Last week passed. I'm afraid that that's all that can be said about it.
Couple of nice things happened like Chris may be coming to stay overnight at the beginning of August and it is likely that Phil will be teaching on the next course in Oxford which means that he will have graduated from participant to tutor.
Aside from that it merely passed.
I've sort of gotten used to the fact that, on two or three nights of the week, Ross works till gone 1am and then catches a taxi home from central London. So, I leave him asleep in bed in the morning and go to work. By the time I come home, he's left. I spend the evening alone and go to bed alone. I wake up and he's there. It's bizarre. We're sort of together but not with each other.
Actually, that's a sign of how much I trust him. Normally, I cannot imagine not being wakened by someone coming into the house when I'm asleep. When we lived together in my Egerton Street house in Liverpool, Keith used to wake me when he came in late from the Everyman Theatre where he worked Front of House. Not that he was noisy. Part of me was just always alert for his return. With Ross, I just trust that he will return and I sleep soundly through the banging of the front door, the disrobing and the climbing into bed.
So, the week simply passed. Until the weekend, that is.
And this weekend was the first anniversary of Ross's moving in and the beginnings of our life together so far.
We've both just re-read those two entries in last year's Journal and they
brought the memories flooding back. Actually, I'm still haunted by the sight of that
poor cow in Twister going round and round in that tornado, mooing, with a
disorientated look on its face. Ross laughs at me and tells me it was just a computer
generated image. But I don't care. It's the principal of the thing. These things happen.
Cows do get sucked up by tornadoes. I tell Ross that, if he
got sucked up by tornado, he'd probably poo himself. He replies that he'd probably be
dead from lack of oxygen before he pooed himself. Honestly, for an artist, sometimes
he has no poetry in his soul.
Anyway, we celebrated our first anniversary by joining sundry souls from work at
Kenwood House for a concert of baroque music culminating in a fireworks display.
Champagne was supplied and the company and music were fabbity. Come the end, we
did not as you may suppose make a dirty dive for the bushes. No, we took public
transport home and then we shagged like bunnies. In fact we did the
same on Sunday night also and, as soon as Ross is out of the bath tonight, I hold
out very high hopes for this evening too.
There's an old maxim that, if a newly married couple put a
penny in to a jar for every time that they make love during the first
year they are together and then take a penny out of the jar on every
subsequent time that they make love, the jar will never be emptied. I find that
very sad. But then heterosexuals have childbirth and stuff to contend with. Ross
and I think we probably shagged about 200 times last year. So, it's 198 to go and
counting.
Elsewhere during the week, the alleged (but widely supposed) murderer of Gianni
Versace, Andrew Cunanan, topped himself before he could be arrested. I, for one,
was relieved. Apparently, he was Armanied and dangerous.
