Madrigal

It’s a grey, cold, November Sunday morning. I am up earlier than I would prefer, and switch on Radio 4 in an attempt to feel more awake. Armistead Maupin is on Desert Island Discs, and he is an entertaining guest. As he talks about his life and his work, I think back to reading the Tales of the City novels and remember, it was my father who recommended them to me, lent me most of them, too. Those were the days when he still cared about life and about me, and recalling happier times is bittersweet. While I am sensible how unpleasant he has become, remembering that it was not always so, and that his interest in literature and music brought me great pleasure, humanises him again, and that I enjoy.