Joining the CSN

I’m not really sure why I suggested it. Bloody stupid suggestion really but, too late now!

It may have been some throw-away comment by F about them having their own Facebook profiles. Yes, probably, that was it.

Anyway, last night, during Dino’s 6th birthday celebrations (there was cake, candles, balloons and the obligatory presents), I said I would set up email accounts for Dino and Piero on my domain.

So I did.

Now they have their very own Facebook profiles – Dino CaneCarino and Piero CaneSincero.

This is what they do all day!

They are attracting friends like, well, flies to shit.

In fact, Dino already has friends who, not only are they not friends of mine but I don’t even know these people!

Of course, it may be that this “thing” that is coming in the next few months, will also be able to connect people in some way. If so, the dogs will have better social media connections than I do!!

In the meantime, now that Dino has reached the ripe old age of 6, as I told him last night, it’s about time he got out there and got a job and started earning some bloody money!

* CSN = Canine Social Network

Books are important

For those of you who have been reading my blog for a long time, you will know I have a bit of a thing about books.

I read.

Obviously, even if you’ve been reading for a short time, you will know this from the fact that I read so many books last year on holiday. But, if you’ve been reading for some time (and by that I mean years), you will also know that I also have a thing about other people and their reading habits.

So, when my niece (really V’s niece but she still calls me Uncle Andy) was young, I used to let her read to me. She loved it and every time we would go up to his parents’ house, she would rush to show me her latest book from school and sit on my knee and read away. They were not a “reading family” and I think it was the only time, outside school, that she read to anyone. We used to go up there every Saturday, so it was a weekly thing between Ay and me. It was important for me too. I felt that I had to try to instil into her a love of reading, even if I was going against the tide.

Then, there was the time, after V, when I went on my “hunt” for a new man and ended up going to see this guy in Venice (he with the wrinkly elbows) and the most noticeable thing about his place was that there were no books! And that was certainly one of the deal-breakers.

It’s a strange thing really because none of my long-term partners have ever been big readers. V had only read a couple of books in his whole life! F doesn’t really read a lot (he’s more “visual”).

And, yet, I put a lot of store in reading.

When I was a kid, although it’s a long time ago and I don’t remember exactly, my parents would read to us (my sister and I) regularly. If I remember correctly, it was every night, when they put us to bed. As we got older and had separate rooms, the reading stopped but by then I had the “habit” and collected books which my parents bought for me. I had hundreds and read each one more than once. I recall one book that I had given to me when I was about 12. It was called Lone Wolf. It was too difficult for me and I couldn’t read it. I was quite upset that I found it too difficult. But, a couple of years later, I was old enough and read it. Since then I have been one of those people that simply has to finish a book, even if I find that I don’t like it as I read it.

So, it was not a particular surprise to read this piece about reading habits and how they are “passed down”, in general.

If I had ever had kids, I would certainly read to them every night until they were sufficiently adept enough to be reading on their own.

There’s nothing better than a good book to read, even if new technology seems to make books redundant. And that’s quite sad – not for me but for those youngsters who don’t learn (for it is a learnt thing) how to read and enjoy a book.

Finally, I understand.

We had clients at work last week. Just for a couple of days.

When I ran my own business, a couple of days (or, even a few hours for that matter) with clients would leave me totally drained, exhausted, shagged out. Of course, it was my business, so I expected it.

Coming here and, now, working for someone else, I assumed that would go away and, to some extent, it has. I don’t reach the end of each day completely knackered.

I originally put that down to the fact that, without the business to worry about, I often sleep through the whole night instead of waking at 2 or 3 and staying awake for a couple of hours.

But, even so, the clients still exhaust me.

And, then I read this article about small talk and, half way through, I found the thing.

I am naturally introverted. I don’t speak to people easily (not like F nor V before him). At parties or large gatherings, I’ll quite happily – well, I say quite happily but, of course, it’s not happily since I feel uncomfortable and out of my depth and just want to go home as soon as possible – stay in the corner or, if I can find poor sod to talk to, I’ll cling to them like a limpet! The bright side to the latter is that I do have a few friends as a result of that – I obviously didn’t bore them enough!

But, in the article it explains that a naturally introverted person will feel exhausted after small talk. And that’s certainly me.

So, that partly explains why I feel exhausted after I’ve been with clients. After all, most of the time I don’t actually “like” them, as people but I have to make small talk, which I find difficult. I’m British and so, certainly, we talk about the weather. And I can talk about my dogs. And, being here, I can talk about living here. But that’s it. And to make it worse, I have to be cheerful and pleasant to people that, sometimes, I would rather stab with a large blade! Many times. So it really hurts.

But, of course, I don’t and wouldn’t. But I would really like to walk away and not speak to anyone.

And one of the problems with making small talk is showing interest in a) other people who would, normally, bore me to tears and b) anything they’re interested in (like, who cares about your tropical marine fish? Not me!)

And so, the day after I was so tired you cannot believe how bad it was. I would have preferred not to talk to anyone, even F! I would have preferred to have sat at my desk and not moved. But none of these things are possible. However, I probably seemed grumpy – so, sorry Pietro – but if you read this and the article you may understand how bad it is for me?

Anyway, at least I know I’m not alone with this problem. So that’s the bright side, I suppose.

UK Government murdering vulnerable people

Atos have been under fire for a while now. Recently there was a case of someone in a coma being “invited”* to attend an interview for either a health assessment or to find out why she hadn’t got a job (I don’t remember the exact details).

The DailyHateMail had been fighting for some time to stop the “scroungers” on benefit from obtaining money by which to live. Using provocative language, they regularly “out” those who have been convicted of benefit fraud and, in doing so, get people to think that everyone who is claiming benefit is a scrounger who doesn’t want to work.

The “fit for work” assessments have been proved to be excessive and morally wrong.

So, although today, the same paper does have this article about a man dying as a result of Atos declaring him fit to work and the DWP stopping his benefits, one has to wonder why it isn’t the main item or, even, why it isn’t given as much prominence as those (few) that are found to be cheating the system?

The headlines should read as I have put in my title. It is outrageous that, in the 21st century, vulnerable people are being murdered by the state. This was what Dickens wrote about and here we are, a hundred-odd years later, having the same kind of compassion.

Truly dreadful. Makes me ashamed to be British.

Fucking politicians.

Treacle Tart

Another of the old favourites. Italians also seem to like this. The troppo sweetness of the Golden Syrup (I obviously found it one time here – details in link below) is cut through by the sharpness of the lemon zest and juice. I have made it with bought pastry, but it’s not quite so nice. Again, this is from the Hamlyn All Colour Cook Book. If you can find Golden Syrup, give it a try!

Ingredients:

Pastry –
4 oz plain flour / 113g farina tipo 00
pinch salt / pizzico sale
1 oz lard / 28g strutto
1 oz butter / 28g burro

Filling –
8 oz golden syrup / 227g sciroppo di zucchero di canna (parlzialmente invertito)
2 0z fresh white breadcumbs / 57g pangrattato bianco fresco/appena (I’m not sure which word applies)
grated rind of 2 lemons / scorza grattugiata di 2 limone
2 teaspoons lemon juice / 2 cucchiaini di succo di limone

Method:

Sieve flour and salt into a bowl. Add the lard and butter cut into small pieces and rub into the flour until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. Add enough water to mix to a firm dough. Roll out pastry thinly on floured table and use to line a 7-inch (18 cm) flan dish (although I always use a normal dinner-size plate instead). Re-roll pastry trimmings and cut into circles with a 3/4-inch (1.9 cm) fluted cutter. Brush underside of each with water and arrange, overlapping, round the edge of the dish.

Mix together the syrup, breadcrumbs, lemon rind and juice. Spoon filling into flan.

Bake for about 25 minutes in the oven (400°F/200°C/Gas mark 8) until the pastry is pale and golden.

Serve hot or cold. on it’s own or with hot custard (crema)

Being a foreigner; another first!

It’s probably about 10.30 p.m.

Maybe 11.

It’s Friday night and I’m taking the dogs out for their final time that night. It’s a bit later than normal as tomorrow is Saturday and a lie in. If I take them too early, they will want to be out early the next morning and, I’m sorry, but I can’t do that at the weekend. Well, I could and, obviously, have but I prefer not to if I can help it.

We had been to Liù for a pizza earlier. It was a bit strange in that, when we were sitting there waiting for the pizzas to come, I had this sudden moment when I felt that I was in a foreign land. Of course, I AM in a foreign land but as I’ve been here quite a long time now, I don’t tend to notice. It is my “normal” and it’s not new. So, although most of the time I hear Italian all around me, it doesn’t seem strange nor does it feel like I live somewhere foreign. And yet, just for about 20 minutes, I felt as if I were not in my own country.

It’s not that it was a bad thing. It just “was”. And, in some way, I marvel in it. If I had been told when I was young that I would up sticks so late in life and go and live in Italy, I’m not sure that I would have believed it. Retire, maybe, but just to come and live and work here, probably not.

Anyway, I digress. So, there I am, going out with the dogs for their last walk.

We come out of the building and turn right, as always. They know which way to go. Dino does his first pee on the nearest car, as always. Piero usually waits to the first junction.

As we approach the junction, a car pulls up and half-blocks the entrance to the road on the right. I don’t think anything of it. I mean people sometimes park there like that.

These people don’t get out though and the engine is still running.

We cross the junction to continue our way down the “perfect street” and I glance inside the car as the courtesy light is on.

And I see something that I’ve never, ever seen before. I mean to say, I’ve seen it on films and TV but never in real life!

A line of what I can only assume is cocaine is on some sort of hand-held flat surface (maybe the back of a phone or a mirror), the passenger is holding the said flat surface whilst the driver snorts the white powder.

There, in the street (well, the car) in full sight of anyone (that would be me) walking past!

Obviously, as I’ve never taken any drug apart from stuff for illness, tobacco and alcohol, I get sort-of excited about this. I mean, this is for real!

I guess that most people will have seen this since it seems that the snorting of cocaine is fairly common from what I have read or seen on TV or in films.

However, for me it was a rather strange first.

The new “new” new

Written some time ago but I never published it – I don’t know why.

During lunch I came to a sudden “understanding”.

You see, F has been talking about doing up the house down in Carrara and how, once it’s done, “we’ll go to Ikea and Mondo Convenienza to buy new furniture”.

Then again, about moving house here, in Milan, “I have to accept your furniture”.

And I suddenly realised, when a colleague was aghast at another colleague for not having “changed” their furniture that, in the process of becoming “good” consumers in this throw-away society, we have this thing about buying new things even when existing does equally well (or, in the case of old/antique furniture) even better!

I began to think about F and his “need” to fill a newly built/decorated/moved into place with all brand spanking new things!

And I realised that, in all probability, I have become one of those “old people” that I always warned myself about.

Oh shit!

I just want to scream!

I love Italy. I love Italians.

In general, that is.

Well, apart from some annoying things.

And there’s one, perfectly captured by something that happened last night.

But first, a bit of background.

Before Christmas, my friend A broke his ankle. He sort of fell over and sat on it, more or less. Anyway, it was a bad thing and broke several bones. he was rushed to hospital and had to have an operation to have pins put in and stuff. He came home but, obviously, still cannot really walk far, nor stand on his foot properly.

So, instead of him popping over to me and us going to a bar or restaurant, I have been popping over to see him from time to time.

Now, I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned this before but going to his house is rather strange. His flat is on the 7th floor. You ring the bell at the entrance to the building and then take the one and only lift to floor 7.

On that floor, there are three flats.

With two exceptions (in fact, the previous two occasions I went to his place), having answered the bell at the entrance and confirming that it is, indeed, I here, at the appointed time, it takes probably about 5 minutes to call the lift and get to the 7th floor. Then, when you step out of the lift and walk the couple of paces to his door, you will, almost certainly have to ring the bell.

After some moments (or minutes), you will hear the sound of bolts being drawn and locks being unlocked. It’s as if it is a surprise that I’m going to be there!

The last two occasions only, the door was already unlocked when I arrived at the 7th floor.

Last night we were back to normal.

I knocked on the door, muttering to myself about how he’s always the effing same and who the hell does he think will get to the 7th floor other than me in the allotted time!

As he opened the door he explained that I had to be patient because he was hobbling about on crutches.

To be honest, this time, I was a bit gobsmacked. He is telling me this whilst holding the door open with one hand, the other hand on the crutches and his head a few inches away from the entry phone through which he had spoken to me and released the main door not 5 minutes before!

I asked, “but why didn’t you unlock the door when you let me in downstairs?”

It seemed a reasonable question to me but he was confused. I repeated it in a different way. He still didn’t get it. I tried to explain it again, differently.

Eventually, he got it.

“I don’t know. I never thought about it,” he said.

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, concludes my argument for the prosecution!

The problem is that, in almost all instances of Italians doing anything (and, obviously, that blanket statement doesn’t always apply and not to ALL Italians), there is no thinking ahead; no logic; no forward planning. This applies to walking along the streets, driving in cars and, it seems, unlocking doors, etc., etc. These people are just too fucking F R E A K Y!

So, I’ve concluded that, since this can’t possibly be only nurture, it must be in their genes.

A couldn’t understand what I was trying to question (i.e. why didn’t you unlock the door at the same time as you were there letting me in downstairs as it would mean only one journey on crutches and not two) because it’s not possible for him to understand it. It’s simply not possible because his brain is different to mine and there is some missing computer-style logic code in his brain. In the same way that a bunch of people can be chatting together, taking up the whole pavement, see me and the dogs coming some yards away and then be totally shocked and surprised when we are upon them trying to find a path through. And they look as if it’s MY fault!

Or when you’re driving and get stuck in a queue because no one has thought to leave a space to let someone turn across the path of the stuck traffic and the cars lining up behind the car trying to turn are, in turn, blocking the path of the cars that are blocking the path of the car wanting to turn! If you see what I mean?

Sometimes, it makes me laugh. Other times, I want to take the logic and forward planning, transform it into a large hammer and beat it into their brains until they get it.

It’s like the two bits (cause and effect) just don’t connect and the obvious future event remains unseen.

And, sometimes, it just makes me want to S C R E A M!

From Top Of The Pops to Nursery School – timetravelling backwards

I’m what you may call a “quiet” guy.

Those of you who’ve read my blog long enough will know that, although on the surface I seem quite well-adjusted, sensible and, well, just plain ordinary, I am, underneath it all (or, rather, in my mind), quite seriously screwed most of the time.

I have conflicts and dilemmas most of my waking hours. I find it really difficult to be “close” to people.

I have friends, of course. Well, I should say, people that I quite like and that I speak to quite often. But, what I consider “real” friends – no, not many.

And a recent post from one of my links got me to thinking about relationships with people and friends, in general. More specifically, it took me back to when I was younger (much, much younger.)

When I was 12 or 13 or maybe even before that, my Nan bought me my first record (single). The reason was that one of the members of the group came from where she lived and, this being rural Herefordshire, not famous for it’s proliferation of famous rock stars, was a very big deal. From my Nan and Grandad, I learnt about Top of the Pops – because they used to watch it every week.

Apart from this making them very cool (although we didn’t use that word then – maybe “hip” or something), they got me interested in music and the radio and Top of the Pops. So, then, I used to watch it every week. And I got a radio for Christmas or my birthday which enabled me to listen to Radio Luxembourg under the bedsheets at night.

The thing about this was the charts. All these programs worked on charts. And charts I liked. I was, for some reason, fascinated with charts and the moving up and down of songs based on their popularity and sales. And I wanted my own “charts”.

Obviously, I was young and didn’t have any buying power so I came up with the idea of a chart for friends. To make it real, they were “marked” to different criteria (which I don’t remember now but possibly something like – how nice they had been to me this week, had they shared any sweets with me, did I share any sweets with them, etc.). Each would be given a mark (quite possibly out of 10). The marks would be added up and, from that, the week’s chart compiled. This would mean that I would know who was my “best friend”.

I really don’t remember how long I did this for. I had a little exercise book and dutifully recorded the “chart” every week, watching how people moved up and down. It made me feel better if someone had been horrible to me and they dropped sharply down the chart and better too if someone who had been “middling” shot up to number one because of something nice.

Obviously, reading this now, I was set to be on a psychiatrist’s couch as soon as I was old enough :-)

But, then again, I was at school. And children are quite horrible. Friendships are made and broken on a whim. “I won’t let you play with my toys. I’m not your friend anymore. I’m going to tell my Mum.” These are all the things we say and hear. We’re learning about the value of people, how to trust them, how to read them.

So, let’s bring that up to date. Today we have a new Nursery School. But this one is for adults, it seems. In broad terms it’s called social media. In the olden days, we became friends with people that we met, face-to-face, people that were physically in our own circle.

Then, with the invention of the telephone, we could become friends with people that we spoke to a lot.

In fact, I remember, as a buyer, many moons ago, I became “friends” with a guy who was employed at one of our suppliers. We used to chat a lot and, when I left that company, we arranged to meet up. Of course, we never spoke after that. Not because he was a horrible person in real life but because I think we were a bit disappointed that the guy on the phone was not really like that in real life.

Social Media is another revolution. We can become friends with people so easily. Maybe we like their photo or the things they write or the pictures they post.

On Twitter, a while back, I would follow anyone who followed me. So it was that one person followed me and I followed her back. The problem was that, in real life, given the nature of her tweets, I wouldn’t have ever spoken to her after our first meeting. She was (is), in a word, vile. Nasty, small-minded, arrogant and always making out that she was cleverer than everyone else. I decided that Twitter was the ideal platform for her and that, in all probability, she had been the most hated person at Nursery School – she had (has?) no social skills. Zero. Nada.

How grateful was I when I discovered that she had “unfollowed” me – permitting me to unfollow her! She still appears on my timeline from time to time (being retweeted by others on my timeline) and, occasionally, I visit her profile to see if she’s changed. Needless to say, she hasn’t.

There’s a guy that I follow that reported on the Grillo-Renzi meeting, for example. Now, I’ve been following him because he tweets some interesting stuff about Italian politics and the economy. When I read what he wrote about the meeting however, I realised that he was also quite stupid. But, then again, he’s not my “friend” (I don’t even know if he follows me and, to be honest, care less) and, after the tweet about the meeting, is surely never to be.

Facebook too – I have friends on there that are my friends because we used to (or I used to) play games through Facebook. Now that I don’t, I do wonder why the hell I don’t just purge them. I have other “friends” on there that I’ve never met who have become “friends” via other means (they might be friends of friends that I have at Hay Festival, for example.) Again, I sometimes query why they are there, taking up space on my timeline. But I don’t want to be the first to cut them off! Stupid, eh? But, although they aren’t really my friends, I don’t want them to feel hurt – unless they really piss me off, of course. Then there are “friends” who I’ve never met and know little about but who I have some sort of interaction with. I can class them as “real” friends in that we do interact, of course. Whether they would be real friends in real life is another matter – and I simply don’t know the answer to that – I’ve never met them and don’t know enough about them.

Of course, when V “defriended” me on Facebook a few years ago I was both surprised and a bit disappointed. But not so as you’d know. After all, we’d split up in real life and, to be honest, he was right in one way. Still, it’s a shame.

But I really can’t lose sleep over someone who defriends me nor unfollows me. it’s up to them. They have their reasons. I have a real-life friend who I follow who doesn’t follow me on Twitter. Should I get upset or be offended?

Well, no, I don’t think so. Firstly, it’s not like my tweets are so fantastic. Secondly, whether she follows me on Twitter or not doesn’t actually change the way I feel about her and doesn’t make her a horrible person. In fact, she is one of the sweetest, kindest people I have ever met in my life – and whether she follows me or no doesn’t change that.

The thing I DO know is that a “friend” on Facebook or Twitter is not really a “friend” but more of an acquaintance – like someone you know at work. I really can’t take it all too seriously.

But, people do. People get upset and rant and rave. People follow me on Twitter and then unfollow me if I don’t follow back. Well, like Facebook friends, it isn’t the quantity but the quality that counts in my book. If people have interesting timelines/profiles, I follow them. If not, well, I don’t. It’s really as simple as that.

But it is a little like a Nursery School – or it can be. People take offence at something someone says and it blows up out of all proportion. Someone defriends or unfollows someone else and that someone else feels hurt and “excluded”.

But, it’s not real. It’s over the Internet. A true “friend” relationship takes time to develop – over months and years with ups and downs along the way. Physically being in front of someone smooths those ups and downs as you can see, sometimes, the real person. On the Internet, all you have are words and words don’t show feelings and, worse, can be downright lies.

We’ve a long way to go before we are out of the Nursery School that is Social Media. We have (and it has) a lot of growing up to do – made worse by the fact that in this Nursery School, most people are adult and so have already “grown up” and have their fixed ideas on what is right and what is wrong.

So, perhaps, we’ll never grow up!

A post about moving

Sorry for not writing a post for ages but I’ve been a bit busy. Again.

Friday was Valentine’s Day and, as usual, I got F some white tulips. We hadn’t booked anywhere to have a meal but thought we would try Porca Vacca again as, according to F, the “old” people are back there. And they were and the menu was back to something like it was before and it was great (and seemed a little less expensive than before).

Of course, it was full but after about 10 minutes wait a table was free. A lovely meal and a lovely evening.

Friday, during the day, F had been to see a house. And by this I mean a real “house” with two stories and a garden. It was next to or in the middle of an old factory. Obviously, they were converting some, or all, of it to become residential.

It was beautiful inside, judging by the pictures and F confirmed that it was fabulous. There were just two problems: a) it was right by the motorway ring that surrounds Milan – which is raised and so there would be the hum of traffic day and night and b) there really isn’t any public transport to speak of.

Then, for Saturday morning, he had arranged a viewing of a flat near mine which had a garden. The particulars suggested it was quite big. We went to see. It was beautifully done but the size was large because they had included a large “room” that was under the terrace. This “room” was, almost, a basement but could not have been used as a real room. The terrace was fantastic and there were steps down to a large garden which was excellent – walled and quite private. But, the flat itself was just too small.

Then, Sunday morning, he went off to London for the London Fashion Week show and I was quite grateful, in a way, for a chance to spend Sunday doing whatever I wanted. In fact, Dino had been a little ill overnight so there was cleaning up, cleaning him, brushing them both, doing some shopping and making some soup.

Although I did watch one and half films as well. And went out to eat with friends in the evening.

And then he came back last night. And the three of us were very pleased to see him :-)

I was going to go to bed early but a) he didn’t arrive until about 10 and b) he had something to tell me.

So, in the end we stayed for about an hour in the kitchen, talking about his news. There’s a very slight possibility that he could move to London. It was an, erm, interesting discussion. He said his English would have to be better and asked for me to help. Also to help with a letter and a CV. Of course, I would. I have to stress the “slight possibility” here. We judged that it was a “very slight” possibility but you have to consider that anything could happen.

Of course, many things were going through my mind. Not least the fact that I’m transferring my pension out of the UK and what would it mean if I went back? Well, that’s something to look at. Plus, there would be the problem of a job for me which, at my age, is not guaranteed. Plus, there’s the dogs to consider but his mind had already moved on that one to a house with a garden.

And, so, I’ve realised that most of this post has been about moving (or potential moving).

And, yet, none of this is certain.