After the funeral

I'm back from Switzerland - not exactly what I'd call a holiday, though that's what it's down as at work - and plan to spend this week easing myself back into things. Again, don't be surprised if I don't post much on here for a little while ...

My mother and brother are doing remarkably well, but there's still a long way to go for us all.

Attempting to keep my thoughts elsewhere

It's getting a little easier, but life is still hard going.

Yesterday I just did not want to be at work, though at the same time I acknowledged that I needed to be doing something, preferably with other people around, to stop my mind dwelling on my father's death. My colleagues had been told the news at the weekly staff meeting on Tuesday, thus making things very much easier for me, yet trying to be cheerful in my dealings with customers was still an incredible strain. One of the CDs I put on (a compilation claiming to be designed for relaxation) did not help either - the second movements from Beethoven's 7th (Beethoven being my father's favourite composer) and When I am laid in earth (from Purcell's Dido and Aeneas) had me crouching down behind the counter while I tried to regain my composture before deciding I had to go straight to the next track. Neither come under the definition of "relaxing" in my book: the first has a touch of a funeral march about it, while the second is a harrowing piece if ever there was one.

Today was a slight improvement, despite being caught off-guard on many occasions by minor incidents which brought my father to mind. In due course I decided to confront my feelings in a more constructive way by drawing a list of his favourite pieces of music, with the intention of celebrating his memory one evening by playing them all at home. (It had been my intention to do this tomorrow in the company of my friend Don, but in all honesty it's far too soon, the funeral hasn't even taken place.)

I'll need to check with my mother that I've not left anything crucial out, but here, for what it's worth, is the list to date:
- Beethoven's Triple concerto, probably his favourite piece of music;
- Glinka's Grand sextet for piano and strings, rather less known but nonetheless another keen favourite;
- some piano duets by Schubert, preferably played by Paul Badura-Skoda and Jörg Demus; and
- Mussorgsky's Pictures at an exhibition (in Ravel's orchestration), the main item in the first big concert I remember my parents taking my brother and me to.

I'm away from Monday afternoon to Sunday evening - my flights are now booked - and in the meantime, I'm making sure I have something to do every evening, to save me being left alone with my thoughts. Yesterday I was out with Paul and Rob, tonight I had choir rehearsal (an odd affair, as everyone knew of Father's illness, which was mentioned in Sunday's prayers, but not of his death); tomorrow I'm off to see The corpse bride - it's likely to be a bit macabre, but I adore Tim Burton - and on Saturday my neighbours and I are having a quiet get-together. On Sunday and Monday I have Luke's company to look forward to. Dear friend that he is, he's cleared his diary (unprompted) for those two days to visit me.

I have some truly wonderful friends.

In memoriam H.S.M.

My father was rushed to hospital last Monday where he was placed in intensive care. Despite all the efforts of an excellent medical team, the infection eventually got the better of him and he died on Saturday. Thankfully he was in no pain as he had been heavily sedated from Wednesday, but the shock of losing my father - so quickly and at the relatively young age of 63 - still seems utterly unreal.

True, we didn't always get on particularly well (in fact I suspect we'd've had little to do with each other if it weren't for our love for my mother), but it doesn't stop me from missing him keenly. It was he who encouraged me to broaden my musical tastes - while still remaining resolutely in the classical genre, admittedly - and although we felt differently on many subjects (not least that of my sexuality), I feel there was a sense of mutual respect between us for sticking to our guns. The last two occasions I saw him, at Christmas and when my parents visited me this spring, there were signs of a definite upturn in our relationship; I only wish we could have had the opportunity to mend the rift further.

His funeral is to be held next Wednesday. I shall be away for the most of the week, so bear with me if all goes quiet on the blog front for what's left of this month.

A leave of absence

I'm going to be away (from home and the internet) for the next four days at least, for reasons I'd rather not go into at this stage, so don't expect to hear from me before Monday at the earliest.

To the small number of regular readers I have, I hope things are going better with you than they are with me.

I would do anything for love

Paul and I did a spot of shopping this afternoon, at one stage popping into an antiques shop in which one of Bach's orchestral suites was playing. I promptly identified it as being no. 3 or 4 (I tend to get confused between the two, both being in a festive D major with very similar orchestration), at which point the dealer started coming on to me, big time.

"It's such a relief to come across someone who knows their classical music. It's like those newspaper adverts where they say 'interests: music', but we all know what kind of music: clubbing."

Honestly, it couldn't have been more obvious if he'd concluded his sentence with the words "at CC Blooms" (the meat market of the Edinburgh gay scene). We were laughing the moment we left the shop, but Paul could not believe the cheek of the man. "I mean, I was right there!"

Trouble is, I need a desk and there was a seriously gorgeous Victorian one in the shop, very reasonably priced. Paul agreed I should go and have another look at it once I've measured the space I've got, particularly as he reckons the dealer would be willing to bring the price down a bit more. Though he might require something in return ...

In the immortal words of Meatloaf, I won't do that.

Naked

The sublimely weird Jeff, in Coupling, has such a thing for the word "naked" that, as a child, he wrote it "on a bit of paper hundreds of times and [rubbed his] face in it".

I wish the word held such attractions for me. Wonderful though it is that the painting I commissioned back in the spring should be displayed at an exhibition in London next month - at Throgmortons gallery, if you fancy popping by - the wall it usually occupies here looks naked.

I don't like it.

Is nail varnish the answer?

I could do with some advice here. A good deal of my time at work seems to be spent changing price stickers on CDs - certainly most of the last two days, in fact - and I've noticed my fingernails have become increasingly brittle. I'm told that nail varnish strengthens nails, so should I go ahead and try a clear one?