Stephen Fry

I woke up this morning without too many aches and pains in my legs from my walk and made my way cheerfully enough down to the shops with my five-year-old son by my side. He has a wonderful way of walking. He walks fast, then slow, then fast, then slow again. It goes on like this for some time. We entered the newsagents together. One of the available newspapers carried an article about Stephen Fry, I noticed. On our way towards the coffee shop, fifteen minutes later, an article fluttered in the bin. I swear. It was an article about Stephen Fry. Passing by in a green car, I'm sure, was a good friend of the artist. Now she is always going on about Stephen Fry. 'Watch QI,' she says, affectionately professing like-minded intelligence. Then, as I sat down in the cafe and looked at the newspaper more closely, I realised that on one of the TV channels there was dedicated an entire week to Stephen Fry. But hadn't another channel just done that? Didn't they do that about two or three weeks ago? I know: I never usually mention anyone by name like this in the blog. I feel slightly vulgar doing so. But I feel this need now, I really do, to report far and wide, despite my small readership, the outbreak in this one country of what I suppose we should call stephenfrytis. Or Fry Flu? Don't get me wrong. I have been lucky enough to meet this man who can no longer remain nameless on a number of occasions. He is a terribly nice man. The first time we met was at a magazine lunch and I was on my way to the Middle East. He didn't know me from Adam, which was perhaps not inappropriate given where I was going, but he was very friendly and attentive. He was to everyone. The next time we met I was coming out of a shop having purchased a kilt jacket which he remarked upon kindly and loudly. One of the last times we met was at the launch party of his directorial debut. On each occasion, it must be said, he was wonderful company. But I do not quite see why everything now has to have the Stephen Fry stamp. Bipolar. AIDS. Genealogy. IQs. Poetry. Comedy. The Novel. Royalty. Prize-giving. Apparently he has just turned fifty. I keep thinking of the woman's headstone yesterday. 1877-1977. Freida Jepson was her name by the way.