Rufus - and a tight spot

In retrospect I think that yesterday's post may have sounded a bit capitalist for my liking. Allow me to clarify: I do not believe that happiness can be found in earning lots of money and then spending it on things like flats. However, I do believe that, at age 30, happiness can be found from living somewhere other than your parents' wonderful abode. Luxurious though it is to see them so often, have dinner cooked for me, not pay any household bills, never have to fix a boiler, repaint a cupboard or remember to buy washing powder, I think it'll be good for me to go it alone.

Now: Rufus. I don't know much about much but I've followed popular music since I was aged nine and equally obsessed by Horse & Pony magazine and Morton Harket. In the past two decades or so, I've been lucky enough to see a lot of fantastic bands and solo artists in concert, including Madonna, Elton, the Stones, Prince, Coldplay, James Brown, U2, Pink Floyd - and Michael Jackson when he flew off the stage at Wembley Stadium, wearing a jet pack. All those greats are greats for a reason - they are fantastic performers - and after last night, I've got another name to add to my list.

One of my favourite things about Rufus Wainwright - and, unsurprisingly, one of Rufus' least favourite things about himself - is that he's not that popular. He's fairly well known with a loyal fanbase - but even after his phenomenal last album, Release The Stars (produced by Neil Tennant), he's never managed to tip over into the Big Time. There's still an intimacy among his fans because he's not omniloved - we still feel part of an exclusive club who have been let in on a delicious secret: he is phenomenal. Sure, his distinctive voice is a bit too brash for some - but if you love it as I do, then a live performance by him is a gift from the gods.

It was magical: perfect vocals which at time sounded even more effortlessly precise and calmly crisp than they had on the albums; a superb three piece brass section; a beautiful Irish folk song performed without microphones to a breathless Apollo; glorious, classical-standard piano playing; comedy dancing during 'Get Happy'; and, of course, lederhosen. Musically, it surpassed my hopes. Manually, it was painful: my clapping was enthusiastic, heartfelt and continuous. I've been in love with some fairly unrealistic people in my life - Keanu Reeves, Michael Jackson and Mr Knightly from Jane Austen's Emma among them - but as heterosexuals, at least they'd perhaps have looked my way if I'd met them. Fancying Rufus Wainwright is about as futile as fancying gets, but fancy him I do.

This morning on the tube was interesting. I was seated opposite a very attractive female thirtysomething, neatly coiffured blonde hair, perfect and understated make-up, well-fitting pale grey suit, nice jewellery, black shoes. After a few moments, she crossed her legs, leaving one foot suspended a few inches off the ground, moving in time to the train's rocking. And something caught my eye. I looked up from my book and, in the eight inch gap between the top of her shoe and the hem of her grey trouser leg, was a wide band of flesh coloured lace, lined with clear gel rubber. It was awful. Her hold up stocking had not held.

I couldn't decide whether or not she should be told - there is no doubt I would have wanted to be alerted in her unenviable position, but I struggled to believe she wasn't aware of the situation. Her foot was clearly in her line of vision, and the bunched up stocking with its appalling top section was hanging over her ankle like a baggy legwarmer. At the end of this pristine woman was a spectacle equal to Nora Batty after a night on the tiles. It seemed impossible that she hadn't noticed: even if she hadn't seen it, she must have felt it. I concluded that she had realised but was resigned to the irrepairable nature of her situation: pulling a stocking to mid-thigh height under a pair of trousers while on a packed tube is no mean feat. I used to pity commuters but really, as far as snapshots on modern urban life go, you can't beat public transport. And talking of that - I've got a date with the Hammersmith and City Line. Mind the gap.