Maybe I misunderstood Handel
I am a walking cliche. Not only am I proud homosexual with a partner, a mortgage, two gorgeous fluffy cats and no real desire to adopt or engage with a surrogate mother, but I’m also a red wine drinker, a bloke who likes to cook and finds pine worktops and directional kitchen lighting appealing. I am everything you see in the adverts and more.
Tonight is quite possibly the first night in a long, long time I’ve found myself relaxing. It’s been a massive indulgence, first taking a trip to a nearby electrical store to replace a much-loved and now totally defunct bathroom radio, then spending the remainder of the evening casually sipping red wine whilst I cook a cheeky little number from Rachel Allan’s Favourite Food.
It’s the spicy creamy sausage with pasta in case you’re interested served with a scraping of parmesan cheese and fresh chopped parsley from the garden. Yes, that’s right. We grow our own herbs.
What’s striking amongst this sickening and shameful scenario (I work in a media industry which looks down its nose at people who appreciate feeling comfortable and contented) is to what extent I reckoned it’s contributed to me appreciated the music of a composer I have in recent weeks denounced as “boring”.
Some people reckon George Friedrich Handel’s music is beautiful. Those same people fail to understand why it is I find it deathly dull. Don’t make me sit and listen to his Messiah. I know I won’t enjoy it.
And yet, a small number of glasses of red wine and the ridiculous kitchen setting described above, and I’m prepared to confess that I may possibly have been converted to Handel’s music. True, it’s music coming out of a smallish radio in the corner of the kitchen and I am flitting in and out of the kitchen to take in the view of South East London from the front door, but I am listening to his music (in a sense). That’s a start.