Mrs. Fry's Diary (17 page)

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.)