Mrs. Fry's Diary (7 page)

For a long time it didn't look like our horse had a chance. He was trailing the other horses by miles, or 12 to 14 furlongs as Stephen informed me, however far that is. Anyway, it looked like our little bet was lost until, inexplicably, all the other horses in the race fell at the final fence, leaving Hugh's The Daddy to trot home unchallenged.

The final horse in our accumulator bet was running in the big one - the Grand National. I have to say it was quite an extraordinary race. Who would have imagined so many horses would fall sick, lame or die like that just before it began? I felt quite sorry for our poor horse as he set off round the course all on his own, although Stephen didn't seem quite so concerned as he jigged up and down, singing 'We're in the Money', 'Money Makes the World Go Round' and, oddly, 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'.

Brangelina's Dream plodded round the course, somehow managing to get over all the fences and finally came up to the final one. He only needed to get over that and he was home and dry. Our hearts were in our mouths as he trudged wearily towards it. We held our breath as he leapt upwards. Forwards. And downwards. He was over! We cheered wildly as he trotted on towards the finishing post.

Unfortunately, we soon stopped cheering as Brangelina's Dream turned suddenly and ran off the course just two yards from the end of the race. We trudged back to the hotel with heavy hearts. For some reason, Stephen's seemed the heaviest. He went straight to bed without even touching his Bacardi and Cocoa.

10 Sunday

Breakfast was lovely again, although a little more difficult to digest this morning, weighed down as we were by our suitcases, with a doorman in pursuit. As we all charged down the street towards the railway station, Stephen was still cursing and trying to blame me for my choice of horse but how was I to know what would happen? Or that my idiotic husband had placed our entire inheritance on a bet?

And of course, how were either of us to know we would return home to find the horse in Brangelina's bedroom? To this day, I've no idea where she got that jockey's outfit.

Oh Diary, as I lie here staring out into the night, I can't help wondering what I've done to deserve this. How could Stephen do that? How could he just throw all that money away on a stupid bet like it meant nothing to him? Like I mean nothing to him? Honestly, I'm so cross I could thump him. But I'll settle for kicking him instead.

11 Monday

Well, that's that. It pains me to say it after all these years, but I'm afraid I had no choice under the circumstances. I talked to Stephen and I made it perfectly clear how things stood. To be fair to him, he took it quite well, considering. There were a few choice words, a few tears were shed and a few exclusive, limited edition, not-available-in-the-shops commemorative plates were broken; but, in the end, he went.

Apparently, the lady at the Careers Office was very understanding. She could see how Stephen's chronic lethargy explained the gaps in his CV - particularly the one from 1992 to 2007. I'm not sure she was overly impressed with his preferred options of Karaoke Laureate or Argonaut, but she nonetheless endeavoured to locate an area best matched to his skill-set. He arrived home eight hours later. He's got to go back again tomorrow, when she's confident she will have located his skill-set.

12 Tuesday

Turns out Stephen doesn't have a skill-set, so he's being referred to their extreme cases department, where they are confident of placing him in a fulfilling position. In the meantime, he's returned to his traditional fulfilling position - lying on the sofa with a bucket of chicken on his chest.

13 Wednesday

Creative writing cancelled again tonight. Not entirely sure why. The lecturer just said he was having a bad week. Something to do with shooting an albatross, he said.

14 Thursday

Must be my lucky day! I found 50 pence down the back of the sofa. Oh, and the baby.

15 Friday

For a treat today, I made the family my special pizza. Here's the recipe . . .

Edna's English Four Seasons Pizza

Serves eight or nine.

My special Four Seasons pizza encompasses all the very best of the English seasons. First, every truly successful pizza needs a base. Something bready usually works best, I find. I prefer a traditional English bread such as thin white sliced, or thick if it's deep pan, but wholemeal or malt loaf are acceptable alternatives. Knead together then roll out into a large circle (or more likely some kind of hexagon). Smear with tomato puree, ketchup or condensed tomato soup, then cover liberally with that most English of cheeses - the Dairylea triangle.

Next, the toppings, each representing one of the four English seasons.

Spring
- it has to be lamb, of course. Who could possibly watch a newborn lamb gambolling playfully on a lush green hillside without thinking 'pizza'? However, if the budget won't stretch to fresh lamb, there are a variety of pre-packed, mechanically retrieved substitutes available from most supermarkets. My own particular favourite is Spamb.

Summer
- nothing evokes an English summer better than the taste of leather on willow. But if your local supermarket doesn't stock one or both of these, strawberries and cream make a passable substitute.

Autumn
- the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. And Marmite. What could capture the essence - and brownness - of fallen leaves better than this delightful yeast extract spread?

Winter
- it can only be that most festive of toppings, mulled liver.

And finally, my only foreign ingredient. A good pizza needs a healthy sprinkling of herbs and I use only the very finest French blend - my trusty bag of pot-pourri.

Bake for 20 to 40 minutes at Gas Mark 220, or vice versa.

Serve, drizzled with lager to taste.

Hint: Why not get your husband to dress up as a pizza delivery boy for that extra special authentic Italian touch? Or a gladiator.

16 Saturday

We're trying a little bedtime role reversal tonight - I'm staying up to watch the football and Stephen's pretending he's got a headache.

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, Faberge . . .

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.'