Author Archives: Andy

I’m coming to you

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The bed is made with fresh sheets. She did that before she left.

The place is empty – I mean, no one is living there. It’s free.

So, now it’s a choice.

I answer the call. “I’ve been out for an aperitivo and now I’m coming to you”. But, he doesn’t have to. There are a number of options available. It’s been more than a month now since last he slept in his own home. I was ready for the “I’m going to stay at mine tonight” and ready to give the option of “We could come and stay at yours”. But, it seems there was no reason to be ready.

Of course, I say nothing. I mean to say, I don’t point it out. Nor do I give the suggestion that we can go to his place.

In a weird way, I would quite like a ‘night off’ – but, then, we have that when he goes abroad (or when I did for the party). Then again, I’m not desperate for a night without him. And I like the fact that he’s there, for sure.

But, obviously, we don’t live together ;-)

Real men, apparently, use this.

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We have no internet connection. This was written on 20th but will, probably, be posted on the 21st.

So, what to do?

Not a lot, it seems.

Last night I had a terrible night. Ambulances or fire engines seemed to go past once an hour, waking me up, not because of them, particularly, but just like a mother can hear her baby crying, these sirens presage the howling. The howling is loud, seemingly louder than the sirens themselves and so, to stop it, one must call Dino over.

The first time it happened, about 1 a.m., after quieting Dino down, I got up, for I was thirsty. After a drink I came back to bed but couldn’t sleep even though I was awfully tired. I switched on the TV and flicked through the channels hoping to find something so mind-numbingly boring (and by that I mean something where the voices were rather subdued and flat) that I would fall asleep immediately.

I came across something that was just amazing. It was for something called Edortex or Erosex or something. At first I thought it was for a blow-up doll but after staying on it for a few moments, from what I could make out it was a whole program (although I didn’t stay on it long) about some miracle natural medicine that could make a man ‘a man’ again!

At one point they went to a ‘live’ studio discussion. The presenter (a well-endowed, blonde woman) introduced the first ‘real’ person in the studio. He was a plumber. He stood up when introduced and came to stand beside her extolling the difference this wonderful elixir had made for him.

Except he was not some bloke they had picked up off the street. He was, most definitely, an actor. He probably had never even changed a washer in a tap! He played to the camera with the measured tones of someone reading a script.

I just wondered if he included it in his ‘portfolio’ when he went for other acting jobs?

Even if he did, I wouldn’t have given him a part on this basis. It was truly dreadful acting. But, then, it seemed a truly dreadful program and I guess all the good actors weren’t so interested.

I also wondered what the casting advert for this job was like?

On second thoughts, perhaps he felt he had to act badly so as to ensure that no one thought it was really him saying that without this wonderful product he wasn’t a real man?

What’s love got to do with it?

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As I have mentioned in some other post or posts, there is a prostitute who ‘works’ a corner just near where I live.

She always say ‘Hi, puppy!’ when we go past. (BTW, she’s talking to Dino at that point, not me :-D ). We say Hi to each other and I mumble something about the weather (especially recently as it’s been so cold, poor thing). I don’t know where’s she’s from. She is very tall and has legs right up to her bum. But I don’t really know much about her except that she is, undoubtedly, a prostitute.

I don’t have a big problem with it, in as much as I’m not interested and I do feel kinda sorry for her in that, as a career choice (if she has any choice), it wouldn’t rate as a fabulous choice imho.

But this is a profession that’s very, very old and, at least, it’s direct and to the point. I.e. you want sex, you pay for it.

Whereas, this, apparently, is most definitely NOT!

Obviously.

I mean, even where there are men saying they’ll fork out thousands of dollars a month, the terms and conditions explicitly state:

Please take note that we prohibit anyone from promoting illegal activities (such as prostitution) or commercial activities of any kind in their profile or in messages sent on the site and if such conduct comes to our attention we reserve the right to, amongst other things, remove you from our website and ban you permanently.

So, there you are. Not prostitution. Nor anything like it. Obviously.

Perhaps I should write down the url and give it to my lady friend from the corner?

In the meantime, I met this next lady once, in the street, in Milan. And she smiled at me. But she’s really tiny and not a prostitute, unlike my lady-from-the-corner friend.


(Tina Turner – What’s Love Got To Do With It?)

What isn’t said.

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So, at the party, V and I talked and laughed and, generally had a nice time.

It was a little like old times. I was my usual sarcastic self and I made him laugh. He was his usual self and made me laugh. I remembered how much fun he was to be with, even if I didn’t feel the need to stay by his side as I had done in the past.

We talked about many things and it was fun. It was like the old days without the horribleness that came in the last few years. But, then, we weren’t going home together, so maybe that was the reason.

I talked about F and told some funny stories. He told me that he had defriended me on FB because he was concerned that I would be upset by his getting married. I said that I wasn’t upset at all and I really wanted him to be happy (which is all true).

But it was afterwards – and I don’t mean after the party, I mean a few days afterwards – when I realised that, whilst I had said some things about F he had, basically, said nothing about B (his partner).

Now, isn’t that a strange thing?

The Party

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I had a sudden thought, in the car, on the way to the airport.

What if V were on the plane? For some reason this possibility hadn’t even crossed my mind until that moment and for some other reason, it made me feel uncomfortable.

There were three things about this party:

1. Ay

It was her 21st. From a beautiful baby to a beautiful woman. How time flies. My meories of her are precious.

2. The Family.

They were my family for over 20 years. They still are my family. I still feel at home with them which, I thought, was strange, since I had believed it was because of V. It seems not.

3. V.

Of course, this was my biggest ‘concern’ And, so, on to the party ……..

I got to the hotel and watched some TV (see earlier post) and then decided to go down for a cigarette. There had been dire warnings about how cold it was in the UK, so I dressed up – hat, coat, scarf, gloves, etc.

In reality, it wasn’t that bad and I felt almost foolish being so well guarded against the non-existent cold.

So, I’m there, outside the hotel, having a cigarette and wishing I was home. I phone C to ask what time it will finish as I need to phone a taxi.

“Probably about 4″, she states. OK, I know it’s a family whose roots are Jamaican and, therefore, should have known – but, really, FOUR!?!

She tells me there is someone who wants to talk to me. She passes me to V. He seems quite pleasant. I tell him I will be there later.

I’ve brought a suit. I nearly changed my mind but, in the end, thought it would be better. I go up to take a bath but, whilst it is running, I see the water is yellow and full of black bits. I decide to have a shower.

It’s after the shower that I realise I didn’t bring my brush. Nor even a comb. Bugger!

I use the only thing I have which is a nail brush. It’s not good but it’s all I’ve got. Luckily the room has a hairdryer so that’s something. The result I’m not happy with but there’s nothing I can do about it.

I get ready and go. I could be a bit early but better early than late. I go to the taxi rank at the airport. I get in a taxi and we’re there about 10 minutes early.

I go to the door. Outside are some people I recognise in some way. I guess they’re V’s brother’s oldest children who are in their 20’s. They recognise me more than I them. I certainly couldn’t put names to them – well, I couldn’t at that moment.

One of them goes in to say I am here. C comes out and goes a bit wild. There’s lots of hugging and kissing and stuff. V stands in the doorway. We say ‘Hi’.

We go inside into the entrance porch. There is of course the ‘How are you?’s; the ‘You’re looking well’s, etc. V’s Mum and Dad are there. I was pleased that his Dad looked really fit and well – it meant that I could honestly be delighted to see him and shock was not obvious on my face, even if I had expected to see him thinner and ‘shrunken’, because the only shock was how well he looked.

It was wonderful to see them. Ay wasn’t there but ‘getting ready at home’. Obviously, she wanted to ‘make an entrance’.

V was going to pick her up in the car. He suggested that I come too.

V looked good. Almost like his old self and certainly much, much better than last time I saw him. He didn’t look so old either. We talked a lot. It was almost as if nothing had ever happened. He was (as he was before) fun to be with. I enjoyed our time together.

Of course, the difference was that I didn’t worry about what he said. I mean, it didn’t matter if it was bullshit or not. It isn’t like it matters to me – I mean to say, it doesn’t have any effect on my life, my day-to-day living, not like before. So he could be whomever he wanted and I didn’t know, nor need to know, anything beyond the shallow front. And that was good.

Even P, his other sister, was nice to me!

He told me that everyone had been talking about me coming. That it was really important to them. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, it was nice to think they might have been.

But I didn’t scratch too deep. I’m not good with the sight of blood and what purpose would it serve anyway?

Ay looked fabulous. And, of course, to me, not 21. She looked like a little, sweet girl. But I love her still, even if she’s only my ‘niece’ by virtue of the relationship I had with V.

And I do miss the food – rice and peas, chicken, etc. It was really lovely to have some again.

And I do miss them all, even V. They make me feel warm and comfortable and, well, like being in a family.

So, the party was fine and V was very nice and everyone was very nice and Ay looked so beautiful and I cannot express how I feel now she’s turned 21.

And I got a little drunk and got a taxi back about 2 or 2.30 but that was OK.

Out of my mind

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I must have been out of my mind!

It’s the only explanation.

You may remember, when I went to the UK the last time, I was having a coffee with Best Mate and saw a croissant (brioche, here) that looked delicious.

I was thinking of the brioches that we have at our local café. What I got, of course, was the British equivalent, which is is no way equivalent except that they look similar. It was not fresh – out of the oven that morning but, rather, several days old. It was dreadful.

I had a lot to drink on Friday night. The next morning I was up early to catch the flight home. I needed coffee – even if I knew the coffee wouldn’t be that good.

After checking in, I went to find coffee. Costa Coffee in the departure lounge seemed the best bet. there was a queue – a long queue. The woman behind mentioned that she would like a bacon sandwich. Mmmmm, I thought. Yes a bacon sarnie would be just right.

I wait. The queue is NOT inching forward. Of course, there’s not a queue in an Italian bar but the staff are incredibly quick and they are, normally, very good at working out who’s next but, anyway, I’m used to it now so can usually get my coffee quite quickly.

I feel that some serious training, given by Italians to the British, would be useful. They are not slow – they are bloody useless. I look at my watch. My plane will be boarding in about 20 minutes. They finish serving the customer at the head of the queue. The queue inches forward. I count the number of people and realise that, at this speed, if I am lucky, I will get my coffee and bacon sarnie about 10 minutes after my plane has boarded.

Oh well, I think, I shall just go somewhere else.

I leave the queue.

The only somewhere else is Burger King or the pub.

I opt for Burger King. After all, I remember the burgers as quite good – well, better than McDonald’s anyway!

I look at their offerings. I wonder why we’ve always got to look up at these places.

They have a Bacon Butty. It includes egg, which I don’t really want and cheese, which I also don’t really want but, OK, I can eat it. I order cappuccino too. I pay £5 something. Normally, in our local bar, we pay €4.80 for two cappuccinos and two brioches. Ah well, who cares, I think.

I sit at the table and unwrap my Bacon Butty.

I will try to describe it.

First, it is small – no bigger than my palm. The bread is soft but not soft as in soft bread but more like hot bread that has been run under a tap. Soft in a wet sense. The egg is not, of course, a fried egg. Nor is it some scrambled egg. It is a burger made of an egg-like substance. I suppose you could say it was like scrambled egg except that it really isn’t.

The bacon is thin – but so thin it is thinner than Italians cut their meat. Wafers are thicker. It tastes of bacon.

I liberally spread tomato sauce over it all. I have to hold the bun carefully, just in case the wet bun starts to disintegrate with gravity. I am convinced that, if I squeezed the bun, I would get about a quarter of a pint of water from it.

It is vile and not really food but it is, perhaps and only perhaps, better than nothing.

The cappuccino is interesting. The froth on a cappuccino is supposed to be thick and creamy. It seems that, whoever has been learning about cappuccinos has heard the thick bit and accordingly, the froth is so thick that the plastic stirrer stands up. In fact, it is difficult to move it around. Well, at the end of it, it tastes vaguely like coffee.

I can’t forget the Bacon Butty though. The wet bun, the terrible egg, the whole experience.

But, I wonder at how the British people got to a stage where this was acceptable. Where slow service (Costa Coffee) and bad coffee and this Bacon Butty were considered to be acceptable. Indeed, where the Bacon Butty came to be considered food?

I don’t think I could go back and live in the UK, not least because of the food. I must have been out of my mind.

I am disappointed

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I mean, it’s so much better, isn’t it?

The Brits, who as F rightly says, are quite arrogant, think they have the best TV in the world. They scoff at American ‘crap’ (even though we all watch it); we used to have Eurotrash, taking the piss out of those horrendous foreign TV shows – our shows are just so ‘classy’.

I don’t go for Italian TV much. Not least because I don’t understand it all and so it is not really relaxing.

So, if I’m in the UK, I can’t wait to watch a bit of decent TV.

Except ………..

I get to the hotel about 5. I remember the news is on at 6 but it’s too late to go into Birmingham (which was my original intention) and so I lie down on the bed and switch the TV on.

I flick through some channels. There’s some kid’s stuff but most of the main channels have game shows. I’ve heard of some of them. The Usual Suspects. I’ve read about that, so I linger on that. What a pile of trash it is. Then there’s Deal/No Deal with the great Noel Edmundson (that was a joke – the ‘great’ bit). I’m watching this with some disbelief since it is, in fact, an English version of some show over here. Which is also mind-numbingly dreadful – I mean I have watched it because I can understand it – and if I can understand it, it has to be of fairly low quality.

Then there’s the news. I was addicted to the news when I lived in the UK. Now, it seems too shallow, too much in the way of soundbites, too sensational ……. or quite dumb.

In the past when I’ve been back to the UK, I’ve watched it but this time I realised that every time, without fail, it just disappoints me.

Great TV? No, it’s not great TV. It’s the same as TV the world over. Shallow and pointless and, to be frank, boring. We used to sit in front of the television for hours. It was one of the reasons I never got satellite TV over here. I didn’t want to spend my whole life in front of the box. And now, after time without TV (if you see what I mean), it’s just so very disappointing.

Before the party

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I admit to being a little apprehensive.

Amongst other reasons it’s the flying. I mean I love to fly – I just don’t like all the security and time-wasting crap that goes on, as I have mentioned before. It makes me anxious. Really it’s about the most horrible people doing all this. I mean to say, sometimes they are nice but often they are not nice and sometimes downright rude.

Then there is the going to the UK. I find myself disappointed, usually, these days. Disappointed with the people, the weather, the food, even the coffee. Of course, it’s not ‘home’ any more, which, for certain is part of it.

Then there is the meeting with people who I haven’t seen for at least four years – some even more than that. It’s not that being with them again is the problem it’s the different circumstances. I relied on V to remind me who all these people were. This time, I will have to rely on my own memory.

Not for all of the people, of course.

Then there is the ‘what to say’ thing.

Indeed, what to say?

I will be asked how I am. For some, it won’t be enough for me to say ‘Fine, thanks’. But, how far to go? I don’t know that they want to hear ‘Fantastic! Never been better’, or some such thing. But it will be difficult to keep it in check.

And, then, of course, there is V. Since I have no idea (well, very little) on the reality of his situation, I guess that much of what he will say will be bullshit. And, even if it weren’t to be bullshit, I would think it were so, which is a great shame.

Still, there is the slight concern that he will want to get back together again. And I don’t want to be cruel or hurtful but, quite obviously, there would be no chance of that, even if I weren’t with F now.

So, although I am looking forward to the party, I am very much looking forward to Saturday evening, when I will be back home and it will all be over and all the things that have worried me will be in the past.

Yes, I am a little anxious. But I guess it will all be OK really.

Weather – it’s winter and it’s cold, etc., etc.

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The weather.

It’s a bit cold.

I’m writing this post because, this morning, whilst chatting with someone over in the USA, they asked how bad it all was over here as they have an idea that people are dropping dead like flies.

Whereas, of course, people are NOT walking around and then suddenly dropping dead because of the cold. The people who are dying are the old and vulnerable. Homeless people, for example. And, whilst it’s not a good thing, of course, it’s something that happens every year.

I was asked about the lack of heating – apparently it is being implied that we have or are running out of fuel. Well, maybe we ARE running out but it doesn’t feel like it.

And, yes, we have had some snow. Just for a couple of days. It didn’t close everything although things were more difficult, of course. And, like most winters, it is cold – in the minus degrees (C) range and it may be lower than usual – but only by a few degrees.

It’s not Armageddon. Life is continuing. There seem to be no shortages in the shops. The restaurants seem emptier but, given the cold weather, I hesitate to go out too.

Dino, on the other hand, adores this. We have found a new game. I kick blocks of ice (the size of small stones) around the dog area and he chases them. This morning, there was a larger than usual block. When we came to leave the dog area, he decided he wanted to take it home. So he proudly carried it all the way home. However, at the front door to the building, I decided he would have to drop it so I opened his mouth and out dropped a piece of ice as small as a pea. It made me laugh. From the way he had held himself all the way back, I had assumed it was still quite big.