I wanna hold your hand

Let me define true love:
Sitting in bed at six in the morning with a cup of tea and your beloved, watching the American Idol recap show on TiVo (Lennon/McCartney week). My beloved's insights are multi-faceted "Oh my God, this is so cruel, I forgot how cruel this show could be." "I like this guy, it's not my look per se, more David Cassidy but I like him." "Paula is a nutjob and I do hate her but she does get up there and dances and makes them all feel better." "Is that Grace Slick reincarnated?" "I recognize that guy." "Is she a big lesbian?" "Poor Jim Carrey" and so on.

When he's been away all week, and I lie here gazing at him, holding his hand, and listening to his chirpy commentary, this is as good as it gets.

Good friends came for dinner last night. Lovely grilled lamb chops and couscous and butter lettuce salad with sweet onion for Jumby, who has informed me that he's not a big fan of bitter greens any more (so much for my dandelion fetish). My Miss M brought a simply delicious French apple tart, which baked in the oven as we ate, served with vanilla gelato. Eddie made scrumptious cream puffs with curry-spicey mango apples compote and cream. I felt as if I was on an episode of Top Chef. Miss A brought grappa. "I know you'll never drink this" she said, handing me the gorgeous box wrapped in a pale blue organdy ribbon, "but isn't that the most beautiful illustration you've ever seen?" In delicate blue and pink and brown, a small kingfisher in rushes was painted onto the box. We sat outside after dinner and listened to J's Scottish Highland mix. Another friend read Billy Collins poems & we giggled into the cold night.

"Is Paula on fewer drugs at the moment?" asks Jumby, "she's remarkably lucid."