#anyway so far i have learnt like ten different ways of expressing sadness and had a minor breakdown over Jingyan's character bio

[sinni-ok-sessi]

doggedly Pleco-ing my way through the Nirvana in Fire manhua is possibly the best hobby I could have devised for myself because it combines my most beloved pastime (thinking wistfully about Mei Changsu) with the promise that I might also learn something

[margarethelstone-2]

if I loved you less (i might talk about it more)

requested by one and only @nerdypanda3126. thanks so much!

Read on AO3!

"Taichi... You still like me, don't you?"

The young man in question raised his eyes from the book he'd been trying to read for the past quarter, and fixed them on Chihaya, confused. It wasn't just the question that surprised him, even though its content sure would have been enough to puzzle a better prepared soul.

The fact that Chihaya had barely spoken at all for most of their time together today was the main reason why he felt startled by her words now.

She really had been quiet for most of the day, even though they were spending it at his place, determined, as she herself had claimed, not to get in the way of his studies. Taichi had tried to make her realise that it wasn't what he wanted at all, that the very reason he'd invited her over was to get a break from all the reading and just relax a little. He'd explained over and over again that he needed her to be a distraction; tried – unsuccessfully – to get it into her head that she was actually doing him a favour. He knew how much of a workaholic he could be and so he specifically planned the visit as a means to enforce the necessary break he might not have taken otherwise.

He had told her all of that. And yet, she'd remained quiet.

All the way until now, that is.

And just what on earth was she going on about?

"What's with that question? You know the answer to that," he replied casually, almost dismissively, before going back to the textbook in his hand. He really had no idea what had gotten into her all of the sudden, but then again, he didn't care to delve on the subject. He knew she'd tell him anyway.

"I was just wondering," she answered, a trace of hurt ringing in her voice; Taichi needed to hold back the smile that sprang on his lips at the sight of her pout. "Is it so bad if I do?"

Taichi hummed in thought.

"Is that why you've been so quiet all day?" he asked right after. "You've been just busy considering my possible affection for you?"

"Stop with the mockery. I'm thinking of it seriously."

"Oh? And what conclusions did you come to?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I'd come to any."

He had no choice but to close the book and put it away after a statement he'd just heard. Not that he minded. Throwing it on the floor rather carelessly, he sat up straight in his corner of the couch and, resting his chin on his palm, he fixed his gaze on the girl seated by his desk on the other side of the room.

She really was being impossible today.

Well, he supposed that wasn't anything new. He'd known Chihaya long and well enough to not be fazed by the swings in her mood or the inane schemes she so often came up with. He had learnt to expect the unexpected, every day, every hour of his otherwise boring life, because that was obviously the only way to keep up with her. The one thing he had to keep doing if he still wanted to be a part of her life.

Because that was how Ayase Chihaya was.

Chihaya. His best friend. His fiercest karuta rival. The girl he'd been in love with since fourth grade of primary school and the girl who'd rejected him straightforwardly at the very beginning of their third year in Mizusawa High. The girl whom he'd thought he could never win over, on whom he'd given up again and again, fooling himself he could move on and blight the love he'd had for her since he'd been a ten year old squirt.

He sighed and shook his head, remembering her question from a moment before.

She knew damn well he was still head over heels for her.

She was his girlfriend, for sanity's sake.

"I can't believe you actually have asked, you know," he picked up with the same fake weariness he'd shown before, if only to cover his growing amusement. Seeing her very real anxiety made him assume a more solemn expression, as he asked, "Seriously, what brought this on? Are you mad about something?"

"I'm not mad," she disagreed instantly, and with good emphasis.

"Are you unhappy then? Did I do something to make you feel like that?"

Again, she denied. Now she just looked sad. "That's not it."

Wrong. She was flustered.

"Then what is it?" Taichi asked, as gently and warmly as he could. Not for the first time, he felt grateful for all the hard training his patience had received. It was obvious that Chihaya needed that from him now. "It's not like I could get over you like this, you of all people should be aware of that. You're the most important person in my life. The best companion I could think of. You know I get lonely and grumpy when I can't see you, and you know I still get absurdly jealous, even though I hate being so. And so I can't help but think there's something else I'm not doing right."

Taichi stopped there, waiting for her to, if not answer his question, then to contradict him in one way or another, at least. After all, he really was at a loss.

He thought he'd been doing a fairly good job as a boyfriend, when all was said and done. He'd already shared Chihaya's most important interest and it wasn't difficult to at least understand the new ones she'd found. He made sure to be there for her when she needed him, and tried his best to give her space when she needed that more. True, he'd had some trouble coming for help on his part, but even that was a thing of a past rather than present – certainly not something that could shock Chihaya into thinking like this.

He would think that the all-day-long date he'd come up with and seen through in celebration of their first anniversary as a couple last week was a good show of how much he still cared.

He wasn't perfect. Neither was she. But never in his life would he have thought that he'd failed to get his feelings across.

"Chihaya," he prompted once more, his voice audibly quieter. "Please tell me what it is. I can't fix it if I don't know what's broken."

She looked up from the floor she'd been glaring at for a while and met his gaze, a shadow of unease still clouding her big brown eyes. She opened her mouth to answer; she closed it instantly and looked away again, abashed. There was a hint of pink on her cheeks, and it only grew darker as the time passed, though whether it was because of embarrassment or something more alarming, Taichi couldn't tell yet.

"Chihaya–"

"It's because you never say it."

He supposed his eyes opened wider than ever, what's with the utter astonishment he felt growing inside him immediately. For a few moments, he could do nothing but stare, the craziness of the situation overwhelming enough to successfully prevent him from forming a sensible thought, and much less coming up with any kind of solution. One look at Chihaya was enough to sober him up, however.

She was distressed. She was insecure.

No matter how stupid he thought the reason to be, he could hardly allow the situation to last.

With a groan that was bound to startle her, he bent over and buried his face in his hands.

Only one thing he could do now.

"Come here," he said, his face still hidden behind one hand as he tore the other one away and beckoned her towards him. "No excuses. You'll talk later. Now just come here, please."

She did, albeit tentatively, as if afraid of the reaction he might show her. With his patience starting to run thin at last, Taichi didn't wait for her to cover the whole distance, instead reaching out and grabbing her by the wrist, only to pull her down on the couch right next to him.

And then he pulled her even closer, locking her in a bone-crushing hug.

"I'm gonna do something to you," he mumbled into her hair, his voice a mixture of laughter and complaint. "You cruel, cruel, woman. Have you no heart? Here I am, mind reeling as I try to figure out what the hell I did wrong again and you say it's because I don't say I like you enough. As if you didn't already know you've got a firmer hold of my heart than I ever did. Tell me, am I really this bad at showing you that I care that you doubt it?"

It was Chihaya's turn to growl at him, though it surely – and fortunately – didn't stop her from burying her face even deeper into his chest and digging her fingers into the shirt on his back. Again, Taichi laughed at the display, but didn't loosen his grip one bit.

That silly, unbelievable, most beloved girl.

"This and that are different things," she muttered finally in response against his buttons, her stubborn indignation probably being the only reason why he could discern the words at all. "There are different kinds of love languages. We even talked about it, you know."

"Yes. And as far as I remember, we've already established that neither of us cared for this one. So your argument doesn't work."

Well, this was a lie, or at least, it wasn’t fully true. After all, he could never get tired of hearing her say those words, to him and him only. But he didn't need it that much, not when he already knew of so many other ways in which Chihaya expressed her love towards him. He'd always assumed it was the same for her, too.

Funnily enough, he still didn't think he was mistaken.

"I've had feelings for you for the past fourteen years, you dummy, I wouldn't change my mind just because you decided to return them," he threw in only half-jokingly, as if to make sure he got his point across before moving onto the next part. "So? Care to tell me what's the source of it all?"

He felt her tense against him for a split second, only to relax in the next moment with a long, weary sigh. He waited for her to make herself comfortable in his arms, shifting ever so slightly to make it easier for them both. And then he heard her speak.

"I met up with Kana-chan the other day," she admitted weakly. "Her and Desktomu. And I guess... They're always so sweet with one another, now more than ever. I suppose... It made me feel a little jealous. But most of all, it just made me think."

"And you decided that I'd fallen out of love with you, because I don't talk like Komano does?"

"I didn't decide anything, I told you already. I just wondered if maybe I was doing something wrong to deserve that treatment. Sorry for being so terribly scared of losing you again because of my own foolishness."

Words caught in his throat as Taichi tried to protest against this new development. That last addition Chihaya had made – and more importantly, the wounded, truly uncertain voice with which she'd spoken – would have been enough to melt his heart even if he had actually been angry with her. Right now, he had to hold back from grabbing her by the chin and kissing her senseless until all the idiotic ideas evaporated from her overworked mind.

The things she did to him without as much as trying.

You evil little imp.

"They're newly-weds. You can't use them for reference," he managed to stutter out at least, conveniently ignoring the hoarseness of his own voice and the emotion that hovered behind it. "Not to mention, those two are the opposite of us when it comes to talking about feelings openly. There's a reason they got together six years before we did. Just because something works for them doesn't mean it's the best course for us to take as well."

He smiled again and planted a kiss at the top of her hair, before adding, "I still can't believe you really doubted me, though."

She huffed and pulled away, although she still didn't move from her place on the couch. They were still close; close enough for Taichi to see the light reflecting in her eyes and the blush that hadn't left her cheeks, and to reach out and comb her tangled hair with his fingers. Another gesture so full of love, even though it was but a fraction of all that she made him feel.

"Well, since I never understood what had made you fall in love with me in the first place, it's only natural that I'd have this kind of doubts."

He chuckled and she smiled on her part, her obstinacy giving it to the desire to just be with him. It was another thing Taichi was able to read in her eyes – and, knowing the feeling well enough from his own experience, he had no trouble deciphering it.

Delayed, the first part of her sentence entered his brain.

What made me fall for you, I wonder?

He didn't know. It had been so long since he’d realised his feelings after all, and longer still since those feelings had been born. Even all those years earlier, he probably wouldn’t have been able to point out the reasons clearly, never mind finding the one spark that had started it – trying to do so now seemed downright impossible.

There were so many reasons, after all.

Maybe it was because she had never considered herself a possible love interest for anyone, first when she was too engrossed in karuta and later, when she thought she didn't deserve to be one. Maybe it was her hot-headedness and her drive, and how different she'd always been from him, and yet never failed to tell him how much she'd admired and envied those qualities of his that she lacked.

Maybe it was the fact that she'd always been with him, so close and so dear and yet so impossible to grasp.

Maybe it was because she'd loved him long before either of them dared believe that was the case.

Maybe...

"Maybe," he said out loud, though in fact not loud at all, his lips moving against her forehead as he leaned in to put a kiss there, too. "Maybe, if I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more."

Edging away, Taichi saw tears gathering in her eyes. He wiped them away with his thumb, his hand cupping the side of her jaw fittingly.

And then he kissed her properly.

Just like he had wanted to ever since he'd first seen her that day.

[latitudesunknown]

Tiny Haven Gazette #3

In which I drop the gazette format because it takes an ungodly amount of time and nobody cares. 🎉

My house gets a first floor, and coincidentally, my storage doubles, which is a relief. That should free me from spending 30mn every day desperately trying to figure out what to part with for at least a month.

So much space!

And now that it’s been upgraded, I get more customization options and can change the outside of my house!

¨🦄¨

By sheer dumb luck, I finally figure out how to get money trees!!!! I can’t believe it took me so long (although I’m very happy I never looked the answer up online). I should have known there was something up with the glowing golden hole that appeared whenever you dug up some money, that thing was clearly magic!

My pockets were full, so I had no choice but to bury back the money bag I’d just dug out, and this happened. Honestly considering how often I walk around with full pockets I’m astounded this didn’t happen sooner.

So now I have a little money tree orchard. Next experience: does the money tree give you MORE money if you plant a bigger money bag? Tried it this morning, will get an answer in a few days.

¨🦄¨

Raiiiiinbow!

That’s it. There’s no story to go with it, but it’s the first rainbow I’ve seen in the game!

¨🦄¨

I can’t stop thinking about that sweet little cow I saw on @astorytotellyourfriends​​ ‘s island last week, so I decide to build the last house in the hopes of finding her on an island and inviting her over. 

In the process, I realize I could have built myself a beach house all along.

Damnit!

To my horror, however, the very next morning, the house has been sold to a stranger!

Thankfully, my new neighbour, while not being Norma, is just as sweet.

I covet her living room SO BADLY. And also I kinda wanna eat her. Why would you design a rhinoceros to look like a cake?! She must get nightmares where people run after her, trying to bite off her strawberry horn.

¨🦄¨

Shortly after, and as a result of me ignoring him completely for a few days, Phebus FINALLY decides to leave the island.

I actually took a chance when I decided to talk to him, considering that’s the way he always looks.

“Good luck with the neighbours, their stories and their problems... you’re going to need a good dose of patience!”

That shouldn’t be a problem because, unlike you, I actually like people!

And because I like people, of course, joke’s on me, because I feel super sad to see him leave. 🙄

¨🦄¨

Following his departure, I start buying mystery island tickets like a crazy person, hoping to bump into Norma, but so far, no luck.

Why did I meet so many chickens?!

It’s the second day Phebus’s old house is on sale and I’m sure it’ll get sold to a random NPC any second now. The stress is intense!

¨🦄¨ 

I don’t know what’s up with them but everyone on the island keeps asking me if they should change their catchphrases! After the tenth time, I finally give in with Lili, assuming she’ll just come up with a new one on her own, but then am faced with a horrible screen that is asking ME to come up with something on the spot!

Have I mentioned how much I love it when she makes that face?

It took me ten minutes and some internet research to come up with this. This is too big of a responsibility!!

At least she was happy about it.

I’ve gone back to refusing to help the others, though. At least not until I can come up with proper catchphrases for them!

¨🦄¨

For the very first time, I get asked to play postman for my villagers. See, Nacer’s been bonding with Kali (no wonder, since they’re both jocks), but he was too shy to give him a present himself.

“Kali has helped me so much, I picked up a present for him. But I’m too shy to give it to him myself...”

Feeling like cupid, I hurry to Kali’s house. 👼🏹💘

“A frog costume! Oh la la!”

I have to admit that wasn’t the kind of gift I’d been expecting considering how much they both love sports, but ok!

“Did Kali say something about the gift?”

That was super cute, I hope I’ll get more requests like it!

¨🦄¨

In the span of one week I must have learnt about 20 new mimics, which, honestly, I find baffling. Most of them are just sliiiiight variations, it’s ridiculous. In the game I used to work on we ended up with about 50 expressions per character, but that was because they needed to express a wide range of emotions in very subtle ways. You don’t need that for cute island critters, especially when emoting is such a slow process in the first place!

¨🦄¨

Justine visits again one night, which gets everyone on the island talking.

“Since we have a visitor, I’ve baked some cakes. I hope she’ll like them...”

“I absolutely MUST tell her ‘hi’ before she leaves!”

“No, don’t mind me, you’ve got a visitor! Focus on being a good hostess!”

I like their reactions so much I spend more time speaking with my islanders than my visitors whenever I have one, haha.

Also, I love the smoke trails in the sky whenever a plane leaves. That small connection to a bigger world is very comforting.

¨🦄¨ 

Abraham, true to himself, is adorable.

“Good evening, sweets! Grum grom grom... My tummy also says good evening!”

🥰

Later we play to a little game with freakishly accurate results.

“Let’s play! Tell me your favourite color, and I will tell you what food you are.”

“You chose orange, which means you’re easy to live with, but you can also sometimes feel lonely.”

In the end, he said I was an onion. Layers, y’see.

¨🦄¨

I also finally figure out how to eavesdrop on people’s conversations, and get treated to many a story.

Lili : I just read my horoscope... You’re not gonna believe it! It’s sick!

Phebus : What am I supposed to not believe, exactly? The horoscope, or the fact that you managed to read it through? You know what, just tell me what it said, let’s get this over with.

Lili : Listen to this... “Your travels will bring good surprises.” Isn’t that sick?! Especially for me, because I love good surprises!

Phebus : Um... I guess? I mean, I don’t know. How did that make you sick? I’m confused.

Lili : Nah, just wait! After that, I went shopping, and it was the spring sales! Get that, I got a sweet little dress on sale! I was so happy I thought I was going to pass out!

Phebus : What?! Don’t kid with that! D’you need me to call for help?

Lili (totally ignoring him) : So anyway I put on my new dress and went for a walk. And that’s when it started raining big time, and I got drenched... Why didn’t my horoscope warn me about that?!

Phebus : I don’t know... have you tried reading the weather column instead?

¨🦄¨ 

I catch Vanessa and Maëlle talking about a movie they both watched... except they both remember it very differently...

Maëlle : Oh, Vanessa, thanks for lending me that movie, I loved it! The costumes were gorgeous... I want the leading lady’s straw hat!

Vanessa : And that chase in hydro planes! Pfiiiiiiiouuu, ppfffz, ka-BOUM! That was awesome sauce!

Maëlle : And that dress with golden trimmings that she wears at the picnic... that was fine art!

Vanessa : And what about the fight against the giant robot? When he punches a hole in the planet? Whazaam!

Maëlle : Yes! He really stole the scene with his diamond plates... It must have cost a fortune! ... ... Wait, did you say he punched a hole in a planet? Was that before or after the ball?

😂

¨🦄¨

Later, I find the same two talking about Maëlle’s insect infestation problem (probably caused by all the sweets she keeps in her house, just saying). When she asks me what I would do, I tell her I’d just move out, which gets me a VERY judgmental look from Vanessa.

“How do you manage to get rid of them?”

Vanessa’s solution, in the end, is for Maëlle to sell her house to “an insect-loving weirdo”. I wish I knew if that was a dig at Abraham or if it’s just a coincidence.

“Bah, that can’t be impossible. You just need a real weirdo who thinks insects aren’t so bad!”

¨🦄¨

Lili and Raymond get into a big argument about Lili’s cooking skills...

Raymond : By the way, Lili, I haven’t thanked you for lunch the other day! It was very good!

Lili : “Very good”? Seriously, don’t you have something even more corny? Nobody says that anymore! Don’t you mean it was delicious? Or maybe extremely refined? Or maybe super exquisite?

Raymond : Oh! You’re right, I’m sorry. Um, it was... delectable... succulent... A concentrate of sheer deliciousness!

Lili : And?

Raymond : And... every bite sent my taste buds into a transcendental ecstasy?

Lili : Oh! Is that a question or a statement, Raymond?

Raymond : A statement, of course! Pff... All that to describe a stupid sole meunière...

Lili : Don’t tell me you’ve just called my sole meunière, my mother’s own recipe!, “stupid”?!

I’m still amazed that they parted in good terms, I thought for sure Lili would keep on fuming

¨🦄¨

After trying to get my first residents to spruce up their apartments, with mitigating results...

I mean, the ball, jars and punching sack are all gifts of mine, so that’s cool he’s got them all out at the same time, but that’s still a sad little barren house.

I finally look it up online and discover their houses are actually not supposed to be like this at all! Turns out poor Nacer, Vanessa, Abraham, Renée and Lili are all stuck with generic houses because they got to my island too soon!

This is what Renée’s house should look like! 

So I’ve decided to try and gift them all their true houses’ furniture, little by little. I know they can’t change their wallpapers or floors, but hopefully if I get them the right couches, beds, etc, they’ll display them all. 🤞

[musescore-com]

MuseScorer of the month: Takernikov

And here comes August’s MuseScorer of the Month!

In case you missed it, each month we pick one of MuseScore.com’s brilliant members, featuring him or her in an interview available to all MuseScorers. Last month we introduced you to flutist and composer Robin M. Butler.

Now, please welcome: the MuseScorer Of August, Takeru aka Takernikov from Fukuoka, Japan.

“I love the words of my professor at the university. He said, that good music has ‘consistency’ and ‘variety’; If no consistency, it would be confusing. If no variety, it’d be boring.”

The following interview is featuring Takeru and is conducted by our staff member Alexander T.

- Hi, Takeru.It’s a pleasure to meet you! Tell our readers, please, a few words about yourself.

Hello, Alexander, nice to meet you too. Well, I’m from Fukuoka, northern side of Kyushu island, Japan, and live in this city with my wife and a little son (three years old right now). I studied acoustic design at the university, i.e. solving room acoustic issues with physics. Actually I wanted to study at conservatory but my musical skills were not good enough to pass the examination. Luckily, I had an opportunity to take composing classes at the university. So, I learnt music theory, notation, how to compose, and musical forms like sonata.Now, I’ve been an IT engineer specialized in networks for a decade, I like this job. My experience as a musician includes playing: - tuba, double bass and clarinet at high-school; - bassoon and contrabassoon at university; - piano - since I turned 15 years old.

- Cool, such a variety of instruments ! Did you come a long way to learn playing them?

Actually I was kinda tone deaf when in junior high school. There were lotta choral classes sadly, the music teacher pointed out my tone deafness every time, some students teased me. But, finally, I overcame that so-called “tone deafness”; I got interested in music, I began to play piano, which had been bought by my mother when she got married. Then, I played in a brass band in high school. As far as I remember, at some point I came across a really attracting piece called “El Camino Real”. First time I saw the score, I was confused about the key signature for transposing instruments, but I found my own way to read it. The skill I got at that time has helped me a lot later, when studying from the other composer’s work. I was also playing contrabass for a year, clarinet for two months and tuba for about two years. When I entered university, as I have already said, I began to play bassoon and contrabassoon in the “Orchestra club”. I’ve played symphonies (Brahms No.1, 4, Beethoven No.5, 7, 9, Tchaikovsky No.5, 6, Rachmaninoff No.1, 2, Dvorak No.5, 7, 8, 9, Berlioz Symphonie Fantastique, and so on), overtures and suites. I tried to perform in a rock band as a keyboard player, but sadly it wasn’t good…

- But, anyway, trying something different is always (or almost always) a nice experience...Well, let’s talk about your composing experience: what is that about for you, and what or who helped you to start composing?

Apart from the composing classes at the university, I took part in picking musical pieces for upcoming concerts as a member of the council of the university orchestra (I was a leading bassoon player). We listened to all of the ‘candidate’ scores to decide whether they are playable for our orchestra, worthwhile or not. So,I read a lot of scores from Bach to Shostakovich. Especially I’ve been curious about the orchestration, I tried to understand, how do composers notate their music to make it sound really nice and beautiful.

At first, I tried to compose something with Finale when in the university, about eleven years ago, but quitted composing after I graduated. As I dislike using a mouse, I felt it was inefficient to notate with drag and drop, so I lost some motivation. Then, when I was searching for sheet music from Final Fantasy XV soundtrack for piano, I came across this amazing MuseScore notation program. I remember, that I was greatly impressed by the features MuseScore had (and still has, of course). It has intuitive UI for me, mostly I can notate with keyboard quickly as if writing a document. Till that day I hadn’t composed a piece for about ten years. But now almost everything motivates me to compose, but especially natural landscapes or some exercises (sports) I did or things happened to me...

- ...and now, as I can see, you’ve got a plenty of your own pieces on MuseScore.com Can you describe at least some of them?

All-right. Let’s start with Snow Run - one Sunday morning I did a trail run with friends through an urban forest park and some ranch, the duration of the 3D map movie generated by my GPS log data on the run was 52 seconds, so I decided to compose this piece in 2/4, 52 measures with 120 bpm to make it easy to count. Composed this piece within an hour or so - I realized I could compose quicker than imagined...

- Sorry for interrupting, but I wonder - do you often compose these “GPS-log” pieces after your morning runs, and is that the only reason why most of your compositions are short?

Basically there are two reasons for that: 1: you are right about the “GPS compositions”: after I do some endurance exercise like cycling or running, there’s some service which can create some short movies by my GPS logs. Usually the duration of the movies are short, less than 1-2 minutes; I compose for this ‘movies’ on the same day and share with my friends. 2: I said “compose on the same day”. I set a deadline for myself and try to accomplish that on time. Kind of repetitive practices, it’s a good way to express my feelings and to ‘improve productivity’ in my opinion. I feel, this affects even my job activity in a good way as well.

- So, let’s continue with your compositions…

Ok, then I’ll tell you about a couple more. La Chute D'eau élargi - inspired by French impressionists, deliberately titled in French, however, it includes some pentatonic scales, so for me it sounds like some Japanese folk music. Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa - an attempt to create minimal music from my original phrases I came up with, after I was reading a picture book for my son. That sounds a little weird, but I ended up with clear and refreshing atmosphere in this piece.

- Nice pieces, the second one reminded me of Steve Reich. And now, here is our “traditional” question: what have you shared on MuseScore.com that you’re most proud of (and why are you proud of it) ?

It’s Symphonic Poem “Mamacoco”. This is the most emotional and dramatic one I have ever composed. Although I’m generally a short piece composer, the duration of this one is about 14min. and it contains almost everything I could do as a composer. Attempted to fill it with beautiful melodies and counterpoints in the tonal slow part, and to make it exciting in the quasi-atonal fast part, naturally “covered” the previous slow melodies with different instruments (brass). I was surprised what I did actually, huge resolution followed by very tensed atmosphere before the recapitulation. The last part starts with almost sad flute’s phrase, it gradually changes to a kind of brilliant sounding.

Symphonic Poem “Mamacoco” by Takernikov

- I love the melodies in it, for me “Mamacoco” sounds like ‘pastoral’ music. I wonder what composers/performers influenced you. And, generally, what are your favorites?

I love Russian composers Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, Rimsky-Korsakov, Shostakovich, Stravinsky, and that’s why my MuseScore account name is “Takernikov”, like a Russian surname. I don’t mean that I’m limited by the Romantic era, I also respect Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Dvorak, Debussy, Ravel, Liszt, even Steve Reich. In film composing, Hans Zimmer is the first composer that comes to my mind. Generally, most of the film composers affected me: James Horner, Steve Jablonsky, Joe Hisaishi, Ryuichi Sakamoto, etc..Honestly saying, the composer I can’t even imitate is Don Davis. His music, especially the orchestration and atonality in it, is outstanding in my opinion.

Would like to admit, that Takernikov is the first composer I met, whose beautiful music is often inspired by morning runs and whose pieces’ length really depend on the time he devoted to his physical exercises. That’s an interesting fact and Takeru is a really nice composer, it was a pleasure for me to do this interview and to meet him.

Thank you, guys, for reading.

Yours, Alexander T.

P.S. Following the nice tradition - I am adding here a piece I really enjoyed , this is a kind of “spanish sketch” composed by Mr.Takernikov.

Él irá a España by Takernikov

[doomsteady]

Look Again - ch2

WIP! bi!John/ace!Sherlock, Friends to Lovers. Explicit. Will be posted on AO3 when it’s done.

<ch1> –> <ch2> --> <ch3>

Ch 2

It was thanks to Sherlock’s encyclopedic knowledge of London that their pursuers quickly lost sight of them through the labyrinth of back-alleys and side streets. With one last check to make sure they weren’t still being followed, they slowed to a brisk stroll as they headed back in the direction of Baker Street.

It was late now. The streets were dark, empty save for the occasional drunkard wobbling his way home from a pub crawl. Still struggling to catch their breaths, John and Sherlock shared one glance before they broke into exhausted laughter, high on the thrill of the chase.

“I can’t believe they didn’t notice us double back on them,” John said, shaking his head in disbelief. His earlier embarrassment had cooled to a low simmer in his gut, displaced as it was by the much more urgent matter of their escape.

“Idiots,” Sherlock agreed, a smug grin on his face as he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “They really thought they had us. You’d think the criminal classes would have learnt to stop underestimating us by now, no?”

John huffed a laugh at his feet. “I think that’s giving them a little too much credit. And it’s you they’re underestimating. I’d say their estimation of me is pretty on-point.”

Sherlock stared ahead as they walked, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He looked every bit as perfectly Sherlock Holmes as he ever did, the unflappable git. For all that he’d been shoved into a cramped car boot and then spent the past ten minutes fleeing a gang of armed thugs through the streets, Sherlock seemed to have some magical ability to remain almost entirely unruffled. His clothes had straightened themselves, and his hair looked tousled, but no moreso than it did that morning when he’d purposefully styled it that way. Nor did he seem at all phased by what had happened between them in the boot.

But John was having far greater difficulty letting it go. The night air was cooling his sweat-damp skin, raising goosebumps as he zipped up his denim jacket to ward off the chill. With his pulse calming back into something resembling its normal rhythm, he was just now noticing how badly he needed a shower. He felt like a mess, and not just in terms of the one he’d created in his pants.

He was already sensing the change in his mind, even as he tried desperately to deny it. Before today, he’d always been able to compartmentalise his feelings for Sherlock. The man was his best friend. Platonic or not, this was the most important relationship in his life. They had killed for each other, and both knew the other was willing to die for them, and none of it hinged on some vague hope or the promises of a deeper, more intimate connection waiting somewhere on the distant horizon. They didn’t need it; they were already soulmates.

There had been a time, right back in the beginning, when John had dared to have those hopes. Perhaps because at that time, he had no idea how important Sherlock would become to him. Sherlock was his closest and most treasured friend, too important to lose, and now it was unthinkable that he would risk what they had in the pursuit of something more.

Fantasies be damned: Real life wasn’t always perfect, but it was at least real. There was no point in pining after the unattainable.

John had never been a selfish man; he was grateful for whatever life deemed fit to gift his way. And anyway, Sherlock managed to be an endlessly fascinating friend. He was everything John could ever ask for in a companion that would, in all likelihood, be with him for life anyway. John found he could live with that quite easily, in the end— just being near to him, caught in the orbit of his celestial gravity. Always up close. Always from afar.

Even though he never really did stop finding Sherlock attractive in that way, he kept such thoughts under careful guard, ever considerate of his friend’s feelings. Never once did he let them dictate their interactions, no matter how enticing those ideas had occasionally been. That’s how it always was, and how it always was meant to be.

But now, he was struggling to remember how that had ever been possible. Glancing up at Sherlock’s moon-struck profile, his heart twisted beneath his ribs; the man was beautiful. A figure cut from marble, all sharp angles and long, smooth surfaces. John looked at him now and saw him in all the ways that screamed this is not how people look at their platonic friends, and he could no longer help it. One sultry glance from Sherlock right then would have brought John fully hard again in seconds.

That tamped down flame of desire burned brighter than ever now, and it troubled him. They walked together in silence, John’s mind turning over and over with increasingly dire conclusions about his rekindled attraction, and it wasn’t until Sherlock stopped short and caught John’s arm that his focus snapped back to the present.

“John. Stop.” John turned to look at him, and that was a mistake. Sherlock’s uncharacteristically open expression told John everything he didn’t want to know about the conversation they were about to have.

“Leave it. It’s fine,” John said, looking away. “Let’s just go home. Alright?”

Sherlock pressed his lips thin, a crease deepening between his brows. “You’re worrying about what happened. In the boot.” It wasn’t a question, but John shook his head anyway. “You think I’ll think differently of you. Judge you badly for it? I can assure you, John, that there is absolutely nothing to be—”

“That’s not.” John stepped away from him, turned his face away. He couldn’t do this right now. “That’s not what… I’m just. It was embarrassing. Okay? That’s all. I don’t want to talk about it. Please can we not talk about it?”

John could feel those piercing eyes boring into his back, and it only agitated him further. The last thing he wanted in that vulnerable moment was to be flayed open by Sherlock’s merciless observations. But after a moment, he heard Sherlock release a quiet breath.

“Alright,” he said, as if soothing a frightened colt, “Alright. I won’t mention it again.”

He resumed along their path, allowing John to fall into step beside him, grateful for the opportunity to regroup himself. The next time Sherlock spoke, he sounded almost genuinely spirited. “Shall we pick up some chips on the way home? That little place down Audley should still be open this time of night, I think.”

The automatic ‘no thanks’ was on the tip of his tongue, but John swallowed it, his throat suddenly tight. He knew Sherlock was just trying to cheer him up. An offer of chips should not be so endearing, but the idea of Sherlock willingly dropping a loose thread and attending to John’s needs spoke volumes about how much the man cared for him. His curiosity over the subject hadn’t abated, John knew, but he was making an effort to move them past it. That, at least, deserved some sort of a reward.

He forced a nod and a smile. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go get chips.”

Sherlock watched as John speared a chip with his plastic fork and blew a cooling stream of air onto the steaming morsel. Gripping it cautiously between his teeth before drawing it back onto his tongue, John’s stormcloud expression brightened minutely at the burst of flavour. It was a gratifying sign. Sherlock’s stomach did a little flip at the improvement.

For as long as he could remember, Sherlock had never concerned himself with trying to appease the people who attempted to call themselves his ‘friends’. Most, he observed, hung around him only for the simple convenience his deductive abilities provided. It certainly wasn’t for his charming personality.

In university, his classmates made sure to include him only up to a point where they could copy his notes and borrow his brain for their assignments. He was more human calculator than social equal, but he allowed it, because as shallow and self-serving as it was, some sad part of him had always thrived on the praise of others. Even now, the Yarders kept on tenuously amiable terms with him, only because they had too many murders to solve and not enough braincells between them to accomplish it.

John was different.

It was hard to pin down the reason John accepted him so readily, but it was nothing like the kind of selfishness others so frequently used him for. John hadn’t anything he would consider ‘valuable’ to gain by staying by Sherlock’s side— on the contrary, sometimes merely the fact of their acquaintance put John in considerable danger.

On the surface, John was an unremarkable man. In the months before meeting Sherlock, his life had been following the time-old script of the soldier returned home from war, injured and struggling to rediscover his place in common society. Had it not been for his limp, it would have been so easy to overlook him, to dismiss him off-hand as not worthy of a second glance.

But, that limp told a different story, a story spoken only in the subtext of his age-worn features. Psychosomatic. A traumatic injury, something laden with guilt. A friend had died, perhaps while John was still working to staunch the flow of blood, to keep him conscious just a few minutes more until help could arrive.

His friend had died. John had blamed himself for it, and Sherlock could tell, just by the look in his eyes, that he would have given anything to take his place on the sand.

When Sherlock looked again, he saw not just a lonely, suicidal Army medic with a shoulder injury and a deathwish, but a man brimming with untold secrets and endless, fascinating potential. John Watson was a man whose outward appearances belied a secret myriad of inner qualities.

What was it, then, that drew them together so inexorably?

From the first day they had met, Sherlock had dedicated a not-insubstantial corner of his Mind Palace to the collection and aggregation of every bit of data he could glean about his new friend John. From the exact fabric composition of his fluffy jumpers, to how often brand new crow’s feet would etch themselves into the lines of his eyes— it seemed the subject of John could never bore him, and more often than not, the man regularly found new ways to surprise him.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself grasping for excuses to keep someone in his life, rather than push them away. Luckily for him, it had taken very little persuasion to have John pack up his meagre belongings, leave his dour little bedsit and move into Baker Street with him.

Nowadays, Sherlock couldn’t picture him living anywhere else.

That same man sat across from him now in the tiny chip shop, staring thoughtfully into his plate of chips as he chewed. Inside his brain, Sherlock knew, troublesome thoughts were swirling, grating, distracting him. He knew it was something about what happened in the boot of that car. But it couldn’t be such a simple thing as embarrassment, could it? That simply didn’t make any sense.

John was a soldier. He was also a doctor. He’d been to war, had men die in his arms. He was not a squeamish man. Natural bodily functions didn’t phase him, not usually. Not in the time Sherlock had known him, and he had shown John a great many mutilated corpses during their time together.

So then why was this bothering him? His body had responded as any normal human male would. Surely John knew that, so why was he suddenly behaving as if he’d crossed some uncrossable line, or revealed too much about himself?

Was there any truth in those observations? It was merely intuition, but Sherlock found himself at a loss, bereft of further data to expand upon any theory that presented itself. His friend, always such an open book to him, had suddenly closed himself off, as if Sherlock’s gaze could accidentally spark at some brittle part of him and set his entire, fragile inner world ablaze.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reach over and open his skull, peer inside and discover the cause of his uncharacteristic quiescence. But whatever it was, John didn’t want to discuss it. He’d said it, to Sherlock’s annoyance, in no uncertain terms.

It was tempting to ignore his wishes, to pick and pry at it, pull at the thread until the whole problem unravelled. Sherlock could get to the bottom of it, he knew. He could help, somehow. There would be something he could do, something he could say to make the whole thing go away. But John would probably appreciate that even less.

So he simply watched.

John lifted another chip to his mouth, his eyes flicking up to catch Sherlock’s across the table. Paused. Looked away, lowering his fork again. Shifted in his seat.

A moment later, Sherlock’s patience was rewarded.

“I’m about done with these. Sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“’Kay.” He cleared his throat. Stalling for time, or perhaps searching for the right words? “Sex always gives me an appetite.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to fidget, caught out by the unexpected admission. John seemed to hear the echo of his own words a moment later. His head flew up, eyes wide as he fumbled to correct himself. “Not that— That wasn’t— I just mean—”

“For God’s sakes, John. I knew what you meant.” Sherlock fought a losing battle against the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. John could be so adorable at times. “Anyway, I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t,” John said, pushing his plate away.

It was nearing midnight when they exited the chip shop. The night chill had properly set in. Fortunately, home was just a few minutes walk from here. “I ‘spose it just seems… unfair,” John continued, apropos of nothing.

“What does?”

“That I ended up in that state, while you… I mean. You didn’t even.”

He waited. A minute later, it seemed John had given up his train of thought. Sherlock couldn’t bear to leave it. “Didn’t even what?”

“You didn’t even get hard!”

John’s voice rang out loud in the street. On the opposite pavement, a lone passer-by glanced their way, giving them an odd look. Sherlock glared at her until she had passed.

Frustrated and upset by his own outburst, John’s pace picked up considerably. Sherlock, with his long legs, easily kept pace with him. Now that John was opening up a little, he was not about to let this go easily. “That’s what’s bothering you?” he asked, not trying to hide the bewilderment in his voice. “That I didn’t get an erection?”

“No!” John cried. “No, just… Alright, yes. Yes. But not for the reason you’re probably thinking.”

“I can’t think of any reason.”

John huffed a tired, defeated laugh. They were at their front door. He fished the keys out of his jacket pocket, making quick work of the lock. Sherlock quietly followed him inside.

John shucked his jacket in the hallway as Sherlock hovered, enrapt by the unfolding drama, at his elbow. Could he really be blamed? He got excited at the sight of corpses, and this, whatever it was, was no more pleasant but equally as fascinating to him. It was something new about John, something unexpected, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to understand it inside and out.

Upstairs, stepping into their flat, John was still quiet. Sherlock decided to try prompting him.

“You realise there’s a height difference between us,” he said, matter-of-factly. “There was little friction being applied on my end of the equation. And even if there were, you weren’t in the correct position to feel any evidence of it.”

John settled on the couch and scrubbed his hands over his eyes. “Yeah. Of course, that makes sense.”

Quiet again. Sherlock pursed his lips. In for a penny…

“Not that there would have been such evidence, either way.”

A flicker of confusion crossed John’s face. He looked up, meeting Sherlock’s eye. His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed once. Twice. Sherlock could see multiple conclusions being drawn and discarded behind his eyes from the simple statement. Eventually he said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock lifted one laconic shoulder and dropped into his leather chair by the hearth. It seemed the only way he would be able to tease out John’s secrets would be by revealing some of his own. It was a fair trade, he supposed, for a topic so personal.

“It means that I don’t feel things that way,” he said. “It would take a lot more than a few minutes of frotting, if it ever happened. Mostly, I just find that sort of contact… uncomfortable.”

He wasn’t prepared for the creeping horror that spread across John’s face as the words sank in.

Oh, he thought, a cold panic rising up his spine like a wave of frost. Was that… Not Good?

<ch1> –> <ch2> --> <ch3>

[laura-elizabeth91]

Theresa, behind the mask

Boyfriends before Philip. Exploding puds. Her neighbours the Clooneys. When JAN MOIR spent this week with the usually inscrutable PM, she saw the real woman so many non-Tories are warming to

ON A spring morning this week, Prime Minister Theresa May strides across the concourse at London’s king’s Cross station. As she hurries to catch a north-bound train, few recognise her — or even give her a second glance. Look closer, and you will see that she is surrounded by discreet security men and a dapper civil servant who walks behind carrying her ministerial red box, packed away in an anonymous black bag.

To a man, they keep pace with Mrs May, her leopard- skin pumps marching briskly onwards, her stylish pale blue handbag swinging in her grasp. She insists to me later that there is nothing special inside. ‘I haven’t got a furry toy or anything like that in my handbag.’ however, as it is such a random thing to say, I immediately suspect that she does. Yet a sentimental token would not be Very Theresa, would it? For it would not match the public perception of the studious only child and vicar’s daughter, the duty-first politician who promises to deliver Brexit and who has enjoyed a 37-point lead over Jeremy Corbyn as the best person to run this country.

It is said of Mrs May that her reputation for frivolity begins and ends with her choice of shoes, but — as I am to discover — that is not true.

During the time I have spent with her this week — between Lincolnshire, Yorkshire and London — Mrs May emerges as a serious person, of course, but a warm character who is happy to admit to once accidentally blowing up desserts in her own kitchen, making a mess of her nail polish, and her romantic life before meeting husband Philip.

She seemed perfectly at ease, too, sitting down in a pub on the campaign trail to have a proper chat with voters.

These people, I noted, all affectionately called her ‘ Theresa’ rather than anything formal.

Remarkable, really, considering that over the past 20 years in the public eye as an MP, and Cabinet minister since 2010, she has given very little away about herself or her personal life.

Yet all that has suddenly changed. On television this week, in her first ever joint- interview with her husband, she spoke about ‘girl’ jobs’ and ‘ boy’ jobs’ on the domestic front. At home, Philip takes the bins out, she explained on BBC’s The One Show, while she does the cooking.

Inevitably, from the usual predictable quarters, accusations of old-fashioned sexist attitudes with regard to the division of labour between couples were directed at the Mays. For her part, Mrs May dismisses such absurd views with a wave of the hand.

She says she believes that ‘most couples have certain ways of doing things,’ adding: ‘There are things that Philip does and there are things that I do. It is not that there are chores that are always for the girl or always for the boy. It is just how we split things up.’

Another very personal revelation this week came when she broached the subject of her childlessness. The topic had first become an issue during the Tory leadership battle ten months ago when her short-lived rival Andrea Leadsom suggested that, as a mother, she had an indisputable edge over Mrs May.

At the time, Mrs May understandably said she liked to keep her ‘ personal life personal’, but added that she and Philip ‘ dealt with’ the fact they couldn’t have children and ‘moved on’.

Yet this week, on TV, she talked of how she had been the subject of ‘fake news’ as a young wife, when a newspaper mistakenly stated that she was pregnant. her mother-inlaw, she said, was disappointed when she learnt the truth.

During a subsequent radio interview with Nick Ferrari on LBC, when asked how she might have been different if she had children, Mrs May said: ‘I think it’s impossible to answer the question about how I would have been. It’s been very sad — it just turned out not to be possible for us. We’re not the only couple who find themselves in that situation.’

TALKING after her TV sofa interview with Philip, she tells me that she came to terms with her situation when she was a young woman in her 30s and hopes the showbizzy introduction of her husband to the electorate — and this uncharacteristic burst of frankness about not being a mother — will give ‘a broader picture of me and of us together, because I am asking people to put their trust in me and that is only fair to do that’.

Now on board the train darting North out of king’s Cross, she settles into her seat and attends to government business; taking calls, being briefed by her aides, talking to her civil servant.

Today, she is wearing her Vivienne Westwood tartan suit, the one she wore to launch her leadership bid and also when she made her keynote speech earlier this year setting out, in the clearest terms, her target for achieving Brexit.

When pundits called it her lucky suit, she swore it would never make a re-appearance. Why the change of heart?

‘I’m only wearing half of it,’ she says, pointing to her black trousers — and then, typical of a woman who gets upset when fashion magazines obsess about her choice of clothes, adds: ‘Who can afford to wear an outfit only once?’

Despite the occasional designer extravagance, everything about her screams restraint, discipline and order.

her recipe for scones does not contain too much butter, she has stopped dyeing her hair blonde and now lets the grey roll in, she often buys her statement jewellery in craft shops (‘I’m always on the lookout for bits and pieces’) and she never has a manicure but does her own nails at home instead.

‘Always a rush job. I never have enough time. Don’t look at them too closely,’ she says.

An aide passes over a chicken and avocado salad in a bag — her lunch on the run. At some point during this meal, she will discreetly inject herself in the stomach with insulin, a procedure she must do twice a day following her 2012 diagnosis of Type 1 diabetes.

Like all diabetics, Mrs May also always has a sugar lump or a glucose drink close to hand in case she needs a boost.

She maintains her health by eating carefully and going to the gym regularly, sometimes with a trainer and sometimes alone.

‘I’ll do weights, I’ll do rowing. I will plank sometimes [an excruciating exercise that involves lying flat on the floor, raising yourself on your tiptoes and elbows and holding yourself in that position], but it is not my favourite thing to do.

‘But as far as I am concerned, being a diabetic doesn’t change anything other than I have a routine to follow each day.’

And what a routine that is – particularly during an election campaign. During my time with the Prime Minister, she kept to a gruelling pace without flagging.

I would crawl home each night absolutely shattered, while she carried on working. By the time I groggily awoke the next morning, she would have had meetings with bigwigs such as the Secretary general of Nato, or opened a major international conference to help tackle problems in Somalia or held talks with the President of kenya.

Out on the road — be it Leeds, Nottingham or Scunthorpe — she bangs the drum for her ‘strong and stable government’ (hurrah) as opposed to the misery that an opposition ‘ coalition of chaos’ (boo) would bring. She visits steel-

works and factories, she knocks on doors, she rallies candidates and meets with business leaders.

She holds meetings on the move with her staff in basement kitchens that smell of yesterday’s lunch. She roars through Sherwood Forest in her motorcade, and has a drink with supporters in a Lincolnshire pub where she orders, well, guess what? ‘A boring sparkling water, please.’

Throughout all this, absolutely nothing rattles her. In the pub, a woman tells her that, after a lifetime of supporting Labour, she will vote Conservative on June 8.

She tells the PM it’s because ‘you strike me as a very sincere person’. Mrs May beams and thanks her, happily posing for a selfie.

This is not the first time I hear this sentiment expressed on the stump, yet Mrs Mayurges caution among her team. ‘We are taking nothing for granted,’ she says.

While canvassing on the doorstep in the Lincolnshire village of Messingham, someone starts heckling the PM about her surprise announcement that if re-elected, the Tories would allow a free Commons vote on fox-hunting.

Mrs May listens carefully. She tells the man that it was ‘nice to meet you anyway’ and moves on, as controlled as an icebreaker steaming through the creaking bergs. No wonder she can’t remember the last time she cried or lost her temper.

‘Not that it hasn’t happened, just that it is so rare. I don’t cry. I don’t shout and scream. I don’t go around sticking pins in wax effigies of people. In fact, I don’t do wax effigies at all,’ she says. ‘I just get on with it.’

The true blue posters and the slogans on the campaign bus talk of Theresa May’s Team rather than The Conservative Party.

But this is nothing to do with a wish to turn the election campaign into a presidential- style battle, more a reflection of the fact that she scores way above the party itself in private polling. The more people see of her, the more they like her.

After the glossy chumocracy and Flashman swagger of the Cameron era, it seems her head-girl sense of duty and diligence are exactly what the country needs. Smug metropolitan types like to sneer at Mrs May, but I cherish her sincerity and calmness, the equanimity of her approach to Brexit.

Unlike certain career politicians, she didn’t go to Westminster to use it as a stepping stone to a plum job such as making a fortune on the after- dinner circuit, becoming a non-executive director or running a museum.

‘I came into politics to make a difference, to improve people’s lives,’ she says — and I honestly believe she really means it.

UNDAUNTED by being described by a Tory colleague as ‘a bloody difficult woman’, she used the phrase about herself earlier this month following reports that she and her chief eU antagonist, Jean- Claude Juncker, had clashed during a fraught downing Street dinner.

Certainly, there is a resolution and steeliness about her, traits that lie at the heart of what some are calling Mayism — although she doesn’t recognise the term herself.

‘I don’t think there is such a thing as ‘Mayism’. I am a Conservative and what I am promoting is Conservatism.’

A life - long church- going Christian, she believes in the power of prayer — but she won’t reveal if she prays every day or not.

‘I am not going to go into exactly what I pray and when I pray. Why is everyone so interested in this?’ she laughs.

In a life that has not been without disappointment and loss, her faith has seen her through difficult times. Her vicar father died in a car crash, aged 64, the year after he officiated at her wedding to Philip. Then her mother contracted multiple sclerosis and died a year later.

‘My faith helped me, but so did having the support of Philip, my rock. Having somebody there supporting me was tremendously important as well.’

She says there were boyfriends before Philip, but he was Mr Right. The couple were introduced by fellow Oxford student Benazir Bhutto (who went on to become prime minister of Pakistan) and they married in 1980.

‘I hadn’t been properly in love before, if I can put it like that. Sometimes, when you are young you think you are attracted to somebody, then someone comes along and you realise wow, this is the real thing.’

Philip’s appearance alongside her on a television chat show sofa this week was clearly an important development in the PM’s election campaign strategy.

The significance was reinforced by the care that went into the presentation. Backstage, Fiona Hill, Mrs May’s all-powerful joint chief of staff, was asked by a tieless Mr May before going in front of the cameras: ‘ Jacket buttoned or unbuttoned?’

‘I think unbuttoned,’ Hill tells him. She added: ‘ enjoy getting your make-up done, Philip!’ Mr May gives a little showbiz shimmy, like Liza Minnelli in the film Cabaret, to show that he is game.

Mr and Mrs May — 59 and 60 — are clearly devoted to each other and, like so many older couples, have developed obvious, deep bonds of affection and closeness.

He now works only four days a week as an executive at a finance company in the City, so they can spend more time together.

In years to come, they are exactly the kind of happy, retired couple you might see at the breakfast buffet at a seaside hotel, each insisting the other has the last poached egg.

Is he her new secret weapon, I wonder, and will we be seeing more of him?

‘I don’t know about that,’ says Mrs May, raising an eyebrow. ‘He was a little nervous beforehand, but he enjoyed the television experience.’

After recording the show, they went back to downing Street to have a typical supper together.

‘Philip had brought a quiche from Waitrose, I made a dressing for a salad and then we had some fruit,’ she says.

They prefer spending time at her constituency home in a Berkshire village rather than the rather grander environs of Chequers — although they do like to go walking in the ‘lovely countryside’ there.

Their Berkshire residence is a ‘ home that we built together’, where Philip takes out the bins and Theresa cooks.

Her most recent triumph was a recipe by Thomasina Miers (winner of TV’s MasterChef in 2005): spicy, marinated lamb cutlets which were patently ‘delicious!’.

But she has known culinary disasters, too. ‘I once tried to replicate from memory something we had eaten when we were on holiday, which was a pudding baked and served in little glass jars. So I cooked it in the jars, but when I took them out and opened them, they exploded.’

Near neighbours are George and Amal Clooney, although the couples’ paths have yet to cross.

‘No, I have not seen him,’ she says. ‘In fact, I think I am the only person in the village who hasn’t met him.’

PERHAPS she should put him on the guest list for one of her spicy lamb suppers? ‘I don’t think I was intending to invite him, so no,’ she says.

Well, that is Very Theresa, if I may say so, very much a plank of Mayism.

Can you imagine david Cameron or Tony Blair being so indifferent to an A-list Hollywood celebrity in their midst?

dave would be pressing the star for contacts and introductions, maybe a product-placement in his next film for one of his wife’s designer frocks. Tony would be wondering if the actor’s 22-room villa by Lake Como in Italy might be available gratis in August.

But Mrs May? She doesn’t care. She just wants to get on with doing her best for everyone in Britain — and finding time to experiment with outre pudding recipes.

Underneath her re- purposed jackets and smart slacks, behind her armour-plated prudence and persistence she is a truly remarkable woman, the genuine article in a world of careerist phoneys.

Amen to that, as she might say herself.

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