When Guido and I lived in the loft above The Spanish Onion our immediate neighbours were a lesbian couple called Bethany and Ethel. We always knew when they were having sex because of the groaning emanating through our walls. Sometimes the electricity power would inexplicably fluctuate and the floor boards would creak like they were manoeuvring a baby grand. One morning after a particularly passionate session I bumped into Ethel in the street outside.
”Did the earth move for you?” I asked.
Everytme they got amorous after that they’d turn up their music system to try to mask what they were up to. Let’s just say their taste in music was eclectic. Guido would always wait until everything had gone completely quiet, then he’d rattle our headboard against their bedroom wall and crank up “It’s Raining Men” at full volume. I honestly don’t think they saw the funny side.
There is a point to this story.
My father came round to the cafe for breakfast yesterday.
“I’m taking a lady friend back to my place tonight,” he nibbled his buttered toast furtively, “and I want things to be perfect.”
“Who is she?” I’m nothing if not direct.
”Let’s just call her special,” he nibbled, “I want the ambiance to be absolutely perfect.”
He’d bought toxic wine, he had scented candles, and was planning on scattering floor cushions. What woman would not be utterly seduced by this? Except now he was stuck on appropriate music. This was not surprising as, Amber, his nubile ex-girlfriend would only ever take her clothes off listening to One Direction.
”Things squelch when you make love over 60 so I want something to drown it out,” he said.
“Hmm, “ I said, “in that case you don’t want anything with too quick a tempo, unless you’re planning a premature ending.”
He stopped nibbling.
”Listen kiddo, at my age I need something that takes a while to build up to the big crescendo, but, doesn’t turn into a full-on marathon.” He sipped his coffee, “I’m not the man I used to be.”
Beethoven’s 5th was obviously out then.
“So nothing too shmaltzy or anything that could turn into a singalong,” I asked.
”The last thing I want is to hear her breaking into song and throwing me off my concentration.” He unconsciously nibbled faster.
”Well Guido and I have our favourite tracks, but obviously depends if we’re using mayonnaise or melted chocolate at the time.” I dunked my donut. “Listen, I’ll email you a suggestion,”
Later that night I called my mother.
“I can’t talk long darling,” she said all breathy, “I’m seeing a man friend later.”
”Who is he?” I asked.
“Let’s just call him special,” she said.
It was 2 a.m. when I woke up in bed. My eyes were wide open and it wasn’t because Guido was snoring like a fog horn. The penny had finally dropped. After forty years of happy divorce my parents were making love to each other again.
Anyway, here’s the track I picked. If you do try listening to this whilst making love, don’t blame me if you start thinking about two sixty five year fruit cakes having weird sex with a scatter cushion.
Though I really wouldn’t blame you if you did.