I have a thing for voices. A serious thing. Bumblebee was spawned with a man whose only redeeming feature was his voice, and in fact I first heard his voice in an art performance (Sitting in a dark fur-lined booth listening to love murmurs in various languages provided by art-student volunteers from my art-school, I HAD to find whoever owned the voice. Four months later I was pregnant to him and desperate to lose him somewhere. Anywhere. But enough of that). Anyhoo, I remember my first serious snogs were to the BBC radio production of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, and my first crush was on Derek Jacobi reading I Claudius. Mmm. Still listen to and watch that often. And yes, Best Beloved has a gorgeous voice. He can sing Paul Robeson covers convincingly (but only in the shower. Very shy man).
Why am I on this track? Must remember to regenerate those missing braincells. Oh yes, Stephen [fucking] Fry.
Now, I'm the first to admit that Stephen Fry has a brilliant ability to narrate. He also has a very nice voice. I thought he was a good choice for The Book in the lastest Hitchhiker's movie, in the absence of the venerable Peter Jones. He has done a great job of narrating all the Harry Potter books on audio book. But there comes a time when I have to say enough. Enough Stephen Fry. Why? We own all five Harry Potter books on cd. I listened to them all once, which was terrific. Book five got us to Woodford and back in the car. Fabbo! But both Best Beloved and Bumblebee seem to need to listen to Harry Potter ad nauseum. Over breakfast. While ironing. In bed going to sleep. In the car on trips. And now Bumblebee has his very own cd-player in his bedroom (thanks, nanny and grandad). Today I walked up the corridor to my office (which is the spare room) and heard Stephen Fry's voice coming out of every other room. Two strands of the same voice, reading different words. It's like living in an audio Escher drawing.
Maybe it's JK Rowling I should be hating. Funnily enough, I don't dislike what I'm hearing, which is lucky because the Harry Potter silly season starts up again in just over a month ('Should we buy two copies of the new book?' BB asked anxiously. 'Why?' says I. 'Well, who gets to read it first?' he says. 'Darling,' I say, 'You do. Because you give a shit.' And because he'll take day 1 off work to read it and I know I'll get it by day 2). I'm just resenting the fact that Stephen Fry seems to be yet another man in the house I have to tiptoe around while we're sick. I'm thinking seriously of writing him a letter. Maybe he'd write back. It would be refreshing to read something by him for a change.
This bloody lurgy is slowly lifting from my body, but it has settled deeply into Best Beloved. Has anyone got a cure for the humourlessness of sick men? Sheesh, Stephen Fry can have him in this mood! The only upside is that his normally deep voice has gone ever lower and huskier. Very sexy, but I can't do anything about it while Stephen is in the room as well...