The rats of the conservatory

Went to da symphony last night, the Charlemagne Orchestra again, and while it was pretty I spent most of it sitting there wanting to scream. The F-word had brought his sketchbook and was scritch-scratching away next to me through the delicacies of the flutey Bach, and then half of the Rodrigo, which was a killer as it was a fucking classical guitar concerto so it was full of delicate passages. It was like sitting next to a walled-in rats' nest. I try not to be one to shit on my man's artistic aspirations but finally I had to tell him that I was finding the scritch-scratching distracting, to which he replied he thought it might be and closed up sketchbook shop.

You thought it might be? And you kept going, making me afraid I was going to shit on your artistic aspirations? I thought, my head close to explosion. But I stuffed all the anger deep inside, helped by the prettiness of the Rodrigo concerto. It felt so telegenic somehow - damn near Zorro-ish or something - but with such careful delicacy as well. Yummy.

And then in the second half, the stranger to my left started indulging in his own artistic aspirations by scritch-scratching his prose impressions of the Deimecke classical guitar concerto. Oh fuck me, I thought. It's one thing to risk shitting on my boyfriend's artistic aspirations as there's a world of ways to try to make it up to him, but quite another to shit on the artistic aspirations of a sensitive young Belgian whose cock I will almost certainly never touch. Luckily he was so into the music that he scritch-scratched in time, so it wasn't nearly so rat-nesty. And then when the jolly loud Mendelssohn came on he closed up shop too.