Mrs. Fry's Diary Page 6
19 Thursday
Oh. Maybe I can do it. I must say, after all our ups & downs and ins & outs, it’s not Stephen’s waywardness that hurts. It’s his enormous di
20 Friday
sregard for my feelings.
Oh dear, it’s no good. This tweeting business really isn’t for me. I’m far too imaginative and eloquent. A free spirit like mine can’t be shackled by such arbitrary limits. Besides, Stephen’s just texted and I need to get his dinner on the table before he gets home. It seems the sat nav’s on the blink, which is why it took him 12 days to get to Gatwick and back.
21 Saturday
Just when I think I know my Stephen, he says something completely out of the blue to make me question everything. Apparently it’s his taxi-driver mate Kevin’s birthday in a few days and he wants to have a surprise party for him at our house. He asked me to help and, stupidly, I said I would. Which means that I’ll be left to organise the entire thing, as usual. Still, if a job’s worth doing … and I am something of an expert when it comes to social events – my Diana’s Funeral Reggae ’n’ Risotto street party is still talked about to this day.
Whenever I’m called on to arrange a gathering of this nature, I try to make it as personal as I can, reflecting as many of that special someone’s interests and hobbies as possible in the decor and catering. According to Stephen, Kevin is something of a bibliophile and gastronome (actually, what he said was ‘he reads things and cooks stuff’). He also likes sculpture, the cinema and naval history, apparently. To be honest, I’m a little surprised that he and Stephen are friends – from what I hear, he sounds like a bit of a snob. I can’t imagine what they find to talk about. When Stephen’s exhausted his favourite topics of page-three models, football and footballers’ page-three model girlfriends, he’s generally at a loss conversationally.
I set my mind to work. I would have to think of a theme, decorate, bake a cake and buy a suitable present. All in one day. All by myself. In fairness, Stephen did try to help. He suggested we combine a few of Kevin’s interests for a centrepiece and have an ice sculpture and a scale model of the Titanic, but I told him that’s just an accident waiting to happen.
22 Sunday
Kevin’s surprise party tonight; despite my meticulous planning, things didn’t go exactly as I’d hoped. In the end I chose a taxi-driving theme, as I suspected most of the guests would be fellow drivers and therefore perhaps not connoisseurs of the arts like Kevin and me – I am nothing if not sensitive, after all. I really outdid myself, I have to say. Aside from the hand-painted ‘Happy Birthday Kevin’ banner, life-sized posters of Judd Hirsch and Travis Bickle adorned the walls and scented pine trees hung from every light fitting. The crowning glory was, of course, the birthday cake – a scale replica of a London taxi cab, fashioned from sponge and black icing. It was perfect in every detail, right down to the tiny driver and marzipan student vomiting on the back seat.
As eight o’clock drew nearer, Stephen suggested I hide behind the sofa while he went outside to keep watch for Kevin’s arrival. I was surprised that none of Stephen’s friends was there already – there’s usually at least one of them lying around – but I crouched down expectantly, making sure that not even my hat was visible above the back of the sofa. I waited for what seemed like hours in the darkness and silence, until I got cramp up the back of my left leg. I shot bolt upright and hopped about whooping for several minutes until the pain passed. I was about to resume my position when all of a sudden the lights came on and there before me was Stephen with an enormous grin on his face, flanked by Mrs Norton, Mrs Winton and Mrs Biggins.
‘Surprise!’ they chimed in unison. ‘Happy Birthday, Kevin!’
I looked up at the banner.
‘But …’
Stephen was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. It turns out there is no Kevin – Stephen had made him up as a cover.
There were no words to describe what I was feeling. I was completely dumbfounded. Partly because of Stephen’s subterfuge, partly because of my own gullibility, but mostly because my birthday’s in September. Still, it’s the thought that counts. And I suppose the driving gloves will come in handy, if I ever learn to drive.
23 Monday
Stephen’s bath night. I do wish he wouldn’t make such a fuss. He’s the same every May 23rd.
24 Tuesday
A lovely family evening. We all sat round the television watching that classic eighties rom-com about a lonely guy whose inflatable doll comes to life – Now You’re Talking.
25 Wednesday
Creative writing cancelled again. That lecturer really does have the most awful luck, poor chap. Apparently, he was delayed coming in on the train when he was shot, stabbed and poisoned by all the other passengers.
26 Thursday
Stephen Junior missed school again today but his latest teacher doesn’t seem to mind. He’s a classis-half-full kind of guy.
27 Friday
Just came back from the launderette to find Stephen playing football with the baby. Note to self: Get a sitter for the baby. And a football for Stephen.
28 Saturday
One of my favourite nights of the year – the Eurovision Song Contest. As usual, we had a little soiree – I made my famous European Melting Hot-Pot.
My hot-pot was, of course, the highlight of the evening, with each of the competing nations represented by one ingredient – paté from France, spaghetti hoops from Italy and the United Kingdom’s very own woodland delicacy, the cheese and pineapple hedgehog, all covered with my own special mixture of Guinness and Bisto and cooked for 12 hours in a large casserole pot.
I even provided scoring slips and little pens. Well, technically Argos provided those.
This year’s final was held in the small principality of Bulgravia, largely because no other European country could afford it. Every one of its 608 residents was crammed into the community centre. The show was presented by the country’s leading television personality and caravan tycoon Hjarken Hagaghast, and his beautiful wife and sister, Marionetta.
As ever, there was a captivating array of musical acts, the standard every bit as high as last year’s contest. Belgium was represented by a barefoot nun, whose habit was ripped off by leather-clad monks in the final chorus. Switzerland had chosen a sealion, and confusingly the Spanish seemed to be dressed as Vikings, while Norway had come as matadors. The bookies’ favourite was the Azerbaijani entry – Sasha, a mid-op transsexual, and her medical team.
Of course, we were cheering on the United Kingdom’s entrant, winner of the reality television show The Not-Coming-Bottom Factor. She’d been voted overwhelmingly by the British public to sing Philip Glass’s composition, ‘We Love Europe, We Really, Really Do’. We were all full of optimism, especially considering the new changes to the voting system. We felt sure the Nobel committee would back our own Chantelle Ramsbottom.
I’m afraid Stephen didn’t enter wholeheartedly into the proceedings, preferring instead to sample the ‘Beers of 37 Nations’. To be perfectly honest, Eurovision isn’t really Stephen’s kind of thing. I’m afraid, when it comes to music, he’s got two left ears. But I’ve known that from the start, ever since I heard his band’s one and only demo tape, ‘Never Mind the Salad … Here’s the Kebabstards’.
In the end, the contest was overwhelmingly won by ‘Bing-a-Blong-a-Ding-Dong-Ka-Boom’, a beautiful ballad about a boy losing his father in a nuclear power station incident. So it’s back to Bulgravia community centre for the fifth year running next year.
29 Sunday
Goodness, it’s book club tomorrow and I’ve hardly read any of it. Stephen and I had better try some of these positions. We can start with ‘The Coy Glance From Behind A Fan’ …
30 Monday
Book club today. Nice to see everyone looking far more enthusiastic this month. Everyone had bought a copy and the pages were clearly well thumbed. Although I did notice that everyone else’s copies seemed a little different to mine. For a start, the ti
tle was spelled differently on each one and the covers were far more … well, colourful. It also became apparent that these differences weren’t just restricted to the covers. I could only assume that everyone else had resorted to some new dumbed-down modern version with its far more explicit language and illustrations. Typical! Of course, I put them right as soon as I realised their mistake, bless them, and confiscated their copies. I don’t know how they would cope without me, really I don’t.
31 Tuesday
A nice, quiet evening with my feet up and a cup of tea watching Celebrity Cul-de-Sac. I’m getting too old to run around after the kids every night. It’s much easier to let the police do it. Plus they’ve got tasers.
June
1 Wednesday
Stephen wanted to do it with the light on tonight, but I prefer the dark, so we compromised. I switched the light off and he wore his night-vision goggles.
2 Thursday
This month’s book club selection arrived in the post. It’s Mrs Norton’s choice – The Vicar Crack’d. A murder mystery, unsurprisingly. Honestly, that woman’s obsessed with the macabre. She even used to correspond with a prisoner in Texas. Her daily letters, poems, short stories and Sudoku puzzles proved a great comfort to the gentleman, she says. Right up to the point when he sat in the electric chair. Such a shame, as he was due to be released a fortnight later but the governor granted him special dispensation under the circumstances.
3 Friday
Stephen’s off to watch the cage fighting tonight. Personally, I find it distasteful but he insists the hamsters enjoy it.
4 Saturday
Read the first chapter of The Vicar Crack’d this morning. As expected, it isn’t up to much. Any book with a misspelt title doesn’t fill me with hope. And in the very first chapter the author had the audacity to begin a sentence with And. Clearly a course in grammar would benefit her greatly, as would a dictionary. In fact, she should take a course in creative writing (I’d recommend my own, but sadly the lecturer is still incapacitated by that iron mask). Honestly, I’ve never known so many characters introduced in a first chapter! Thank goodness 12 of them were dead by the start of chapter two or I’d never have been able to keep up with them all. Of course, the murderer is staggeringly apparent, even after 20-odd pages. But then I’ve always had a very analytical mind. It comes from living with Stephen. In fact, I can read him like a book – a great big pop-up one.
5 Sunday
I took the kids to the local park this morning. It’s got everything – a duck pond, a play area, a needle exchange point. It also boasts the ‘Unforgettable Woodland Experience’, although that’s just Mr Jenkins from number 14 hiding behind a hedge. It was a lovely day. The sun was out and the birds were singing. Or I assume they were – it was a bit hard to hear over the police helicopter and loud-hailer. Poor Mr Kowalski. Such a lovely old man. He used to be an Olympic athlete, I understand. And there he was, lonely and bewildered, standing on the edge of the sandpit, threatening to jump.
6 Monday
One of my more exotic specialities for dinner today – Spam-a-llama-ding-dong. Stephen and the kids enjoyed it so much they shot off to Burger King straight after, to prolong the eating experience.
7 Tuesday
What a morning! I had to go to Sweet Dreams to take back the so-called ‘Eazycleen’ bedsheet I bought only last week. After removing the assistant’s earphones, I slapped the receipt on the counter and forcefully demanded a full refund. Needless to say, I was less than pleased when she informed me it was store policy that all refunds were made in the form of scratch cards. I demanded to see the manager but he wasn’t available. For 18 months. Twelve, with good behaviour.
8 Wednesday
Took the twins to nursery this morning. One of the other mothers asked me how I tell them apart. I told her it’s easy – Asbo has slightly smaller ears and Subo’s a girl. I’m generally right around 80 per cent of the time.
9 Thursday
Up to chapter six of The Vicar Crack’d. The murderer wasn’t Lady Fitzmaurice, after all. She was killed in chapter five. As was Maurice. Both stabbed through the heart with a poison-tipped umbrella. I strongly suspect the singing butler. He had the motive, the opportunity and the poison-tipped umbrella.
10 Friday
Nope. Wrong again. Turns out the butler couldn’t have done it as he died in chapter four, when someone emptied a bathful of water over his electric toaster. I can see I’m going to have to pay closer attention if I’m to solve this. Perhaps I’d better take notes.
11 Saturday
Early to bed with my book this evening. Stephen’s only wearing his Tarzan thong tonight – I’d hate to be up when the police bring him home.
12 Sunday
Cooked Stephen and the kids a real treat for Sunday lunch this week – Gammon Meringue Pie. I spoil them, really I do.
13 Monday
Creative writing cancelled again – the lecturer had a bad night. Something about walking trees and horses eating each other and a man of no woman born. Oh, and he couldn’t get his dog Spot to go out either, apparently. Although to be honest, with all that going on, I can’t blame the poor mite. Ours has enough trouble with the occasional firework.
14 Tuesday
A most peculiar morning. I was out doing the weekly lager shop in Oddbinge, when I suddenly found myself feeling a little peckish. Now I’m not generally much of a one for snacks as, like most women slightly older than my age, I struggle to maintain my hourglass figure. However, on this occasion I have to admit I succumbed to temptation and before I knew where I was, I found myself standing at the checkout with a basket of Carling in one hand and a Toffeemallow Chocofudge Strawberry Cream Crunch in the other. As usual there was a dear old lady in front of me, trying to pay for her weekly shopping with a jar of pennies and a luncheon voucher. Clearly, the in-store training didn’t cover ‘ringing for another member of staff to open one of the other 12 checkouts’ and by the time she had finished, there were, unsurprisingly, more than a dozen impatient shoppers behind me in the queue. I briskly unloaded my basket onto the conveyor belt and reached into my handbag for my money and mace spray – I find it helps focus the staff’s minds – at which point I realised that my purse felt a good deal lighter than usual. A quick rummage revealed it to contain no more than a pound in loose change. I poked inside the lining and was relieved to feel several pieces of paper, which I whipped out triumphantly only to be told by the acne-ridden 13-year-old behind the till that the shop didn’t accept scratch cards.
I must have cut a sad figure as I strode home past the Spam factory, head lowered in shame, bag and stomach empty. I stared down at the cards in my hand and was about to screw them up and toss them into the bin when a thought found its way into my bowed head. What if … ? I shook myself. I may as well just throw them away. Why bother torturing myself with hope? And yet … In spite of myself, I couldn’t help wondering. There had to be a chance, however small …
When I looked up, I realised I had wandered into the park. I sat down heavily and took in the view. Everyone seemed to be smiling and laughing, from the Afro-Caribbean Senior Citizens’ Tai Chi Club to the young couple doing it against the bottle bank and the little boy trying to set fire to a swan. I bit my lip. Didn’t I deserve a bit of happiness? Just a bit. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
I took one of the three cards and scratched off the first silver box with a coin. One teapot. I scratched again. Two teapots! I just needed one more for £1,000! Nervously, I scratched off the last bit of silver paint. A mug. I sighed. Still, I had two more cards.
I tried the second. One teapot. Two teapots. And … another mug. Surprise, surprise. Oh well, I thought, here goes nothing. I began to rub at the final card. Just one more chance left to win The Mugs Game.
One teapot. Again. Two teapots. Again. Three teapots.
No. Wait. Three teapots? That couldn’t be right. I stared in disbelief. There must have been a mistake. I drew my reading glasses from my
bag and screwed up my eyes. I looked hard. I counted hard. There was no doubt about it. I had won!
15 Wednesday
Couldn’t sleep. I spent all night staring out of the bedroom window, wondering what to do with my winnings. Finally, as the sky was beginning to turn pink and the pigeons were ambushing the milkman, I had an idea. Of course! I waited all morning until Stephen had gone out on his taxi shift, then I went straight into the kitchen, popped the kettle on and opened the cupboard above the sink. After shuffling round the large tins of Spam, the family-sized tins of Spam and the large family-sized tins of Spam, I finally found what I was looking for. I took it into the living room, together with a fresh cup of tea and a Garibaldi.
Sipping my tea, I slowly turned the pages of the scrapbook on my lap, heavy with pictures cut from magazines and dreams from a 10-year-old’s head. I realised I hadn’t looked at it all year. Must have been a better one than usual. Each page bore a title, written in enthusiastic, youthful script – My House, My Family, etc – together with a picture, either one of my own childish (though accomplished) illustrations or a photograph taken from my mother’s Wishful Thinking catalogue. I scanned the images with a wistful smile on my face. What a hopelessly naive little thing I used to be. An indoor swimming pool? A stable? A husband mowing the lawn? Sheer fantasy! Still, maybe there would be something in there that could help me decide what to do with my £1,000 …
I turned to the My Husband page and sighed. There he stood, my 10-year-old mind’s vision of the ideal mate – bronzed, clean-shaven, sunglasses perched on top of his immaculate golden hair, blazer hanging casually over his shoulder. A man with a clear sense of purpose. You could tell from the way both he and his friend were pointing into the distance. I sighed and thought of my Stephen. Perhaps he wasn’t perfect, but he was better than most. Well, some. Well, Lighter Fluid Larry at least. I gazed across the room at the empty sofa with its big, Stephen-shaped indentation, and suddenly I knew exactly what I had to spend the money on. A new three-piece suite.