Mrs Stephen Fry's Diary is haar dagboek, dat een kalenderjaar bestrijkt.
Breakfast this morning was a real treat. Madame LaRue gave us an emotionally charged rendition of 'Je ne regrette rien' before launching into a dramatic medley of Serge Gainsbourg hits, all while delivering our breakfast plates and continental coffees. It really was an extraordinary performance, mostly due to her highly expressive - and surprisingly large - hands. After breakfast she announced to the guests that tonight she would be hosting her annual City of Love Valentine's Dinner in the Sacha Distel dining room, which doublés as the guests' TV" room the rest of the time. I glanced across at Stephen. His face was like stone. Obviously, he didn't want me to guess that he'd booked a table for us this evening. He's such an old romantic at heart. Almost makes me feel glad I married him. I can't wait for this evening ...
Dear Diary, forgive my tears but I'm utterly distraught. How could he do this to me? The disappointment, the humiliation ... Í'll never forgive him for this! Never!
And to think, everything seemed so perfect this afternoon. A relaxing stroll along the 1.609344 kilomètres d'Or', a light lunch at the 'Folies Burger' and when I got back Stephen was out of bed and even putting on his dinner jacket and dickie bow. I, of course, slipped immediately into the bathroom to change into the evening dress I wore last time we enjoyed a sophisticated evening meal together. For some reason, it seemed to take a little longer to put on than last time, but I believe fine fabrics are prone to a little shrinkage, particularly after 16 years. Finally I emerged from the bathroom, like a beautiful swan in a hat. Stephen was truly gobsmacked, even if I do say so myself. He was absolutely speechless for several minutes before finally kissing me softly on the cheek, saying 'See you later,' and leaving the room, hurriedly.
Stephen's bladder has seen better days so I made my way downstairs to wait for him in the dining room. Madame LaRue made a pretence of being surprised to see me - no doubt Stephen had informed her of his little subterfuge - and ushered me to the one unoccupied table in a darkened corner of the room (presumably their most romantic table). I selected a bottle of the exotic sounding "Vin de Maison' and waited ...
If anything, the third bottle of Vin de Maison was even more delicious than the first two and by the time my Crème Sarkozy arrived, I'd almost forgotten that Stephen wasn't there. In fact I might have forgotten altogether, had it not been for Madame LaRue's sudden rousing burst of Manhattan Transfer's 'Chanson d'Amour'. Fm not generally given to public displays of emotion but I have to admit I weiled up. Then my shoulders started to shake. Then tears began to flow down my cheeks. Then I punched the accordionist. Rat-a-tat-a-tat, indeed!
I've no idea what time Stephen finally made it back to the hotel. Hopefully in time to pay for the taxi I charged to our room. Exhausted by the events of the evening, I slept all the way home. Au revoir, Paris.
Gave Stephen the silent treatment yesterday. He didn't notice.
Tried the noisy treatment today. Still nothing.
Tried the crockery treatment today. I think I'm beginning to get through to him.