Making the Best of It
24 April

---

So, Ross turned to me and said "I woke up at eight o'clock this morning and just knew that I wanted to be fucked".

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that, despite all my earnest protestations, that this is just typical behaviour of the two of us. So, yes, I admit that Ross did say this post-coitally. And, yes, I admit that he had not crossed my threshold more than thirty minutes previously. But it wasn't my doing, I tell you. I was waylaid. And what a way to get laid. Fnar.

We sat out for a while in the garden. When the sun's out, its warmth is very soothing. But it's patchy and there's still a lot of rain about. The season has been quite strange and the flora have responded accordingly. There's still some cherry blossom about even though the first was around in mid-March. The trees are leafing but there's not a lot of plants in flower yet. The snowdrops were fine but the crocuses failed. The daffodils came out a treat but the primulas were less successful. Now begins the hum of the bees poking into the borage which has flowered with its tiny iridescent blue flower. I'll miss the colour this summer.

Maybe that's to do with being with an artist. I'm more aware of colour. Late on, just after sunset, with the sky turned a cobalt blue, there was a high layer of cloud turned mustard by the reflected sunlight. It was like staring into an Impressionist painting. Then there's the new growth of the hedging in the garden, bottle green older foliage overlain by acid yellow tips. And then as twilight falls with slate blue sky, there's the orange panes of light from the windows across the gardens. Such glory, such glory.

I've been telling Ross that my attitude to the next house I own feels quite different from this. I've loved living in this house. But I always knew that it was going to be a temporary abode. I knew that my time here was delimited. With the next house, I'm going there looking for somewhere to settle. I've never felt that before in my life. I'm looking forward to investing in the house. I'm looking forward to decorating the house to my taste. I'm looking forward to developing the garden. Ross has said that he wants a rowan tree and I'm happy to oblige as it's one of my favourite trees.

Anyhow we're trying to salvage something out of the weekend. I've let my parents and Colin know that we're not travelling this weekend and I've arranged to go up next. This means that Ross can't come with me but, no doubt, we'll sort something out. We ate mussels, trout, new potatoes, green beans. We watched...

Blair Witch Project. And we were impressed. It is as generally unnerving as all the hype said it would be. I can imagine that, if you went to the cinema and didn't know it wasn't other than a documentary and sat in amongst a lot of screaming people, it would be genuinely frightening. I like the way nothing is seen and nothing is explained. I like the way that they made a positive aesthetic virtue out of limited means.

I'm dreading the fact that now they've made a lot of money out of the idea, there's plans for a studio-based Blair Witch II.

So, then Ross and I wallowed in a hot bath with scents and candles and unguents. And then Ross skinned up a joint which we duly smoked. And then we went to bed and shagged for over an hour. I've had many a wonderful shag in my life; some have been more lusty but none has been more completely joyous.

Saturday passed quickly and quietly. A little more gardening; some shopping at Tesco's and a lot more shagging. Ross's physiotherapist says that we cover most of the basic exercises she sets for him when we have sex. Well, Ross had a lot of physiotherapy in the first twenty-four hours he was here.

Saturday night, I roasted a free range fowl and stuffed it with sage and onion. Well, it wasn't the first time over the weekend that I had my fingers up a chicken's arse. It turned out just fine, accompanied by roast tatties and salad.

We watched quite a bit of History on the television (the eighteenth century sex industry and the truth of the fall of the Alamo - yes there were Spaniards on both sides and the defeated Spanish general had a career that lasted another 30 years) as well as stuff about the opening of the Tate Modern at Bankside. Art and History. Hmm, a large thread in my and Rossi's lives.

I've just purchased the BBC Radio history of the British Isles This Sceptred Isle. It's 45 hours of narrative covering 2000 years of events. Mind you, the first thousand are tossed off in three hours. The next three hours of material cover 300 years. The closer we get to the present day, the larger the amount of material presented. It takes nine hours to do the nineteenth century and fifteen to do the twentieth. Impressions so far are that it's been well worth the investment. I can see myself returning to this from time to time.

Another theme of this weekend particularly is the Classic FM Hall of Fame. It doesn't seem twelve months since the last one. We'll see whether or not the outcomes are the same. I didn't vote this year. Not because I didn't want to. But I only got my act together after the voting ceased.

Sunday was a day of spiritual significance. This may not seem inappropriate for an Easter Sunday. However, it is a departure for me and a continuing sign of my spiritual development.

I attended Quaker meeting and spent time thinking about the performance of Bach's St John Passion which I attended recently. The work ends with a lullaby as the congregation sing the dead Christ to sleep in His tomb. For the Passion deals with the events of Good Friday. The Hope revealed on Easter Sunday through the story of the resurrection is for the future. The work meditates upon sacrifice and loss. At one point there is a short aria, sung by the bass soloist, in which the words Ist alle Welt Erlösung da? were rendered And has the world been saved today?. Which really gives us three questions. The question in the narrative which seeks to understand the significance of the Crucifixion which has just taken place. The question posed by Bach in his rendering of the text to remind his audience in mid-eighteenth century Leipzig that, according to Lutheran theology, the crucifixion does indeed save all those who believe. And the question we may ask ourselves at the beginning of the third millennium as to whether or not the world was or has yet been or will ever be saved.

Ross and I didn't have Easter eggs. Ross can't take dairy products so chocolate is out. Instead, I decorated a couple of free range eggs and we had them boiled. As an aside, I heard an interesting tale of the origin of hot cross buns. Apparently, as with much in Christian iconography, they started life as pagan symbols representing Diana, chaste goddess of the moon, and they are quartered to represent the four quarters of the moon.

We set off into town for an afternoon jaunt. Next door the windows and doors were wide open and the sound of vacuuming filled the air. Ross and I both knew what this meant. The Raiders of the Lost Weekend were frantically tidying up in advance of the return of the parents.

We went to the Seeing Salvation exhibition at the National Gallery.

One of the most famous images on view was the Christ of Saint John of the Cross by Salvador Dali which usually hangs in one of Glasgow's City Museums.

However, I was more taken by some of the early images explaining why the fish was chosen as an early Christian symbol and how various combinations of letters came to stand for the Christ in a time when persecution was rife. I particularly liked the crazed draughtsmanship of El Greco's The Adoration of the Name of Jesus, Bruegel's The Adoration of the Kings for its homely rusticity and Hieronymus Bosch's The Crowning with Thorns for its contrast of the serenity of the Christ figure with the malice depicted on the four (ordinary) faces surrounding Him.

I was less happy with some of the Catholic iconography. Ridolfo Ghirlandaio's The Procession to Calvary seems to be more about pretty boys and criss-cross structural patterns than about the creation of the Veronica veil containing the image of the living Christ's features. Correggio's Ecce Homo presents a real pretty boy Christ who looks a real soft-focus wimp. Strozzi's The Incredulity of St Thomas has the saint poking his index finger into the spear wound on (another pretty boy) Christ's side. This sickly adoration of pain reaches heights of necrophilia with Francisco Ribalta's Saint Francis Embracing the Crucified Christ with the Saint kissing the Christ's bleeding wound and the Christ being lowered down from the Cross and about to press the crown of thorns on to the head of the saint whilst a pubescent youth accompanies the scene with a ditty on a viola da gamba. With images like that, you understood why the Reformation took place. But then who said adoration had to be tasteful.

We finished the afternoon off round the corner in the National Portrait Gallery looking at photographs by Snowdon. It was, of course, much lighter fayre but none the worse for that. The man does have a keen eye for portraiture. There was even a photograph of Deborah Warner who directed the Bach at ENO which did give a rounding off to the proceedings. Ross and I were both taken with one lad in the gallery - a cutie in light blue Levi 501s and a tight dark blue top. Sad to say it was only taken with and not taken by.

Home, television, food and bed.

Bank Holiday Monday began with yoga, coffee, museli, a little reading and Ross getting right royally shafted.

The weather wasn't up to much so we abandoned thoughts of travelling or heading for the country and headed for our favourite multiplex instead to see American Psycho.

Long time ago I can remember Chris saying that his partner, Gavin, thought that the whole book was a fiction inside the main character's head. The official Web site for the film has this to say...

...or, in other words, Gavin is right.

The problem is that it makes for a very uneven film moving between cold consumerism satire and spectacular gore-fest. I can't imagine that it will do well at the box office once the word is out that it's not the slasher film of the year. Certainly a number of the younger members of the audience left long before Bateman's real psychosis was made evident.

Evening, food, a filmed performance of Britten's Gloriana on TV, David Attenborough on Easter Island carvings on TV, bed and more spectacular sex.

Last year, this Easter weekend included good food, Ross, a bit of sunbathing, some culture, some work improving the house and lashings of sex - so much so that the entry was entitled Easter Bunnies. The Classic FM Hall of Fame turned out to be exactly the same as well. The major difference has been that Cyril was still with me then.