Author Archives: Andy

It’s a long and sometimes winding road.

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Its a long and sometimes winding road

You may think that I’m not keeping this blog up to date any more but that’s only partly true.

When I moved the blog, all the links to the old blog had to be changed to the new one. I found a program that was supposed to do it. It did some of the links but not all by any means. So now I have to correct them by hand.

Also, I want to delete a directory that is, almost, a duplicate of another directory. It holds the pictures and photographs I use. This means going through each post and checking the right directory is used and that the photo/picture exists in that directory.

And, finally, during the various ISP moves that I’ve had some things got a bit mixed up and replaced with weird characters – so I wanted to fix them.

As a result, I’ve been reading through the blog from the beginning.

There are 84 pages of posts – around 1600 posts! It’s taking a while, as you might imagine. I am now on page 48 (i.e. I have 48 pages to go!!)

However, it has allowed me to see my life in a different way. Some of it heart-wrenching, some boring. I am amazed that some of you have kept up with me all the way along! I mean, some parts are just boring post after bloody boring post! Why on earth do you do it? Some posts have been relegated to the scrap heap because they were short and said nothing or because all the links failed to work!

I’m considering a way to permit people to navigate to the best writing (in my opinion), the most-viewed posts and the posts with something special to say – so, as I’m reading, I’m noting page numbers against categories. It almost makes me want to redesign the blog entirely. Or move certain posts to a different blog. In any event, I want the reader to be able to navigate to particular portions or posts more quickly. God knows, I wouldn’t want anyone else to have to labour through the boring posts!

Just last night, I went to dinner at A’s place and we discussed the blog move. A few things have become very clear to me whilst I’ve been reading the past posts.

1. This is NOT really the whole of my life in Italy. Some of it is (and those are very boring posts) whilst a lot of it are my thoughts which may or may not relate to Italy.

2. Most of the blog are my thoughts and NOT reality. It’s a look into my head – not always a fabulous place to be. However, it’s where the best writing is.

3. I am seriously a) paranoid, b) fearful, c) fucked up. All in my head, of course. On the outside I remain a) in control, b) sensible and c) normal. I’m not sure that these two sides of me should be so wildly different.

4. The shit/difficult times that seemed to last fooooor eeeever, actually lasted no time at all but, boy, do I write a LOT of posts during these shit times!

5. I wish I had written more, sometimes, about things that were happening. There are gaps that I can’t seem to fill very well. God knows what you lot thought at the time!

So, there you have it. Lots of work still to do and, apart from this post, I hope I’ll be filling the blog with more interesting stuff and much, much better writing, in future.

If I close my eyes, I hurtle back to 1975

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Once or twice I noticed the smile that he has. It comes with a twinkle in his eye. But the twinkle is a real twinkle – a bit cheeky but it always really sparkled.

And, suddenly, it really really is him.

And, sometimes, I could hear it in his voice. If I had closed me eyes then, I could have transported myself back to those days.

I had picked them up at the airport. I was a bit worried I wouldn’t recognise them. And I was right to be worried. Their eldest daughter is 26 so we knew it was more than 26 years since I had seen them. And, 26 years is a long, long time.

I remember him as the same sort of build as me but taller. I knew he had no hair. T, his wife, had black hair.

So, I didn’t recognise them at all. He looked a little like my grandfather! They had both gained a “little weight”, she had blondish hair.

But later, over a meal, he did that thing with his smile and the twinkle thing and then, for a split second, it was him.

I could tell you all about the weekend but it would be slightly boring. Instead, he remembered things about me that I don’t remember. I was, in fact, a bit of a tearaway between the ages of 14 and 18 (and, possibly, beyond that.) He told me that he used to hang around me hoping that my “natural wit and charm” with the ladies would rub off on him – or that, by hanging out with me, he would attract the girls – apparently.

He would ferry me around to parties, etc. so that he would be included.

I don’t remember. He used to wait for me at my parents’ house whilst I “came back from somewhere” for us to go out. Apart from parties, our “going out” was mainly to pubs.

And, as I have said before, I never understood that I was good looking. But here is a photo that was taken in 1975. I am on the right, with the purple shirt.

Andy and Harry Aug 1975

And this is them at the top of the Duomo, this weekend.

Harry ad Tracey Duomo Roof 2015

I think you can agree, he’s changed a bit. They’ve changed a bit! Or not? But, then, there’s 40 years between the two photos!

I loved you for a bit and then I didn’t

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I loved you for a bit and then I didn't

I wondered if I’d get anything.

My guess is that, by now, any credit he had on his Italian phone would be gone and, so, I thought it was unlikely that I would be able to get hold of him. I mean, directly of course. I could phone his mum or dad and ask to speak to him.

Anyway, he didn’t forget my birthday and, as usual, I get a text from him, wishing me a happy birthday and, as usual, expressing undying love for me. It’s unfortunate that, with all the lies over the years, I am completely unmoved by this.

He also tells me that he’s “in England at the moment.”

Of course, I already know this. Except that I know it’s not really “at the moment” but for good.

I know that an excuse will be forthcoming, eventually, so I think that we might as well get it over and done with and ask, in my reply, if everything’s OK. Are his mum and dad OK?

This would give him the opportunity to come up with the excuse. The one I’m thinking of is that he has “gone home to look after them.”

Instead, he ignores the question but send me this video to watch:

Ellie Goulding – How Long Will I Love You.

Of course, the answer to that was about 18-19 years, I guess. I so want to reply that – but it wouldn’t be nice, so instead I say thank you.

I suppose that Ay hasn’t told him what I know. If she calls me later, I will ask. Just to make sure. She and I need to stay on the same page with this, of course.

I’ll accept his reasons, whatever they will be. It’s not like I want to trip him up. I don’t hate him after all. It’s just a bit sad.

Plus that he really did love me but only for a period of time. And, then, he didn’t love me any more!

IKEA is NOT a Modern Art Museum!

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IKEA is NOT a Modern Art Museum!

“Where are we going?” I had to ask twice or, maybe, three times.

“To the opening of a modern art museum.”

Oh, OK. After all, I like modern art. It was in the Navigli area of Milan. We were in the taxi – I was in the back with Fi, F’s crazy friend from Austria, next to me and, next to her, M, a wealthy Russian who now lives in London (I found out later). Fi had come over for one night to meet up with M.

The roads were closed. We got out of the taxi and walked up at the top of the canals, where they come almost together and join in a basin called the Darsena. I remember now that this was the official opening of the Darsena – they’ve finally made it something of a place to go, creating walkways and parks. In fact, the whole of the Navigli is being “done up”. It will be lovely when they’ve finished. It should have been done years ago.

But there are so many people! The place is heaving.

Suddenly we meet some people. I kind of recognise some of them. F reminds me from where. For some it was Fi’s birthday bash in Vienna and for others the time we went to a sea-food restaurant (with about 30 people that Fi had invited (her dinners are rarely less than 10 people at a time).

F reminds me they are rich or “super-rich”.

To be honest, they look more like street people. Later, someone tells one of the blokes (who is in the “super rich” category that his trousers look good. At first I thought this was a joke. Thank God I didn’t laugh out loud!) They are black and loose, like a pair of jogging bottoms but with some 5 or 6 inches of rubber-like elastic bottoms. Underneath them he’s sporting a pair of “fashion” wellington boots. They look bloody dreadful. I wouldn’t wear something like that even if I was only slobbing out at home!

In fact, almost all the clothes they are wearing look as if they got them from a second-hand store. This is rich people for you!

Anyway, it seems that these people are the people we are supposed to be meeting up with. I wish that F had given me some forewarning as to who they were. Then I would have feigned remembering them which would have looked better, at least.

We wander down the street towards the station. There is a “temporary” IKEA store. Everyone goes in. It is IKEA but, given that Expo is opening in Milan in a few days time, it isn’t a normal IKEA store but just about kitchens and food – so at least the more interesting part of IKEA, I suppose.

We wander about for a bit and then go out. It seems the other rich guy, who looks similar to the super rich guy with the jogging bottoms, needs alcohol. I remember now, he drinks like a fish. They look the same – big noses which are red (from too much alcohol), short with particularly rotund bellies (probably from too much alcohol) and both wearing black. But they’re nice enough. And, apparently very rich. But, then everyone is very rich except us. They talk about going for an aperitivo (it is about 1 p.m. – whereas aperitivo time is after 5 p.m.)

We wander across the street and into a place that looks like a restaurant. Exposed brick inside to give it a rustic feel. We are shown to a table in the back room which is set out for 10 people or so. It seems this is what we were coming for. I don’t understand why someone didn’t say!

We sit down. 2 of the rich people (husband and wife – the husband being the one who drinks like a fish) are not staying more than a few minutes. They’re just having a glass or two of prosecco (well, in fact, she’s not drinking at all – he has a couple and then another from someone else.) They go and we start to look at the menu.

The prices are really steep. €20+ for a plate (not that big either) of pasta and €30 or more for a main dish.

It seems most people are having pasta. There are five people having that. The super rich wife is having two antipasti. I’m having the lamb. Of course, it is said that after the pasta they may take a main course. That will make me look rather foolish but, again, I didn’t know and F doesn’t tell me.

A guy has joined us a few minutes before. A tall guy bringing his small black dog. He also has a pot belly. Grey hair but thinning with some missing just above his forehead, the remainder tied in a small pony tail at the back. He’s loud and tends to dominate the conversation. He’s one of those who has ordered one of the five pasta dishes but he’s already says he’s going to have lamb afterwards.

We have to wait because, as stated on the menu, this particular pasta dish takes 16 minutes to prepare. They ask if it can be hurried along because M has to catch a flight back to London and has to leave by 2.30 p.m.

We have wine after the prosecco. There is no discussion on the wine. Super rich guy knows the people who own the restaurant. I don’t really care. I’ve been talking to M who doesn’t speak Italian but does speak English.

Eventually (but a LOT longer than the 16 minutes quoted) the pasta, the antipasti and my lamb arrive.

Except there’s a problem. We’re short of one of the pasta dishes. There is a general “no, share with me”, etc. But it seems the guy with the ponytail is the one without.

He refuses to share.

But he has a tantrum. Really, he’s about my age but he starts acting up like he’s a 3-year-old child. Shouting about how he was hungry but now won’t eat anything. How they should cancel his order for the lamb (which he hadn’t made anyway). Not only is he cutting off his nose to spite his face, but he is making everyone uncomfortable. Many offers are made to give him their pasta dish. He refuses. Offers are made to give him a whole pasta dish. He refuses. He just gets louder and more obnoxious. Fi, who is sitting next to him, suggests he “lighten up” which enrages him further.

I keep my head down and enjoy my lamb which is, quite possibly, the best I’ve ever tasted in Milan. It comes with a small amount of minted bread (bread soaked in a mint sauce) and microscopic amounts of a thyme sauce. It’s beautiful, but it’s not a lot. I’m not sure it’s worth €30. I don’t think we’ll be taking anyone there, to be honest. Yet the place is busy, every table being taken.

Pony-tail guy eventually calms down a bit. Another bottle of wine comes. Everyone decides they have had enough. M leaves to get a taxi to the airport. More wine is drunk. Pony-tail guy hasn’t eaten a thing! Yet he’s been drinking. He’s calm now and back to being the centre of attention.

I go outside with super-rich wife as she smokes. We talk about (or, rather, she talks about) how Berlusconi stole from everyone and how he destroyed Italy. F comes out later holding sweet menus and tells me which one I should have. She tells F that it was her husbands fault. He wound up pony-tail guy by starting to eat his pasta before making sure everyone had some. I’m not sure why this should wind up PTG in particular but I can believe it.

We go back in and have sweets – except PTG, of course, although he does taste a bit of everyone else’s. We have coffees and a digestivo. Fi pays for everyone, as usual.

We say our goodbyes.

It should have all been lovely. Obviously, there was no museum involved so I’m unsure why it was even mentioned. PTG was a bit of an arse, to be honest. All the childish stuff was really not necessary.

Later he comes to our flat to pick up Fi to take her to the airport, which is nice. I don’t see him as I am busy. But I hear him. Fi comes in quickly to say goodbye to me. She’ll be back. She says so :-D

The recurring teddy bears

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Recurring Teddy Bears

He had died, apparently.

His dad said something to me about “not wanting to bother me” or somesuch thing. I cried. It felt wrong that they hadn’t told me. I was upset, for sure.

Earlier, we’d been watching a film. It was a cross between a thriller and a horror movie.

There had been a teddy bear which something embroidered into it. I asked F what it had been on the teddy. He told me it was an “M” (or was it “em”?) When it had been seen, everyone’s eyes went pink, including the teddy bear’s!

Some kids were playing in their room. It reminded me of Peter Pan. Four kids of different ages, jumping on the beds as if on trampolines. It could have been on stage. It may have been on stage – the camera angle being from below and to the front of them – as if outside the room – there was no wall or it was as if the wall wasn’t there being the front of the stage.

Their mother called them for tea. They ran off. The teddy bear was on the floor, near the nightstand, in front of the nightstand and had a sting of pearls around it or, at least, a necklace with beads. It was dark in that particular corner. A hand reached out from under the bedside table and pulled the teddy bear back underneath, breaking the necklace and, so scattering the beads/pearls over the floor. They rolled around noisily.

I got up to go to the bathroom. I asked F if, in fact, I had asked him this question. He said “No.” It had been a dream that I was awake and half-watching the film whereas, in fact, I was asleep and, most probably, fitting the dream to the sounds of the film.

And, then, later. When he died.

And I don’t quite remember whether it was afterwards (after I had got up to go to the bathroom again) or during the dream that I had had the keys to the flat given to me because that was what he had wanted. And I remember the special teddy bear I had bought him years ago – a limited, numbered edition, with wire-rim spectacles and a rolled up certificate. It had been sitting on the small, child’s chair in the hallway. And I didn’t even, at the time, have any reason to look and less to remember and, yet, I did and had remembered.

And was it during the dream or after I had woken that I was torn between wanting to be the beneficiary of the will and wanting to wash my hands of everything because being a beneficiary was also being responsible for all the shit he had left behind.

In any event, I was upset and I cried more than once (but that was definitely in the dream.)

And, for certain, when I was awake, I didn’t want it to happen – to have happened. For all sorts of reasons.

And, I wonder, when will I be able to shake him (and the problems and issues he brings) out of my life?

I don’t know if I really did wake so many times to go to the bathroom or I dreamt it. These were just two of the dreams I had last night. There were others but I don’t remember them.

Nuggets of truth. Perhaps?

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Nuggets of truth. Perhaps?

There is some truth, of course, although that’s not always guaranteed.

But only a small amount. The story I know will not, almost certainly, be the one I will hear. I know that already. I don’t know when I will hear the story directly but I know that, at some time it will come, when we eventually meet.

Of course, I don’t really care about the story I will be told for already I know a truth (but not THE truth for that, I suspect, will never be really known) and, therefore, I know the story to be told will be, to all intents and purposes, fictitious. But when I get told that story, I will accept it and not ask probing questions to trip him up. What purpose could that possibly serve?

The story I will be told will be something like: I had to come back to look after Mum and Dad.

That bit, of course, is not even slightly true and that’s not the bit that will contain any small bits of truth. The small bits of truth will be in the detail of the story told to me.

Of course, there is a long way to go before that story gets told to me, so anything may happen in the meantime.

But it makes me a little sad. As I mentioned, I have been reading up on my old posts, checking links and making sure they aren’t corrupted with strange characters. I’m up to the point where I have been a few weeks in the perfect-flat-in-the-perfect-street. And the major thing that I have been reading about is the lying that was done before that. And, so, the story will be a fabrication of lies and, as that was the reason we split in the first place, I am sad that it (the lying) will be continuing.

But I have become like everyone else in his view. Or maybe it was always so and I was just too dumb or stupid or blind or blinded by love that I missed all the signs that were slapped in my face.

But, let’s move on to the story I know, which contains more truth than the story I will get but also huge omissions that I will never (nor will anyone else) know.

Ay and her boyfriend, E, were over.

We went out for one dinner. F didn’t go away so he was there too. It was lovely.

But Ay and I gossiped, of course. Gossiped about the “family” – not mine but hers (and, yet, in some way, one of my families too). Which, of course, makes it also V’s. And, it couldn’t be helped but we gossiped about V. Or, rather, she gossiped about V and I listened.

It seems, now he’s there, that he hasn’t told anyone what really happened. We talked about the strange telephone call from her grandfather (where he said he had missed a call from me even though I never made the call.) I told her why I thought he had made the call. 1. Because V was there and really wanted to talk to me or 2. Because V had told him things and he was checking I was OK and not “caught up” in trouble because of V.

She told me that, almost certainly, those reasons were wrong. He would have rung because he had had nothing from V and needed an excuse to talk to me with the hope that I would “spill some beans”. But, in any case, I have very few beans to spill. Or, rather, I had very few factual beans – the beans I have being pieced together and some of which are “supposed” beans.

It seems he is acting like the prodigal son. He has no money, has no job, etc., but is happy to live and be fed and looked after by his parents. It seems that his other sister, P, is helping him to get benefit money and the “plan” is to declare that he is there to provide full-time care for his parents.

Ay and her mum are not particularly impressed since, for all the years so far, he has provided nothing in terms of help – of any kind, while they have – and not been asking for any benefit money either.

Still, it remains to be seen if he will get any money for this. With the crackdown on “benefit scroungers” in the UK, I’m sure they will want to make an assessment of the parents – and that won’t be comfortable for anyone!

But, more than that, it seems a shame that someone who, at one time, had a promise and future, will never realise any of that potential. On the cusp of half a century, instead of forging ahead he will find himself trapped in this spiral of requiring hand-outs.

I had written during some posts at the end of 2008 and the beginning of 2009 of how, I wondered, he would cope without me. In fact, he has and is “coping” but not in the way that I had imagined nor in a way that would suit me. Nor, I imagine, in his heart of hearts, is it what he envisaged for himself.

And so, I wait to hear the story that he will concoct to give to me. And, of course, whatever I hear, I already know will be mainly a fantasy.

Which is the greatest shame. It could have been so different but I do not feel responsible. I am not responsible. He has “achieved” this all by himself. Still, it makes me sad.

As they say in Italy – this is a hardly work!

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Hard work!

You will probably think that I’m not keeping this blog up to date since its move.

And, in part, you’d be right – but only in part.

I’ve been meaning to do this for a long while now and, with the move and needing to check that everything is still working (links, etc.), I’ve been going through all the posts I’ve made.

There are a LOT of posts! I have been correcting links, making sure pictures work and, occasionally, deleting posts that, in my view, are a complete waste.

I’m up to March of 2009.

This is just before I moved into the perfect-flat-on-the-perfect-street. It’s trying, reading these posts. I can remember it well. What surprised me was that I hadn’t really “let you in” on all my feelings. I thought I had. At the start (which I thought was November, 2008 but was actually only just before Christmas 2008), I told you nothing of my feelings. The blog seems to be so much lighter in tone than the reality was. There’s one post, towards the end of March, 2009 when I apologise for the blog being depressing – although, now that I’m having to read every post, it doesn’t seem that depressing at all!

Still, I have 6 years worth of blog posts to go before I get up to date. OMG!

But I have some things to tell you (about recent events) so I’ll try and do a couple of posts in the next few days to keep you up to date. I can only apologise for the lack of posting right now

Discussion versus rant.

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Discussions – where two or more people talk about a subject, expressing their ideas, trading comments and come to an agreeable conclusion, or not.

Rant – where someone expresses their view again and again and, quite possibly their idea of your view without the possibility of any response and where any views held are set in stone.

“We can never discuss anything.”

I am silent. What I should have said is that this, this thing that is occurring, is absolutely, fundamentally NOT a discussion. It is, in fact, a rant. And brought on by something that eludes me and, quite possibly, for absolutely no reason at all.

Instead, I am silent. I am also shocked (although by now I should be used to it) and I am also a little pissed off.

In my head, it should have gone like this:

“I’m tired now because I’ve done lots of stuff today.”

“Yes, I understand. Why don’t you stop now and let the cleaner do it.”

“Yes, good idea.”

And that would be that.

Instead the conversation goes something like this:

“I haven’t stopped a minute.” – note: this is NEVER true – it just means that he has done lots of things. In fact, he stopped on a number of occasions and, sometimes, for half an hour or more.

“I am very tired.” – note: this is possibly true.

“Why not stop now?” – note: I also have been doing things. I am stopping, probably.

“I can’t stop because I have to finish the ironing because “the bitch” (the name given to the cleaner – in fact, the name given to all cleaners who can never do it as well as he does, of course) won’t clean properly if there is any ironing.” – note: OK, it was only a suggestion.

“You never notice but she doesn’t clean properly and she has to learn and if you’re happy to pay her so much when she doesn’t do a good job then that’s up to you and if she came in once a week then that wouldn’t be so bad and I wouldn’t expect it to be perfect (note: although, in fact, he would) but she comes in three times a week blah, blah, blah …..”

I have to admit, I’ve stopped listening now. It’s the same-old, same-old. There is nothing I can do or say that will, in any way, change anything and, especially, what he thinks.

I offer to help with some washing but get lamblasted with the “fact” that we can never have a discussion and that no, I should just go back to my computer. I’ve actually been giving a lesson but let’s not think about that for whatever I say and do it isn’t right.

As I am not permitted to help and as I can say nothing that will in any way either mollify him nor stop him, I walk out. I hear,

“Yes, that’s right. You go away.”

Yes, I know. Just because he told me to go doesn’t mean I should but, you know, fuck it. The rant had been going on for about 10 minutes – I cut it short here – and I was royally pissed off now. What I had intended was that he should take a break. That the ironing (nor the cleaning for that matter) were not so important as to make him work all day (not that he had been). But, apparently, they are. And over that, we shall never see eye-to-eye.

I write up the lesson log. This takes about half an hour. I go to the bathroom and find he’s making the bed. I pick up the bolster cover (he’s doing the other one) and go to put it on the bolster.

“No, leave it. I’ll do it.”

This wasn’t a question. I carefully fold it back and put it back where it was without saying a word. Obviously what I wanted to do was just to throw it on the bed – but that’s not me.

I go back to my studio. After a few minutes I come back to tell him I’m taking the dogs out.

Later, I ask about dinner. I suggest something and he suggests something else. I don’t really care. I choose to get the “something else” out of the freezer.

It will need defrosting. I go and have a shower. He tells me that his mum had said it doesn’t need to be defrosted. I put it in the oven. I go back to my room.

I come back half an hour later and he’s laid the table – with candles and stuff. Perhaps it’s his way of making up? I don’t know and having been really pissed off for about 4 hours now, neither do I care. He doesn’t get away with it that easily.

We eat our meal but I’m not “not talking” to him so we talk about the TV programme that’s on. I suggest ice-cream for sweet, etc. It’s OK (the meal) but it’s not really great (in terms of “us”) – and it should have been great.

And, still, as we approach lunchtime today, I am pissed off about it. I really hate his ranting. I do know how he feels about the cleaner, cleaning and the ironing – I just don’t share his views. Nor will I ever. And, what’s more he knows that. I have no problem with him cleaning all day (he has admitted a number of times that he finds it really relaxing) but I get fed-up when he complains about the fact that he’s cleaned all day. This is like me complaining that I’ve had to read books all day or watched some films all day.

But the key is that, next time, I must remember to just say: “This is in no way a discussion it is just you ranting”, and walk out.

Missed call or something else?

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In the meantime …….

I get a call.

“Hi Andy. Did you call me? Only I’ve seen there was a missed call.”

This wasn’t all one short thing but I’ve distilled it to this because that was what, supposedly, it was about. I hadn’t called. I apologised for having “inadvertently” made a call, explaining that it must have been in my pocket.

But, none of that is true.

So I wonder why the call is being made?

I ask after him and Mum. It seems she is OK but I’ll learn more when Ay is over.

I think about it but don’t ask about V. Is that bad? I don’t want to appear nosey. Nor do I want it to seem like I’m gloating. As always, I worry about how others see what I do or say.

He doesn’t mention V. Which is also strange. I mean, why not? He’s there, isn’t he?

But he seems cheerful enough. Then I think that, perhaps, he expected me to call. But, surely not? My days of being concerned about V are over. I don’t take responsibility for him any more.

But it was a strange call to make.

I’ve double checked as I was writing this post and no, I didn’t make any call to his number since before February! So it does seem really strange.

Maybe V got him to phone just to see what I would say? Well I said nothing.

I’m glad that he and Mum are OK though. And it’s nice to hear his voice, even if he’s not my real dad.