In the early days of the interwebs, I put up my own site called ‘The Future Husbands List’. I made it image-based because I had a copy of Photoshop. Or maybe I was still using Deluxe Paint II. Anyway, these ‘images’ were just text on squares, one per page, therefore one per person.

I want to say there were 17 or so men on it (I didn’t think I had a type, but I guess ‘probably penised’ was it) and I’ve forgotten nearly everyone I included. I know Ewan McGregor was there, because Trainspotting had just come out and he was/is pretty lovely* and I adore his cheeky grin, and that one of the more obscure entries was Neil Gibson, a presenter on ‘The Lonely Planet’ whom I’ve just discovered now works as a social worker and lecturer in Aberdeen and, uhm, Neil, call me? (So, I had/ve a subtype of ‘Scottish, probably penised’.)

It’s incredibly cringey to think about now, because emotionally stunted 19-year-olds with delusions of intellectuality are actually idiots.

That having been said, top of the list then was Stephen Fry. Which was weird for 900 reasons, not the least of which is that I hardly knew anyone (under the age of 45, who might’ve seen ‘Jeeves & Wooster’) who knew who he was.** I really liked The Liar, and LOVED Peter’s Friends so much that I watched it almost weekly when I worked in a barely frequented video store. I had heard that he considered himself 90% gay, 10% other.

Well, 10% was not nothing for me to work with, right?

Despite my enormous admiration, I didn’t actually have the time, means, or instability to stalk him, so didn’t pursue this path very hard. Because that would have been silly. Unlike ranking more than a dozen men I wanted to marry.

Anyway, Mr Fry’s star rose like crazy. I read more of his books, went to recordings of ‘Absolute Power’ (barely remembered because I was so starstruck), got hooked on ‘QI’ (ditto), admired his work on mental health issues and wildlife preservation, and waited as he became almost the most famous man in Britain.

Well, now he’s getting married. And not to me. At least not yet. I’m playing the long game by staying in Canada, running in almost entirely different circles, and hoping he’ll notice me among his millions of Twitter followers.

Ah well. Perhaps my dream was just a smidge unrealistic. And anyway, I like to be the smartest person in the room on the odd occasion, and I really don’t think I could ever live in Norfolk.

So, congratulations, Mr Fry. Do keep me in mind if the gauge ever shifts up to 14%, though.

* In fact, a few years later, my archaeology class bumbled through Crieff on a minibus and I gasped and had to tell anyone in my age cohort WHAT THAT MEANT. It actually meant nothing other than we drove down a main road through Mr McGregor’s hometown.
** Occasionally, a nerdier type would know who Lord Melchett was, thank goodness.