Category Archives: Rufus

Rufus, an 11-year-old blue Bearded Collie. The best dog in the world. Gets his own area, being the dog he is….

In the night ……… mare

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I just can’t tell you about it.

Suffice to say, it was a dream that turned into a nightmare. It was when his face turned towards me. It turned out to be someone else. Someone from the past. It was unexpected. In my dream I tried to distance myself but it wouldn’t work. It was the first time for this dream. I wonder why? Why now? Why did it turn into this nightmare?

So, again, at four, as the night before, I was up.

I went back to bed after about an hour. F was sleeping and, from time to time, snoring. Rufus was sleeping and, from time to time, giving that ‘death rattle’, gasping for breath as if it was to be his last. It’s quite scary, really but I guess he does it most nights, if not, every night.

This morning I had to get up to do the tyres. I wish now I had booked it in for Friday. Friday is going to be beautiful. Ah, well, I’ll have Friday afternoon off instead.

I’m not convinced.

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“Why are we waking so early?”

And it is early. It’s 6.30. I’m on holiday. To be honest, I would prefer to sleep but it’s better having him here than not and, anyway, I have loads of things I want to do; that I should do; that I should be doing instead of typing this. I have convinced myself that it is better to get up with him.

“Because you are going to Venice”, I reply, adding, “Shall I put it for another 5 minutes?”

He doesn’t answer but I do it anyway.

He starts to get up.

“Do you want coffee?”, I ask.

He mumbles something in a sort of English but the answer is yes, so I get up too and make the coffee.

After he’s gone, I check the weather. It’s supposed to be raining hard but I can’t tell with the windows closed. I go to open the bedroom windows to air the room – something I do now because it’s a habit he’s got me into. I’m not really a fresh air person unless it’s warm and, whilst not exactly cold, it is not warm.

It is raining. I check the forecast again and it’s going to be like this until lunchtime. It’s not good, we shall have to go out.

I get ready.

I think about texting him to say ‘be careful’ but he has probably already left. I’ll text him later and, anyway, he’ll text me when he arrives, I expect.

It’s market day today in the street near mine. I was (if the weather had been good) going to wander through the market and maybe buy some stuff. I shan’t bother now. Now I’ll do the things I should do; the things I should have done before and other things I can do now that I bought some stuff yesterday.

“Yes”, I keep saying to myself, “it’s better that I got up early.”

Although I’m not altogether convinced, really.

*Sigh* – Well that was nice.

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Wasn’t yesterday a beautiful day?

Well, OK, for those of you who don’t live in Milan, it may not have been. But here it was truly fantastic. The sun shone and it was too warm to wear a hat and scarf! Also, I had the windows of the flat open for most of the day.

Saturday night, we went to see the King’s Speech – in Italian. I loved it still. For me, Geoffrey Rush made the film. However, I really did feel that, in Italian, it lost something. The stuttering which, after all, is what the film is about, could not be portrayed in quite the same way since the words in Italian are different and so it wasn’t consistent – and it seemed, sometimes, that the stuttering was ignored – and, therefore, the real struggle with it did not come across properly.

Added to that, there is so much background history that the Italians don’t know. I mean, the speech, the subject of the film, is something that most British people will know about since it has been played many, many times.

And, although I’m not a royalist, it does give you some feeling for the Royals which I find hard to understand myself.

But go see it, even in Italian if you can’t see it in English.

F said that it shouldn’t have won ‘Best Film’ at the Oscars. He said it was nothing compared to ‘The lives of others’ – his favourite film. I tried to point out that the film he loves was a number of years ago and you could always say that about your favourite film. But I think he was just saying it for effect.

And then we went to Al Basilico Fresco, as it is very close to the cinema and where I had a pizza that was fantastic – smoked bacon with parmesan and fresh tomatoes. It was really one of the very best I’ve had for a long time. Maybe I should rate the place higher. The only problem with it is that it gets really full and there is little space between the tables. But, still, very nice.

Yesterday, because the weather was really so nice, after going for breakfast with An, the three of us walked up Corso Buenos Aires for a bit, arriving home about 11 a.m. F had to iron and pack as he’s gone to Germany for the week. But later, he and I took the dogs out for an hour or so, which was lovely.

Unfortunately, it’s gone colder again this morning and cloudy. And the forecast for next weekend is rain and heavy rain. F doesn’t get back until Saturday evening. But that’s OK. I must do some things on Saturday (apart from sleep in). This is going to be a VERY busy week! Lessons every night and, for most nights, two lessons. Still it’s money towards the holiday.

Soon it will not be safe!

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Well here’s something that annoys me enough to write about. Hurrah! Sort of. If you see what I mean.

Marciapiede. That’s pavement (or sidewalk for Gail) to you. You know, the things on the side of the streets that, in theory, permit people to walk around without dodging cars. Kinda useful in reducing the deaths of people. Of course, a car going 100 mph and mounting a pavement is bound to cause a bit of damage, especially to any warm soft bodies in the way.

However, here, in Milan, that’s less likely to happen. I.e. you’re probably in less danger of getting run over, walking down the pavement here, than, say, in any other city in the UK! Although I have no actual figures to back it up. So I could be wrong. But it seems highly likely to me.

Now, why would that be, you ask. Or should be asking. Because if you’re not asking then this post is pointless. So ask then and I will disclose why.

OK. You’re probably safer from getting run over by a car here because ………………………

…………….. there are already a lot of cars on the pavement. Parked, of course.

I wouldn’t want to be pushing a pram around in Milan though. Then I would spend half my time on the road because, often, there is not enough room between the parked car and the building for me to pass with a push chair.

Not EVERY bit of pavement is taken up with a parked car. Sometimes they have barriers put up – to, erm, stop people parking their car!

But, then, these areas can be full too. Not of people. No, no, no. Full of mopeds and motorbikes. Obviously, a bike can get and park where a car cannot.

Or, if not, then pushbikes.

But, on the positive side, I don’t have a pushchair. I only have two dogs and I secretly pray, every time that we go past one of the ‘parked’ cars, that they will cock their legs. And they do sometimes and I am filled with glee.

Normally (in fact, always, in my experience) if you are walking past and a car wants to park (on the pavement, where you are walking), they will have the decency to wait until you have gone past.

However, my experience is that this is not so with mopeds and motorbikes. And I find that annoying. But it doesn’t happen very often.

What DOES happen, quite often, when I’m walking the dogs, is that a cyclist (pushbike) will be on the pavement and expect you to move out of their way.

Now, in the same way that I must learn some Italian phrases for when I see someone allowing their dog to defaecate on the pavement and then the owner not picking it up – which in English would equate to something like – You disgusting dirty person! Pick up your dog’s shit! – I should learn something like – This is called a marciapiede (meaning something like foot way) because it is for FEET and not WHEELS. The road is for WHEELS so stop dinging your bloody bell at me to get me to move and move yourself to the street, where you should be!

But I haven’t learnt that yet. And so, I was both shocked, outraged and immensely amused by this. It seems someone has been looking at other cities (like London for example, where cycling on the pavement can get you a hefty fine as it illegal) and decided that some of our pavements here are large enough to allow a cycle lane on them.

I snorted.

These people are completely crazy! Do they not realise that the cycle lane would simply become a ‘legitimate’ place for car parking. But then ALL the cyclists will think that, as their lane is taken up by the car park, they will have justified use of the pavement (or foot way) and so things will be worse than before!

(Actually, Pietro tells me that the cyclists on pavements can be fined. It’s just that here, I guess, the police and traffic wardens don’t know that fact).

Chainsaws in Milan.

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As I have probably mentioned before, I am a country lad at heart. OK, so less of the lad these days, unfortunately. Most of my life has been lived in the countryside and I truly adore the country living – although it is completely different from living in a city and you have to have a different mindset, for certain.

Quite often, when living in North-West Herefordshire, you would hear, in the distance, the sound of the chainsaw as they were cutting down some trees. That’s if the grackles weren’t making too much noise, of course. It was, particularly, a spring and autumn sound. It is a reassuring sound (to me).

This morning, I heard it again. In the country it lasts for several minutes. This morning it lasted for a few seconds. And then repeated a few seconds later. Of course, I don’t live in the countryside any more, so it was unlikely at before 7 a.m. I would be hearing this sound in the middle of Milan!

And, of course, it wasn’t a chainsaw at all.

Bless him, I thought, but it is really loud – perhaps it’s because he’s so old. After all, this gets worse as you get older – loosening of muscles (you might even say ‘saggy’, especially round the waist), a general ‘relaxing’ of everything. And then I thought that it was good that I had shut them in the kitchen whilst I carried out my morning ablutions and got dressed. If he had been in the bedroom, he would have woken F!

I moved from the lounge (where I was dressing) to the bathroom to do my tie and became aware that the sound was coming from the wrong place.

It wasn’t Rufus after all but F himself! It made me laugh.

It just is.

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It happens sometimes and it’s difficult to explain, really.

Last night, following a telephone call on Monday, I went to see the old man with the book. The book that has taken, apparently, nearly 40 years to write.

I did enjoy the time editing it but I don’t like having to visit him to do editing. I’m not sure why. It might be because I think that, if I live that long, that’s how I will be – living alone, in a faceless, tiny flat, in a huge block, rarely going out (because there’s nowhere close to go to), reclusive but not through desire, etc.

I looked at him last night and thought of Rufus. I wonder if he sits and stares at the walls like Rufus does?

Someone asked me about him the other day. I said I hadn’t heard from him for ages. “I guess the book is finally printed and finished”, I said, “Or, he’s dead!”

I had even moved his contact details out of the briefcase and put them ‘somewhere’. He phoned as I was driving. I said I would call back within the hour. After I had disconnected I realised that I might not have his number. Stupid me, I thought, for not adding his details into my phone.

Luckily, I know myself well enough. It was not filed anywhere, just sitting on top of the filing cabinet, under the laptop.

I left work and drove there. I had had such a headache during the day and it was still making my head feel like someone was kicking it soundly and, so, I was not looking forward to spending an hour or more with him, on an uncomfortable chair, in the lighting that he has (which is not good), hunched over a laptop and trying to interpret what he wants. Still, I thought, it’s extra and unexpected money and every little helps.

Plus I had my ‘late night’ English lesson at 9 p.m. following that. No, this was not going to be a great evening and if the bloody headache wasn’t going to go it would make it one of the worst evenings.

As I was driving, M, my late-night student texted to say his daughter was ill and he wasn’t coming. To be honest, I was grateful.

I got to the place where the bookman lived. For me, it has to be one of the most depressing areas of Milan although I am sure that there are far worse. No, I know that, really, it is not that bad. It’s just the thought of ever having to live somewhere like that. I couldn’t do it. I would rather go back to the UK.

He had a new ‘print’ of the book. To be honest, it was much better than the last one. This time the pages weren’t falling out. He seemed pleased to see me. I think he is. After all, I don’t charge him a fortune and he knows that he can trust me now – well, almost.

We start through the changes he wants. He wants to change a table. I do my best. It’s not as he wants, exactly but he knows that these tables are a real pain. He wants to check everything I do on the screen. Except he can’t read it so well, so it takes longer. I really want out of there but I am unable to leave. I cannot do less than my best for him. I am annoyed with myself for trying to make everything right. Why can’t I be like other people? People who really don’t care. Grrrr.

He asks me more often about whether he has used English correctly. Yes, he trusts me much more now. He uses “reception”. He is concerned that the reader will think he means a reception of a hotel or something similar. I explain that it’s fine. After all, the readers of his book will be highly educated people and will understand the correct meaning. Of course, what I would have liked to say was that the only (few) people who will ever read this book are, to be honest, geeky freaks. I didn’t say that. You ain’t going to be seeing this book in the airport, that’s for certain.

Weirdly, I kind of hope that he will tell me when it has been published. Even more weirdly, if he were to ‘give’ me I copy, I would be really pleased. I think of this and decide that I am quite strange myself. For certain, even if I had this book, I would never, never read it.

We finish, just short of two hours. I wish him good luck and hope that I don’t see him again – but in a nice way – in that the book is finally finished now. I don’t really think it is. I have a better understanding of him now. There will be some other ‘small things’ that need to be done. Still, I suppose if you have been writing this book for 40 years, you might as well make it perfect.

And then, on the drive home, it happened. This thing that happens rarely and at strange times and, seemingly, for no reason at all.

I come to a traffic lights and have to stop. I look the other side of the canal (which runs by the side of the road). There is a shop or, maybe a restaurant or a bar. It doesn’t really matter which. I suddenly become aware of the talk on the radio. I look at the sign on the shop.

“I live in a foreign country”, I think.

It’s the feeling that comes with that thought. The feeling of wonder at being here, of pride at having ‘made it’, of fear of knowing that I will never be ‘of this country’. It’s almost like a shock.

“How strange”, I think, “that, after all this time, this feeling can still come to me and at such unexpected times?”

It was the sign that did it. It wasn’t a special sign just a normal sign with an Italian name or word. I see these every day. Many of them. Why now? Why at this particular time? I don’t think there’s an answer to that. It just happens. It just is.

I weep a little inside

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I nearly didn’t spot it. After all, it is a pale yellow on a dirty white. I only noticed because of the rug. The rug was darker.

It’s another thing.

It’s about not being able to hold on for a few moments. It’s about kidney failure. It’s about a general deterioration.

It doesn’t smell. It’s nearly time.

I can’t get angry. Inside I weep for him, the same way as I weep for him when, a few minutes later I go to the lounge and he gets confused and goes to the bathroom to ‘follow me’. He gets confused quite often now. Senile dementia, I suppose. It goes with the general failing of everything else.

But this latest is the latest sign; the latest failure. I suppose it means that soon he will start to smell of piss as it comes through his skin. Just like an old person. Which I understand much better now.

I sat stroking his skull last night. I say ‘skull’ rather than ‘head’ since now, that’s what it is. No extra fat anywhere, even on his head. Just skin and bones, as they say – but they are right, whoever they are.

We are supposed to have booked the holiday by now. We’re going to the same place as last year because ‘it will be nice for the dogs’. I don’t say ‘you mean the dog’. I don’t need to remind him. He can see it every day anyway. I don’t think he will be good with this even if he has only known him for 18 months.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not easy for me either but I know it is the way things are.

F said, the other day, that I was not like most Taureans. I am not so ‘bloody minded’, like him. I am, as I said at the time, easy going. Life is tough enough without having to fight everything. Fight the things worth fighting for, I think.

And this? Well this is inevitable and foreseen and all we do now, F, me and him is to wait. Wait for the time that I now know I will know when it arrives. It might be soon, I think.

Still, I still weep a little inside for the signs that keep coming.

St Valentine’s Night

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Last night we went to the Taverna della Lamparo.

We chose it because of all the restaurants we go to fairly regularly, it is the most romantic. The lighting is low, not bright like Italian restaurants tend to be; it is small, perhaps serving 30-odd people; the tables are big, there is plenty of room and the tables are well spaced out.

Also, the food is superb. OK so we only have fish there although they do have a very small selection of meat dishes but I had prawns with leeks to start with, hot, tasty – no, actually divine. I could have had a bigger portion as the main dish! For the main course, I had, as normal, the parcel of branzino (sea bass) with, in the parcel, potatoes, tomatoes, capers and olives. It was truly great, as always. F had his usual of thinly sliced raw tuna with raw fennel to start and then a sesame coated tuna steak, seared, on a bed of some vegetables.

For sweet we both had the apple strudel with a hot chocolate sauce. To drink we had a bottle of white wine (lighea) which is lovely and then to finish a glass of mirto each.

F had bought me a present. It was a beautiful key ring (from his shop). I had got him nothing, the window men having been much more than a couple of hours doing my windows and doors and then me having to wait for the washing machine.

I had bought him some white tulips the day before as these are his favourite flowers but I had nothing to give him. So, as I was paying for the meal, I bought a bottle of the lighea wine (as you cannot buy it in supermarkets or off-licences). It wasn’t as good as getting him a real present but, together with the tulips, I think it was OK.

We walked back. tomorrow I must start my non-diet again!

He went to bed and put the television on and I walked the dogs. I came back and told him I was going to have a glass of milk and then come to bed. 10 minutes later, I came to bed. He was propped up with one of my pillows in addition to his own, television remote control in hand, seemingly watching TV. One arm was round Dino who was lying next to him.

“I’m going to need my pillow back”, I said, laughing.

There was no response. As I got into bed, I realised that he was asleep. I reached over and took the remote control from his hand and switched off the TV. As I turned round, he woke up so I grabbed my pillow and we both settled down for a particularly quiet sleep, the double-glazed windows keeping out more sound, I am sure.

I adore him, you know?

No Diet – Day four and other things.

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Well, that was all rather lovely.

But first I must thank all of you for kindly answering my call after I shamelessly prostituted myself for comments. I no longer feel quite so gay knowing that straight men like Mars bars too :-D.

On to last night. B was up in Milan and so we went to Sento as I predicted and wanted. It has been so long since I had sushi and it was divine. Even now I can picture the boat of bright red, pale pink and white fish laid on that particularly nice bit of sushi rice.

And I had the grilled beef. The wine was lovely – dry, crisp, white wine. Sake to finish. Sparkling water and sparkling company. B did seem so well and I was so happy to see her. We even made tentative plans to all go up to Pallanza for the weekend of Easter. Yay! Since last night I have checked with F who is also keen on this idea as long as it includes the bambini, of course and the opportunity to play cards.

Of course, as last night was all Japanese food, none of it is fattening in any way and so I already feel slimmer :-D

We talked and talked. Actually, as is usual with B, it felt that I did most of the talking …… again. She also came up, beforehand, to see the dogs, especially Rufus who has always been her favourite.

We also talked a little about V and I explained about the defriending on Facebook and so on. I explained that I was disappointed, which is true ……… now. I admitted to being a bit angry at first. After so long together, how DARE he just cut me off! But now I am just very disappointed.

And she talked about how she searched for her old boyfriends again – after all, if you were with someone for however long, they meant something, they had something that was attractive and one should never let that just disappear. And I’m with her on that. Perhaps I should make a little more of an effort to get in touch with M?

So, I just broke off to do just that!

And, for reasons that escape me (although it may have been seeing B last night or knowing that we’re going away this weekend or the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day on Monday), I feel incredibly happy. Which is in direct contrast to last week!

And so, I wish you all a very good weekend too. I hope you’re doing something special too :-)

In celebration of life

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Now that I have checked (as I needed to know the answer for this post), I have been here for five and a half years, not six as I often tell people.

You’d have thought that, after all these years, there wouldn’t be that anything that would be so unusual or different. But you’d be wrong. There are still things I stumble across that I find interestingly, frustratingly or horrifyingly different.

I’ve always had some sort of fascination with death. It’s the same sort of fascination that I have with overly-large breasts. I don’t want to physically experience it and, yet, there it is, in full view, so to speak.

I thought I would be dead by the time I was 42. This was something I thought of as a kid or teenager. 42 happened to coincide with the year 2000. It was a totally irrational thought, of course, but, nevertheless, I was convinced. It didn’t worry me. It was too far away and, by then, I figured, I would have had quite enough of living.

As you get older, with death no longer creeping but approaching at something closer to the speed of light, one wishes for ‘just a bit more’. I suppose it’s like money really – the more you have the more you want it. However, I am aware that my time on this earth is more limited now than it was 30 years ago when, even if my imminent death (42, remember) was coming, it still seemed ‘a lifetime’ away.

I see Rufus and wonder at how he has lived so long. I see his frail body and picture me in that state. Well, sort of. I am pragmatic in that I have smoked for so long and so heavily that I doubt, very much, if I would get to that state. We shall see. Stranger things happen. Everyone seems to have a story of someone who smoked all their life and still lived to be 95 or something. If we are honest though, these are exceptions. If I am also honest, I always think I shall be one of those exceptions as I’m sure most people do.

So, when F told me that his cousin (or uncle – it’s quite difficult to work out the correct relationship) had dropped dead with a heart attack at the age of 58, I couldn’t help but blurt out that he was just a little older than me. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t make me worried. In some way it amazes me that I am still here.

I’m sure I would be exactly the same as Anthony Hopkins in Meet Joe Black. I would be asking Father Time or God or whoever if I couldn’t just have another few years …….. or a year …… or, if I really DO have to go soon, couldn’t it just wait another 6 months? OK then – another month will be fine.

But this wasn’t really what I wanted to talk about. The guy had died. He was close family and, so, F went to the funeral, of course. And, although I was aware of how different things are here, I still find it all quite amazing.

The British have this propensity to party, it seems. Wetting the babies head; the christening; birthday parties; engagement parties; weddings; special anniversaries and, finally, wakes. In each case it gives the opportunity for families to reunite, have some alcohol and, quite possible, do some of that ‘only at weddings’-style dancing – to some of the worst music in the world.

But, mainly, it is a sanctioned ‘getting drunk’ time.

The parties are almost more important than the event itself. Certainly, in the case of a funeral, the party afterwards, to me, is the ‘best bit’. I don’t mean to be disrespectful. Let me explain.

One assumes you go to a funeral because you knew the person. Probably (almost certainly now that they are ‘gone’) you quite liked the person. And the funeral makes you take stock of the way that the person had touched your life: the funny bits, the sad bits and the many other ‘bits in between’. The funeral is your chance to say ‘goodbye’ even if the idea of that is quite preposterous, since ‘they’ can’t hear you. The funeral is really for your sake, not theirs. We all know that and accept that this is true. The funeral is sad and everyone whispers to each other as if, by speaking at a normal level you would wake someone – even the dead.

It’s stressful, particularly if you loved the person; if it was a close relative – an uncle, cousin, parent or, worst of all, your child, however old they may be. There might be some things said at the funeral – some speech by the vicar (who, in all probability never knew the deceased but has taken instruction from the surviving relatives) and or by a relative which may make everything excruciatingly painful – one can’t help but remember the truly dreadful speech given by Lord Althorp at Diana’s funeral – it is, after all, not really the best time for name calling.

Then it’s all over and the coffin has been put in the ground or been silently slid away behind some curtain to be burnt to cinders later. Either way, it’s all over. I always think: ‘Is that it?’.

And then there’s the party. The party, I think is the most important part. There is a release now that it’s all over and done with. It’s final. It’s done. Now you can get back to the business of living – and, in the case of the party, remembering the person – remembering the good times, the funny times, learning about things you didn’t even know about.

They were loved. They were good. You will miss them but they are still there, brought to life again by the stories and the laughter and the general ‘thinking about them’. And, maybe, that’s one of the reasons that my maternal grandfather has never really left me – I didn’t have that experience, that opportunity. To be honest, for the funeral wakes that I’ve been to, you didn’t really want them to end – you didn’t want to forget the person, to let go.

Not so here, it seems. The funeral is, I guess, more or less the same but afterwards, from what I understand, everyone just leaves! For me that would be an awful thing. It’s almost as if you would miss out on understanding them better, on reliving their past through others.

No, it doesn’t matter how much I try and understand, I just don’t get it. The party is the celebration of a life. Without which it is almost disrespectful – as if that person meant nothing.

Of course, having been brought up in the UK and our way being ‘the norm’ perhaps I am being unkind. I don’t mean to be but I hate the idea that if I were to die, there wouldn’t be some sort of knees-up afterwards. I would want people who bothered to come, the chance to enjoy themselves and celebrate my life. For that’s what it is really all about. The celebration of the life of someone who did touch you.

Perhaps your experience is different? But I find that our ways of saying goodbye are fascinating in their differences. Tell me I’m wrong, tell me how it is with you, tell me what you want – even try to help me to understand. I am, really, fascinated by the differences.