Author Archives: Andy

It’s his way of showing me.

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“You go and get them”, he says, “because you’ve got to go and do it when I’m not here”.

I don’t say anything at the time. He makes me laugh. I tell him when I get back, as we’re eating the two sandwiches I’ve just bought. I can do things but he seems to feel that I must be ‘trained’ as to ‘how’ to do things. Of course, he’s just making sure I will be OK. I want to say ‘I’ve been here for 6 years. I think I can get by, now. Otherwise I would have died from starvation!” I don’t, of course. It’s quite sweet, really. Bless him.

It felt more than 2 days and 2 nights.

It felt like a week or something.

He had worked hard on the house. I said all the right things. It’s amazingly light. All walls are white, of course. It’s not perfect in that the sink in the bathroom only has cold water; the toilet doesn’t flush properley but you can’t have everything. There were new toothbrushes, soap for me, food for the dogs and many other things. A new telly was bought, rubbish bins, etc. The dogs love it although they are exhausted within a day.

His friend, R, had cut all the grass so the dogs could use the garden.

He’s happy even if it’s not perfect.

Someone asked him how long we had been together. “Almost 2 years”, he replied. It seems longer than that. Like the weekend.

I was shown our place on the beach. I bookmarked his Mum’s place, the house, the beach and the dog walking area on my navigator, as he needed to be certain I would be OK finding everything. He arranged that, when he’s not able to go, I will be able to meet R, have dinner with his Mum and Dad, etc. He wants to make sure that I’ll be OK. It’s like ordering the sandwiches at the beach. He wants to make sure I will do it.

Of course, that also puts pressure on me. a) to go down and b) to go to his Mum’s, go out with R, etc.

So now I will have to go down, even if he’s not there. But all this is his way of showing that he loves me, I guess.

The clothes maketh the man (so to speak)

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“I’m not racist!”

I’ve heard this often. It goes with the “I’m not a bigot”, “I’m not sexist”, “I’m not something bad”. But it’s not really true for we are all, even if it is only a tiny bit, every one of those things.

Of course, the problem is that we like to pigeon-hole people. We put them into categories in the same way that we put everything into categories. Food we like – food we don’t like; people we like – people we don’t like; books we like – books we don’t like. If I read a bad book, it goes into a category. If it is bad because I didn’t like the story (that’s one category) or bad because the writing was dismal or even atrocious (that would be the Honeymoon-by-Amy-Jenkins category).

What makes us a bad person is that we take some action on the categories or we expect that our version of the items or people in that category is the right and only view. Honeymoon was a terrible book – in my opinion. It may be that some people think it’s great. I wouldn’t buy a book by Amy Jenkins ever again. That doesn’t mean that, since Honeymoon, she hasn’t written some great books. I’ll just never know.

It’s the same with people. I see someone wearing a dirty jacket with layers of other dirty clothes and dragging an over-laden shopping trolley behind him, sporting a thick and out-of-control white beard – I assume he is one of the homeless people wandering around Milan. I could be wrong, of course. Maybe he’s the CEO of one of the fashion businesses here?

I see a lady waiting on the street corner, short (but I mean short, short) mini skirt, fishnet stockings, high heels, tight white top, checking every car as it goes past, occasionally speaking to the driver through the window when one of the cars stops, most probably the driver only asking for directions somewhere – in my head I immediately put her in a category. I know, it’s wrong.

There’s the old woman. Always waiting at the same bus stop. I used to pass her every evening when I used to go to F’s place. She was old. Sixty plus. She had a honey-blonde wig, had her face plastered with make-up, always wore this big fur coat and underneath (‘cos I saw once or twice) a short skirt, skimpy top, etc. It didn’t matter what time I went past, she was always there. Early evening, late evening. It didn’t matter when. Always the same fur coat. Always the same make-up. Always the same bus stop. Always not getting on the bus if the bus happened to be stopping. She went in the same category too. Perhaps she was a cleaning lady? Or maybe a care worker?

I remember when we first came here, years ago. We didn’t understand, coming from the UK, that the shop assistants dressed the same as ordinary people entering the shop – i.e. the customers. In the UK, most shops had the shop assistants wearing the same clothes as each other. Often an actual uniform. It was easy to spot them. To categorise them as ‘someone that can help me should I be in need of help’. Coming here, it was harder. Some woman, once, came up to me as I was waiting for V in a shop, asking me if ‘we had this in a different size or a different colour’ or something. I remember it pleased me at the time, being mistaken for an Italian.

However, just because I do categorise everything doesn’t mean I do anything about it. I even try to be just as nice (and smile at the lady at the bus stop) as I would with anyone else. Why not?

However, some people, I guess don’t think like me. Or don’t try to think like me. Or can’t think like me. If they put people into a category (which we all do) they seem to think that these people ARE in that category. Telling them that they are wrong, just won’t fix the problem in their heads. This article says all of the above but in a much more eloquent way, I think. And, no, I don’t condone rape as I don’t condone anything that hurts someone else. However, telling an assassin not to murder people for money doesn’t stop them doing it, does it?

In spite of the terrible weather ……………..

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Well, this is supposed to be this weekend. The weekend I take us down and admire the hard work by saying something like:

“Wow! It looks totally different”, or

“Thank you so much for doing this for us”, or

“I can see how much you’ve done. I can’t believe you did all this in a week”.

Or, all of the above. Or variations on them, anyway.

The weather is crap. This feels like it’s Wimbledon fortnight in the UK. Every day is rain. sometimes torrential rain. Like yesterday when it absolutely tipped down for a couple of hours and when, on my way home, not far from work, part of the road had errupted in a way not dissimilar to a small volcano just about shut all air traffic in Southern Europe.

And the weather will remain crap, according to the forecast, until Sunday at least. But F is quite determined we should go down. I think it’s mainly for the comments above. Or, maybe, to make sure I’m happy to go down afterwards. Since he’s not a man of words or explanation, I can only guess.

But I do want to go down. I want to see it, I want to see where our beach place is, I want to ensure it will be easy to go to his Mum’s place, etc.

His Mum is, he says, very happy that the place has been done up and we are to go down often. She was always unhappy about the place being left ‘to rot’, I know that. The by-product of us going down is that she will, of course, see her son more.

All round a good thing.

One just hopes that the weather forecast is wrong and the good weather starts on Saturday instead.

If you can’t text then don’t text.

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I don’t like people who insist on talking through a film, even if they are my friends outside the film.

I hate it when people have their mobile phone on in a film.

I hate it just as much when people use their phone at all in the cinema, even if it is in ‘silent’ mode – the illumination of the phone is too bright and distracts me. After all, I’ve paid good money to be there and I want it to be quiet AND dark.

So I would, definitely, frequent this cinema, if I lived anywhere near it.

Good for them.

Can’t see it happening here, though.

Eat dirt and die. Except it’s not true and I didn’t (die, that is).

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My parents found out, eventually. Well, I’m not sure they found out the whole truth. The problem was that I found it so tasty and apetising that I thought my sister may quite like it. So I fed her some. But I guess she was a bit messy and left bits around her mouth and in the pram.

I don’t think they ever found out that I used to eat it regularly. And, to be frank, I don’t think I would ever have admitted it (online or anywhere else, for that matter) were it not for this little piece.

Of course, it’s in the Daily Mail, not a renowned source for little things called ‘facts’ so it could be completely made up but I like that it’s ‘out there’ now. Perhaps the other people like me, wracked with a sense of guilt of carefully selecting lumps of earth from the garden before popping it in your mouth and eating it, can now ‘come out’ in the open without fear of recrimination?

And, trust me, I did carefully select these pieces. I can’t remember the taste but I do remember that it was rather good although I didn’t like the gritty bits so much. Also the texture as you ate it.

I think I ate it from about the age of 2 until I was about 6 or so.

Anyway, I didn’t die, obviously and, according to the report, it might have done me the power of good.

Mud pie for dinner, anyone?

Anyone?

Dinner with B

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There’s just never enough time.

Or, at least, that’s how it seems. It’s how it seems with some people, anyway.

And then, I talk too much. And too fast. Like there’s not enough time to get everything in. Which there isn’t.

The talking too much is not entirely my fault. B seems to bring that out in me. How different I am with different people!

The Orange Pasta was scrummy too.

Or, maybe that should read Pasta with orange otherwise it makes it sound as if the pasta were the colour of orange (which it was, sort of, but it’s not really the point).

And I never, ever say ‘thank you’ properly. I never seem to with B.

Actually, I was thinking, she would be a reason that I would live in Rome.

Some people you just love to bits for no obvious reason, if you see what I mean.

Not how it’s supposed to be.

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Well, this is NOT how it’s supposed to be at all. I get up and go to the bathroom. I am so tired. When I come back, I see the clock. No. It’s simply not possible that I’ve been awake for a whole hour and a half. Maybe I did doze off after all.

Earlier, as I sat opposite him at the kitchen table, it was really difficult to keep my feelings in check. He looked good. He was telling me about the events that happened whilst he was there, making me laugh. I loved having him back. I had been tired and would have, normally, been slightly miffed that he didn’t come until after 11. When he arrived, I was so pleased to see him that nothing else mattered.

And so, probably, that was the problem. Either that or, by the time we got to bed, I was just over tired.

Either way, I just couldn’t sleep. He cuddled up to me and immediately, I felt itchy all over. But I couldn’t scratch or move because I was worried he wouldn’t sleep. And so I lay there. Itchy. Awake. Dying for sleep but not feeling so tired. We turned over and I cuddled him. I think he was asleep but I couldn’t be sure. Then I got up to go to the bathroom. When I came back, he must have been asleep. He cuddled up to me – but really close. We were very hot. The only way he would do this would be if he was asleep. Even if it made me feel itchy (because I couldn’t scratch, of course), I didn’t want to move. I listened to the soft snoring. It meant he was here. I didn’t want to move away from him. I guess I got to sleep.

Even if I have had only about 4 hours sleep, I don’t feel so tired. Perhaps it will hit me later?

No smoking in bed.

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It sits in the middle of one of the rugs in the hallway.

I have just woken up and it is quite dark, the weather being overcast. In my sleep-stupor, it looks like a roll of packing tape. “How the hell did he get that?”, I wonder.

I pick it up. It’s not a roll of packing tape. It’s a tin. An empty tin. A very clean, empty tin. A slightly chewed, clean, empty tin. It had elk pate until yesterday. Yesterday I finished it for lunch. I had put it in the bin. The bin is hidden behind the curtain that hangs in front of the sink. I expect to see the bin contents everywhere in the kitchen. An involuntary “Oh no!” escapes my lips. Probably followed by “bloody dog”.

As I turn into the kitchen, I see that, in fact, everything is just as it should be. The curtain is still there. There is no mess in the kitchen.

I had got up earlier in the night to find him sitting in his bed. He looked at me, almost daring me to come over. I didn’t. It seemed he was chewing a bone that he got from the toy basket. Obviously it wasn’t. It was the tin. No wonder he looked at me as if expecting me to take it from him.

Now that I’m up properly, I look in the bed. There are 5 cigarette butts. Hmm. It makes me laugh that he has managed to get the tin out without making a mess in the kitchen – no cigarette butts over the floor, just neatly in the bed. I can’t be angry but he really shouldn’t smoke in bed.

Here and there.

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He was happier last night, which was good.

I’m not so happy, though.

He’s not here. I’m not there. There’s the two or three hours distance.

It’s difficult to find interest. There’s many things I could do. You know, keep busy. Stop thinking. Stop being without or alone. Stop feeling.

A said it was stupid. I could have punched him in the face. Then, I thought, perhaps he never feels like that? That would explain a lot. In fact, it would explain everything. To never have that feeling would be much worse than having it.

He says it is looking good. There. Where he is and I am not. I look at the weather forecast for there and here. It’s not particularly good at either place. I try to tell myself that it would be dreadful being there, with the rain. And the decoration ‘in progress’. I would be in the way. We would be in the way, which is true. And we wouldn’t be able to do anything. Them for sure and me because I am, quite frankly, worse than crap at this sort of stuff. Not that anyone believes me. ‘How difficult can it be?’, they think. I know they think that. In theory it should be straight forward. But, even when I try so very hard, paint doesn’t seem to get onto the walls as much as me and the floor and other places where it should not be. And the stuff on the walls is streaked or globular or thick in places it should not be, running down. No, it doesn’t work for me.

He said, “You can come down if you want”, adding without a pause for breath, “but it will be a complete mess”. He doesn’t want me there whilst he is doing it. I will be a distraction. So will they. They, maybe, more than I. They, who demand attention from him without even demanding it. Because they are the ‘poverini’, of course. Unable to demand and by being unable to demand, demanding more and with greater urgency. At least for him.

I don’t let on that I’m not happy. After all, that would be unfair. It would be selfish. He is doing this for us. For me, he says but in reality, for the four of us. Or, maybe, mainly for him? Or, maybe, for me too. It is ‘More than Words’. And he had to have an injection for his back, last night. He ‘couldn’t move’, he said. I told him he should stop but he said that he wouldn’t. He’s very stubborn like that. It’s no good arguing with him. He won’t listen anyway or, rather, he will listen but then do what he wants. I don’t demand, I’m far too old for that!

I told him I was on holiday. He knew, of course. I just wanted him to know. So, I was being a bit selfish after all! He told me to relax and enjoy it. I said I would, even if I knew that I can’t as much since he’s there and I’m here.

So I sit here and write this. Rather than there and not. In a moment I will do something. Something else. Washing, cleaning, the dogs, sorting out English stuff, a box, some editing. Something. Or not. Not here nor there.

Damn!

Things change. Things happen.

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Of course, things change.

I feel sorry for him more than anything. He’s putting in so much effort, spending all this money, working so hard to get it nice for us.

But it’s shared with his brother. His brother, apparently, may want to come and live there. F is angry that he didn’t say anything before. He told his brother that he would have to go and live at their parents’. His brother doesn’t want to. He told his brother that he would have to leave when we were coming down and that we had got an umbrella and everything. He also told him that he was cleaning the place and expected the place to be just as clean when we arrived down here. He said his brother is not like him but, then, no one is like him!

I just feel so bad for him. He was looking forward to this summer as much as me, even if we didn’t tell each other. He is very angry, I can tell. He is continuing to do it but I can only imagine how disappointing it must be for him.

So now we don’t know. Or, rather, I don’t know. We can’t go and stay at his parents with the dogs, for certain. Especially with Rufus as old as he is and the occasional bouts of incontinence.

And, talking of Rufus. Poor thing has an abscess. It’s one of the anal glands which has become infected. It, maybe, explains some other things. He’s on antibiotics. He’s managed to lick all the hair from his back end. That’s how I noticed it. It looks sore and I expect it is. Poverino. Still, when we went to the vet’s last night, the vet was amazed at how well, in general, he is doing. Me too.

So, back to the summer, maybe things will change. Maybe not. We’ll see.

It does make me want to hug F and tell him it will all be OK. For it will all be OK. It’s just a matter of time. And a matter of acceptance when we really can’t change things. And these things do happen.