Apology

D got out of bed today. He’s still far from well but we drove up to Hampstead Heath and he sat on a bench in the Hill Garden in the watery sunshine while I climbed up onto the pergola and waved down at him. He’d had enough after a few minutes. His first cigarette in days set him off coughing and then his ribs hurt and his scabby shingles started to weep. Poor mite, he’s falling apart. We went home and I soaped his back in the bath and dabbed calamine lotion on the shingles that haven’t blistered yet and are still irritating him.

I feel very sad about my adventure the other night. We’d been doing so well with the whole monogamy thing all this year and now I’ve spoiled it for a fumbled, unsatisfactory fuck. And while D’s sick in bed. I’m a horrible, horrible person. So I did something I’ve never done before; I apologised to him.

Oh, I’ve apologised for things before now. I apologised the time I climbed up a ladder he was holding to get a box of books out of the loft and the bottom of the box gave way and all the books landed on his head. I apologised the time I reversed over his foot (though I still think that was partly his own fault). And I’ve apologised on countless occasions while naked and under threat of another six strokes unless I confess my shame at my wicked wantonness (not that there’s any point to this as I always seem to get the whipping anyway).

No, I mean a proper apology. I’m sorry that I let you down.

D put his arm round me as we lay on the bed in our bathrobes and said, “It’s OK really, you know. I think you upset yourself more than you ever upset me.”

But I’m not sure this is true anymore.

Anyway, to employ a jarring shift of tone worthy of any nightly news programme (“Thousands of Tamils trapped in bloodbath as Sri Lankan forces advance. But first, some kittens who’ve found a new mum in the shape of Mildred the hen.”) I’m all set for Eurovision tonight. I see Moscow riot police have violently broken up a gay rights demonstration already. Moscow’s mayor has branded gay parades as “satanic” and called gays and lesbians “weapons of mass destruction”. If you can’t be gay at the Eurovision Song Contest then for heaven’s sake where can you be?

Andy the Gay Policeman is coming round to keep me company through the many hours of Euro pop so I don’t imagine this news will put him in a good humour. I’m hoping he’ll be distracted by the fact that Albania’s act apparently includes a large green dancing man and two small white-faced mimes who spin on their heads. Meanwhile, the Germans are fielding Dita Von Teese, presumably in the capacity of getting her kit off rather than singing.

Because it’s not Eurovision unless you dress up (and Dita would agree with me), I’ve assembled an outfit consisting of black velvet hotpants, black and pink hooped stockings, black laced ankle boots, a silver sequined jacket and a pink feather boa. I’ve been singing along to the hits of Abba (harder than it seems; those girls had a two-octave range) and preparing suitably retro food. We’ve got cheese and pineapple on cocktail sticks, stuck into half a grapefruit, pigs in blankets, prawn cocktail, avocado vinaigrette and sandwiches cut into star and heart shapes with a biscuit cutter. I’m going to make sangria and I’m toying with whether I can be bothered to make lemon meringue pie, which is a complete pain to make but D likes it.

Does that sound like a fair exchange? “I might be morally depraved enough to screw around while you’re on your sickbed but look, I’ve made you this lovely pudding!” No, you’re right, that doesn’t work.

Comments

[Mac]

Yes.. Go with the Lemon Meringue!