He's a blond. He's Italian. He's been around for longer than he cares to let on, but certain things about him give away his true age. His voice, for one. Oh...his voice. I could go on and on and on about what his voice does to me ; how it makes my toes clench, my eyes close, my head swim... but I won't. He reserves that voice for me, for my touch, for- pardon me - the music we make together.
He's been admired for his looks. His blondness is unusual. He's big. No titchy wee strutting peacock, my Italian. Hell no. At full stretch, I can barely reach his top b-
Enough. You can fill in the blanks for yourself. As I type, I can just see him, reclining on his bed. His grey velvet bed, I might add, but let's not get hung up on exactly which of the many possible shades of velvet are currently showing off his golden frame to perfection. In fact, I challenge any writer to nail him with words. Better by far an Old Master try to limn him in oils. Caravaggio would have loved him. I know I do.
I tried to capture something of his beauty in paint, but I wasn't equal to the task. After hours of struggle with my brushes and pigments, I had a likeness that appeared to be made of wood. Nothing like my blond beast. Nothing like.
I digress. Tomorrow we escape together. A train to Aberdeen, then a boat overnight, and on Sunday morning we arrive on that most Northerly outpost ; Shetland. My Italian, for all his Mediterranean ancestry, will be right at home. As will I. Let the wind blow, let the mercury plummet, what care we? I will raise him from his grey velvet bed, draw him to my breast, lay my head against him, draw my bow across his belly and listen as he tells a tale of the music that began in a collection of islands at 60 degrees North, and was carried all the way round the world on the strings and bows and hearts and minds of people just like me. The music of Shetland. Celebrated this coming week in an international gathering of fiddlers of all ages and abilities. Fiddle Frenzy 2012 - here we come.