American Gothic

... or perhaps more accurately "American Minimalist," or even just "Minimalist," but that didn't sound as good.

I accompanied the boyfriend to the Royal Albert Hall last week to see the American composer John Adams conduct three pieces of his own work, all as part of the current BBC Proms season. We go to the Proms quite a bit. The boyfriend sometimes even "proms" properly, standing with the die-hard prommers down by the stage, but I (being more accustomed to luxury and citing low blood pressure) prefer to sit. John Adams always gives excellent Proms value as he talks about his work in pre-prom interviews before taking the conductor's stand and really going for it. He's an energetic performer who knows how to get the best out of orchestras, especially when they're playing his music, and it's an amazing sight to see.

At an Adams prom the best place to sit is in the choir stalls, right behind the percussion. You get a really good view of him conducting, but you also get the full benefit of the bizarre percussive combinations that underpin his music. Bells, bowls, drums, gongs and the use of a bow to play a vibraphone - it all goes on right under your nose. The music itself, for me, is something that I feel I can really inhabit. Whether it's because I remember all of the composer's descriptions of what the music represents from his pre-prom interviews or because I genuinely connect with it on some deeper level, I'm really not sure, but there's something there that appeals to me. In "My Father Knew Charles Ives" the soundscapes of lakes, mountains and marching bands in small American towns are vivid. In "The Wound Dresser" you can feel the essence of what Walt Whitman was trying to say as he described his experiences as a wartime nurse - the small moments of calm determination to do the right thing amidst the pain and the tragedy that a life spent caring for others comprises. The final piece "Harmonielehre" was tremendously loud and exciting, building to a huge conclusion. It was extremely popular with the audience. John Adams took many curtain calls and grateful bows, but he is definitely entitled to milk the audience's appreciation on account of his being extremely talented.

We're off to the Proms again this Sunday, to see Shostakovich's "Lady Macbeth of the Mstensk District". This is a bit of a gamble for us, as neither of us knows what it's like, but it's good to challenge yourself culturally from time to time, surely? With two hours of opera sung in Russian. Oh well, if it's no good at least they serve decent ice creams at the interval.

Blood, Sweat and Tears

Another week, another wedding. This time we are preparing to celebrate the nuptials of my boyfriend's elder sister and it has already proved to be a painful experience.

The sister has decided not to have a wedding list. Neither did the sister send out benevolent, warmhearted greetings to all of her guests saying that for them to be "present" at the ceremony is the only "present" that she requires to celebrate the day. So we really needed to get some sort of gift for her and her new husband. It would just be wrong not to. Now the boyfriend and his sister are not close, and to say that she and I do not get along well would be a serious understatement. We don't really know her and we certainly don't know the future Mr. Boyfriend's Sister, so shopping for them is difficult. Add to this anxiety the knowledge that the gift is likely to be opened in front of the massed throng of family and trendy, London-based thirty-somethings with critical eyes and you have a recipe for extreme stress.

The happy couple threw us a welcome life-preserving inflatable device, though, by planning to get married in the architectural madness that is Brighton Pavillion. I got the bright idea that a framed print of this iconic building might be a charming, lasting reminder of their vows. A quick internet search turned up many prints of John Nash's original pavillion studies, which were nice but not terribly exciting. Eventually I stumbled across a gallery in Brighton that offered a stunning reproduction of a painting of the pavillion by night, painted by a local artist. So we ordered the print and I must say that the service from the Window Gallery was excellent. It arrived really quickly and it is a thing of great beauty. I urge you to buy things from them. To save a few bob and add a personal touch to the gift, we just bought the print unframed and decided to frame it ourselves. I don't really urge you to do this.

We spent yesterday afternoon measuring, cutting, hammering and taking an unscheduled trip to the local craft store to buy white mounting board. White isn't just white, by the way - there are several different shades of white and the right white is very hard to find. Eventually we got to the stage where we could lift the mounted picture and glass front panel into the frame. It was here that we learned an important life lesson - the edges of glass are sharp. Just as everything slotted into place I noticed that the boyfriend was bleeding all over the mount, glass, frame and backboard. He went off in search of a plaster whilst I disassembled the frame and tried to clean up the attendant mess. The print, luckily, was fine, and most of the blood wiped off. The backboard, however, was rather porous and had a murderous red stain on it. We managed to cover this with the authenticity label detailing the artist's name, gallery address and print number - always buy your art from reputable galleries who give you such things! Then we started attempt number two at putting the picture together. Shifting the glass into position, I felt the corner graze my knee. It thought it was just a scratch, but as I looked down I saw my knee rapidly reddening as blood oozed from it. I limped off to get a plaster of my own, taking care to avoid the print in the process.

The print is now framed and it looks great. I'm sure the happy couple can't fail to like it and it's bound to go down well with the crowd. They'll never know the effort that went into it, though, or appreciate the minor catastrophes that befell us as we put it together for them. Still, I feel that we're really giving something of ourselves to them on their special day.

Matrimonial Misadventures

Last Saturday the "big day" finally arrived for my friend Wendy and her other half John, as they tied the knot in Mildenhall, Suffolk. For the boyfriend and myself, this meant a cannonball-run style drive up country that nearly culminated in us missing the ceremony. It wasn't the almighty queue for the Dartford Tunnel that caused the problem. Actually, that was a popular topic of conversation at the reception. We dealt with it by winding down the windows and belting out Verdi's "Requiem" at high volume, much to the bemusement of everyone who was crawling past us in the adjacent lanes. Missing our turnoff on the M11 was a bit more difficult to rectify.

In the end we took a long detour through Essex, turned ourselves around and got back on the right track. Somehow we found the right county and even managed to get on the appropriate A road for Mildenhall... only to find yet another queue as part of the road was closed. By now it was extremely hot. The monotony of slowly creeping forward in the blazing heat was broken only by the enthusiasm of a small child waving a stuffed dog out of the window of a people carrier to our right (that's a soft toy dog, by the way, not some freakish example of taxidermy). We passed people whose cars had overheated. Our car was fine, but we were starting to smell distinctly interesting as we sweltered and baked. Half-past two ticked on by, the wedding was scheduled to start at three, neither of us was dressed for the occasion and the deodorant was buried under mountains of stuff in the boot. We were starting to get worried.

All of a sudden the traffic started to move and we found ourselves diverted through the Suffolk countryside around the blockage. Finally we were in Mildenhall itself. At 2.45pm we were on Mildenhall High Street and the hotel was in sight. We screeched round a corner and into the car park, thinking we'd get changed in the loos. We were confronted by a phalanx of nervous-looking bridesmaids and men in matching waistcoats. Thinking better of it, we made a swift exit. We'd have to make a mad dash for the hotel where we'd arranged to stay and risk missing the exchange of vows. Luckily our hotel was only five minutes up the road. Even more luckily, they didn't seem to want to take any of our details as we checked in. They practically gave us the room key as we walked through the door. So, we sprinted up the stairs and found the room. Clothes, hairspray, deodorant (oh precious, wonderful deodorant) and shoes went everywhere as we struggled to make ourselves presentable. The boyfriend had forgotten his cufflinks. I realised that I needed to pin the top of my dress together to prevent inappropriate flashes of cleavage. Still, though, I think we got ready quicker than we ever have before. It must have been five to three or even later by the time we were back in the car, having passed another wedding party on the way out. Driving back into Mildenhall once more, we saw a ribbon-clad wedding car containing another bride and a bearded man in a layby. I was pretty sure that this was Wendy and her dad, which was a great relief. Either she'd got cold feet and decided not to go through with it, or she was exercising her bridal prerogative to be late - and either way we'd make it to the ceremony before she did!

Well, we did make it in the end and we had a great time. It was fantastic to see Wendy again, although it is very strange to see the girl that you sat next to in school and who was your childhood friend in full bridal regalia. Who'd have thought we'd actually be all grown up one day? She looked amazing and she and John are obviously very happy together, so congratulations and good luck to them. All of the effort to get there was worth it so that we could "share the love"... maybe a little even rubbed off on the boyfriend and myself, who knows?