the back end of the Virgin Mary. It wasn’t quite the role she had been hoping for, it must be said, but as Miss Campbell pointed out, there is no Archangel Herod.

  Started to write out my list of presents for the family. Buying for Stephen gets harder every year. I mean, what do you get the man who has … well, me? I’ve scoured my brains. If only they did kebab tokens … In the end I gave up and asked him. Not very romantic, I know, but I would never have guessed what he really wanted otherwise – a Thermo-nuclear-octo-robogargantusaur. It’s this year’s must-have gift, apparently. Honestly, him and his gadgets!

  8 Thursday

  Bad news. Stephen Junior’s musical has been cancelled. The council said it couldn’t justify subsidising what had effectively become a one-man show, and the school said it couldn’t afford to fund it on the basis of only one family buying tickets. I wonder which family it was?

  9 Friday

  Stephen’s work Christmas do tonight. Of course, being self-employed, it’s not a very big occasion. Shame wives aren’t allowed.

  10 Saturday

  Ended up spending all night watching television, waiting for Stephen to get back. Honestly, I don’t know what this country’s coming to. According to the news, the police have revealed that over 100 major criminals have been traced. They say the police artist has been sacked.

  Stephen finally deigned to return at six in the morning. Apparently, this Christmas do was a bit of a disaster. It seems he got way too drunk and told himself what he thought of him before faxing himself a photocopy of his bottom and snogging himself in the supply cupboard. I don’t know how he’s going to be able to look himself in the eye on Monday morning.

  11 Sunday

  Stephen’s popped out to get the Christmas tree. We’ve decided to get a real one this year, for once. It’s a shame because the kids love the fibre-optic one and it’s so much easier to hoover up all those glowing needles, but Stephen hasn’t had the chance to use his Debenhams balaclava and chainsaw set yet.

  12 Monday

  I knew I shouldn’t have left Stephen to decorate the house for Christmas! I told him to make it look less like Las Vegas, so he got rid of the giant animatronic Santa. Now there’s just Celine Dion and the hookers to go.

  13 Tuesday

  Bad news. Viennetta failed to get through to the Now There’s a Bit of Talent Grand Final. She lost out to a sword-swallowing cat with a terminally ill grandmother. I was gutted. That’s someone else to cook for on Christmas Day now.

  14 Wednesday

  Phew! What a day! The Shangri-la centre was packed. At least I managed to get everyone’s presents eventually. It was easy enough to get the older kids’ gifts (I just bought what they asked for – a 500ml bottle of Chantelle No 5 for Viennetta and Stephen Junior’s Hulking Great Brut from More Money Than Scents). I’m sure Brangelina will love her new hamster, complete with cage and wheel of death, and as the twins are completely obsessed with the Telegoths at the moment I’ve bought them the complete set – Edgar, Alan, Lala and Poe. Then it was straight to the Pawsoleum to get special pet Christmas stockings for Fish, Posh and Tibbles. It might sound a bit silly but we don’t indulge them the rest of the year – after all, a pet’s for Christmas, not for life.

  I did have one uncomfortable moment buying Hugh Junior’s magic set when the shop cut up my credit card. Fortunately, when they gave me it back it was in one piece again.

  Finally, I bought Stephen’s Thermo-nuclear-octo-robogargantusaur. It took hours to track it down as everywhere had sold out. I eventually managed to find one in Toysaurus ’R’ Us, and even then I had to fight off three small boys and a lady vicar to get it. I don’t really know why I bothered. I can’t imagine Stephen doing the same for me. His idea of making an effort is dashing out to
the garage before they close on Christmas Eve, and even then it’s usually something I don’t need, or don’t want or doesn’t work. In fact, come to think of it, this diary’s probably the only thing Stephen’s ever bought me that isn’t faulty in some way or another.

  16 Friday

  Spoke too soon.

  17 Saturday

  Took the twins to Santa’s grotto this morning. Well, actually, it was Beardy Pete in the coach station toilets but they seemed to enjoy it. He’s really made an effort this year. He had tinsel hanging from the cistern and a cinnamon-scented urinal block. And his lap was far less damp than last Christmas.

  18 Sunday

  How lovely! It’s just started snowing. Isn’t nature miraculous? All those beautiful flakes. As I told Subo, although they may appear the same, every single snowflake is completely and totally unique, just like her. Or maybe it was Asbo.

  19 Monday

  Stephen’s having another day off work today – his back’s gone again. I warned him not to pick up the Christmas Radio Times without warming up properly.

  20 Tuesday

  The carollers came round again this evening. Still a bit too early, in my book. I told them that they should come back when they’ve managed to perfect all the harmonies. And that it’s still not ‘lords a-laying’.

  21 Wednesday

  Brangelina came shooting home from school today. She couldn’t wait to tell us the news. Apparently her classmate, Britnee, had a bit of an accident during the dress rehearsal. Something to do with a runaway truck – I didn’t quite catch all the details. Anyway, to cut a long story short, my little girl will be playing the whole of the Virgin Mary tomorrow night! Looks like we’ve got another thespian in the family!

  22 Thursday