Category Archives: Work

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Brunch or Bunch

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I was chatting with a colleague who was complaining about the cost of Brunch at this particular place in Milan.

The problem, we worked out, was that Italians have taken the word ‘Brunch’ and applied it (and an increased price) to a meal that can only be described as a buffet lunch rather than a (very) late breakfast, which was what Brunch devolved from.

F had told me, last week, that he was going to brunch with his landlady. It will be an all-Italian affair and, therefore, best described as a buffet lunch or Bunch. He told me that this Bunch would be Sunday (tomorrow).

Then, a few days later, he asked me to come. I’m not entirely sure why. I hesitate to say it’s because he wants me there but it does seem like that. I am going as his friend or findanzato – I’m not sure which. But I’m going anyway – and pleased to go because, in spite of my hesitation, I think it is because he wants me there; he wants us to do things together. It’s just that he doesn’t explain that very well.

It’s like now, as I write this. He had a headache earlier and went to bed. He rang because, although he feels better, he still feels a bit rotten. I don’t know whether he wants me there or not. So I said I would come round – if he would like. Eventually he said that he would like and so, when I’ve finished this, I will have a shower and go round, returning to do the dogs later.

And then we shall stay at his place. We went to IKEA this morning and he was looking for pillows as we need to be higher to watch the television. As he was buying some special pillows he asked me if this was what I wanted – ‘because one of them is mine and the other is yours’.

But, in spite of all the signals he gives, I remain unsure and, as a result, don’t push. In fact, I rather ‘hold back’. I don’t know. Is it right or should I be more forceful with what I want? Am I just being a pushover? And will that turn him away?

Ah well, tomorrow is brunch (or bunch). Either way, we shall be together and, whatever the signals, I like it a lot that we’re together.

On being British

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I like being British.  Am I proud of being British?  Well, to be honest, not always.  It’s not that I’m not proud, it’s just that, well, I’m British and being proud is not seen as a good thing.  After all, as we all know, ‘pride comes before a fall’ – and when someone has been proud, we see their fall as just desserts.

But I do like being British.  Firstly, I speak English (obviously, proper English – none of your mispronounced, misspelt, New World stuff for me).  In spite of the fact that the Chinese language (I forget which one of them) is actually spoken by more people in the world and Spanish is up and coming, English is still the universal language for communication.  I thank our Empire for that (and the Americans power following its demise).

Secondly, we have ‘ways’ of being; ‘ways’ of doing things that I use to my advantage, especially here.

And so I was reading this and the fact that the Immigration Minister has pronounced that there should be instruction on ‘how to queue’ because that is at the heart of Britishness.

There again, in my opinion, is the problem with people.  They get ‘Britishness’ completely wrong.  It’s not the queuing that’s important although, yes, people who jump the queue will result in a load of people who feel resentment and, these days, anger.  No Britishness is all about ‘not standing out’ from the crowd.  Or, rather, not making yourself stand out from the crowd.

Of course, if just ‘not standing out from the crowd’ were essential, we would have no famous British people until they were dead.  The thing is that you are allowed to stand out, providing that it’s not because you have been making yourself stand out – i.e. someone can push you forward as long as that someone isn’t you.

Of course, the correct response to this, should you find yourself standing out there, through no real fault of your own, is to be completely self-effacing; shy but not embarrassingly so; properly attribute your ‘success’ to others or the team; be truly grateful that there are others who think you are there (out of the crowd) even if, of course, you feel you did not possibly deserve it, etc.

Of course, there are always exceptions.  In fact, there is one exception to this overall rule.  That is when you are drunk.  And by drunk I mean very drunk (totally pissed, wasted, rip-roaringly drunk).  Then you can do anything you want – but, of course, you must regret it and suffer for it from the next morning and on until the end of your life!

Which is why I found the article so funny.  Hadley Freeman’s take on what is actually required to be British I disagree with, in the main but I will go through the five points:

1.  I’ve always found that dinner at 8 means that you will sit down to eat at about 2 minutes past 8 – unless there are late-comers, who will be frowned upon as they have made themselves stand out!

2.  We don’t always (in fact rarely) react with squealing excitement.  Understated excitement means not making yourself stand out.

3.  OK, I agree with 3 – or you say something like ‘Oh this old thing – bought it years ago’ as if that makes up for the fact that whatever it is is the most stunning item of clothing in the room.

4.  No one really cares how well Marks and Spencers do – what’s important is that the quality of their underpants is second-to-none and that their food quality is absolutely amazing but sooooo expensive.

5.  Just not true.  We do date.  We also court and, as she correctly says, ‘pull’.  But she misinterprets ‘pull’.  When you go out on a date it is with a predefined person for a meal or a drink or to the cinema.  When you ‘go out on the pull’ you are single and very much hoping that, by the end of the night, you have pulled someone who may, or may not, be a future date.

However, I just loved the end bit to number 5.  This is so true, especially of me (although I found online dating a way around the getting drunk bit).  But, just for those of you who don’t read the article, she says that the British method of coupling is like this:

go to a party, get extremely drunk, drunkenly kiss someone you have been making eyes at for some time but obviously never spoke to because you were sober then, go home with them, move in with them the next day, marry them.

It really made me laugh.

Well, this hasn’t happened for…..ummm….well…..bloody years!

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Yesterday, about 1.30 p.m. I went home.

I felt ill.  I mean, really crappy, shitty and I couldn’t stay any more.

I slept quite a bit, had several Oxo drinks (my own secret solution to any illness) and, later when F came to see me, some Tachiflu (even if it’s not flu, I’m sure) and took my temperature (‘cos Italians like to take temperatures) because he had bought a thermometer, even though I told him it wasn’t necessary.  I did feel he was slightly disapproving of the fact that I didn’t actually have a temperature.  He also bought some orange juice, the Tachiflu, some milk and some beef burgers (he thought I would be off work today which, obviously, I am not!) – very sweet of him though, for sure.

My temperature was normal.  Of course!  I’m afraid I don’t get ‘fever’ which seems his answer to every slight change in how your body feels.  However, I still felt shitty.  The last time I took time off from work because of feeling ill was so long ago that I can’t even remember it.  Perhaps it’s an age thing.  Anyway, half a day off work in, say, 15 years, isn’t so bad, I think.

Oh yes and we had a FB chat thing about Susan Boyle, who appeared at the San Remo festival last night.  He said she looked really good, which surprised me.  He then replied that she had had her hair done and had a good dress on.  I replied that it wouldn’t make that much difference.  He replied that it made her look like Linda Evangelista – which made me laugh a lot.  I then replied saying that Linda may be very unhappy with that comparison but Susan probably wouldn’t be.

I will, probably, retire when I’m 75 or so.

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I was chatting to my colleague.  He was telling me about some ‘new’ thing they have with hedge funds.  It makes even more money, apparently.

“But”, I said to him, “it’s not real money!  It only exists on paper but it doesn’t really exist”.

I despair, I really do. When will people understand.  We’ve all been mis-sold or sold down the river – take your pick and live off that.

Let me explain.  Imagine there is a family all living together.  There are the two grandparents, the mother and father and there are two children.

When all six of them are working everything is very good.  Money is no object and they are having a great time.  Eventually, the grandparents retire, saying to their children – don’t worry, everything will be fine.  Soon you will have grandchildren yourself and they will be working and everything will be great.

So the grandparents are having a great time – money no object (being supported by the other four) and going on holiday, enjoying their spare time, etc.  The parents look at them and envy them and can’t wait till it’s their turn for the good life.

Eventually, the father retires.  No grand kids yet and none on the horizon.  Hmmm.  this is getting a bit tricky now.  The grandparents still want their good time, the father, having paid for the grandparents already and the kids education, etc, wants his good time now and the mother is going to retire in about a year.  But now there is half the previous income and soon there will be less.

At what point do either the grandparents (and father) have to suffer and cut back, drastically, on their good times?  Or should the father continue to work?  But for how long?  10 years?  20 years?  But what of the promise not to worry – everything would be OK as his grand kids would look after him?  And the mother.  Surely she can’t retire now?

And who to blame?  Is it the grandparents for living the good life now and in the last few years?  The mother and father for allowing it to continue even when there was no sign of grand kids to come on and shoulder the responsibility?

Is it the kids themselves?  And just for how long are they going to suffer once they are the only ones working?

And it is something I have been thinking about for some time.  It is my opinion that, very soon, things really have to change.  By very soon, I mean in the next five years.  And by change I mean the following:

The retirement age will be pushed up above 70 with immediate effect.

Those people who have retired and have not reached retirement age will have all pension and benefits taken away (thereby encouraging them to go back to work).

Pensions will be reduced anyway and help for the aged limited.

If we don’t do something like that then the people who actually pay for this will walk away from the responsibility and I, for one, wouldn’t blame them.

Read something here but it simply doesn’t go far enough.  Also it is too busy trying to lay the blame on someone or some group.

Now, at this stage, when there’s really very little we can do about it, why bother blaming?  Just get on and fix it.  We can sort out blaming later on – and we should all end up shouldering some of it, for sure.

Now, this moment, it needs fresh thinking by everyone.  But, of course, the politicians to do this won’t be elected by a people that are still thinking like the father and mother and wanting the things they have been promised by a generation who were never going to be in a position to provide it for them anyway!

We’re all crazy if we think it can go on for ever.  Get used to it and grow up.

I should feel better now but I don’t.

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I’m a bit pissed off.

Well, actually, I’m really bloody angry.

I can’t put my finger on why.  Or with what or whom.  It just seems to be everything and everyone.

Last night, as I was leaving work I found out that I had cocked up and that what I thought was happening (according to my plan) was not happening because the plan was never transposed to the official plan and so we’re stuck with the official plan and can’t do my plan and so we will be late and the customer will go ape-shit.

Which made me late.  And I had promised Best Mate that we would speak at 6.30.  And I had only just arrived at 6.30 because the traffic was a pain and the lights were all against me and people were driving like Italians and also slowly.  And that continued into the supermarket where I had to go to get some stuff and the queue was horrendous and full of little old ladies and the little old lady in front of the woman in front of me couldn’t get the weird trolley through because the lady before her had just abandoned her trolley at the entrance to the till and the little old lady would have had to lift it up which, quite clearly, she couldn’t do but the woman in front of me was in the way and so I couldn’t help and then the woman in front of me turned slightly and I could see she was reading a book.  Reading a bloody book!  In the queue!  And that’s why she didn’t help.  And then it was her turn but she didn’t put her stuff on the belt for ages ‘cos she, too, was blocked by the trolley that the lady before the little old lady had abandoned and she ummed and ahhed about how to get her trolley through before abandoning it and I just thought how bleeding inconsiderate and stupid some people are.

And then I got home and realise I had forgotten camomile tea for F and that just annoyed me.  We have enough for now but that’s not the point.  And then I found that my useless bloody cleaner had not done all the ironing like I had said and had ignored my text about just doing the bathroom and the kitchen and doing the ironing and had not ironed sheets which meant I had to iron them but I couldn’t ‘cos I was Skyping Best Mate and Best Mate was more important than ironing sheets but by the time we had finished some 3 hours plus later it was too late to iron them and then change the bed.

And so now I do it tonight.  And then F arrived home (he had been to the new flat to paint the final coat on the bed) and it was late and I was tired but we didn’t go to bed straight away and so I am more tired than last night now, as I write this.

And so I’m pissed off but, actually, a little angry.  And if, today, one more person, whilst I’m talking to them answers the bloody phone and then spends ten minutes having an ‘important’ conversation which, in reality is not important and, certainly, no more important than the conversation that I’m having with them – I will, most definitely, KILL THEM!

There!  I should feel better now but I don’t.

On being putty

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‘Can you do me a favour?’

Well, that’s more or less what he said.

This is, after all, quite a difficult period for him.  Working 12 hours or more per day with, maybe, one day off a week.  It’s the same every year.  Well, that’s not quite right.  This year they have planned to have one day off per week.  Whether that will actually happen is another thing and depends on customers respecting the fact that Saturday is not a show day.  We (or, rather, they) shall see.

He’s lying in the bath.  I’m standing just inside the bathroom, trying hard not to be too obvious at looking at him.  I do point out that he doesn’t have so many grey hairs on his chest (I’m trying to make sure he doesn’t shave his chest come summer).  He replies that it’s because it’s wet there doesn’t seem so many.  Still, I have a few months to work on this :-D.  I still can’t help staring.  It’s embarrassing.  I just can’t tear my eyes away.  From his chest, his stomach………….well, all the parts that are, generally not available to view.  I want to crouch down besides the bath and stoke and caress and…… who knows?

But I don’t.

‘I’m going to Florence tomorrow’, he says.  It’s just for the day.  He should be home at 9.30 or 10.30 or so.  In any event, he will be late.  Well, later even than usual for this period.  He’s doing stuff for some show they have there.

Then he asked about the favour.

Would I mind coming up tomorrow night to stay at S’s flat.  Of course not, although I had thought about staying at mine, alone.  But it makes me feel a bit guilty and it’s the first time he’s asked so directly.  It’s because he will be home so late.  And, then, tomorrow, he will be back in the showroom and wearing different clothes and staying at mine just makes it all that more difficult.

So, even if my plan was to stay at mine I say that I would come to him.  Secretly, of course, I am delighted that he asked and that he wants me with him.

I leave the bathroom but not because I want to.  A few minutes later he calls to me to hand him the towel.  I want to rub him dry but I don’t.

Later, as we lie in bed, watching the telly, he touches me more in the way that I usually touch him.  Stroking and caressing.  It’s important for me as he doesn’t normally do this.  It thrills me in that it makes me feel really wanted.  I say nothing.  And, of course, it doesn’t last so long.  I am, apparently, too hot, even if I don’t feel so warm.

But still, it makes me feel that he does really want me there and that, given the time at work and the new flat and stuff, he does feel some support from me.

And terrible as it might sound, part of the reason for me planning to stay at mine was that he would be able to miss me.  But now I can’t.  Now he’s asked if I can do him this favour.  This small thing to make him happy.  Now, although I want to know that he misses me and I want him to know that he misses me, I just can’t do that to him.  He asked, after all.

I wonder if he has any idea that he only has to push the right buttons and I would be putty in his hands.

Today is a bad day – maybe it’s because it’s Tuesday?

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I really hate this bit.  The long, loooooong drag from Christmas/New Year until we start seeing the light and the weather gets to be bearable.

From September, it seems, there is the rush of getting everything done before Christmas; as if not getting it done will mean anything significant.  And then there is Christmas and New Year, here, extended until the 6th January – a long and (for a holiday) pointless time (not the Christmas Day itself, of course, which has significance) – the weather too bad and cold to make things enjoyable, the snow almost inevitably over and done with before Christmas Day itself – only to come back with a vengeance sometime when you think it might be getting better; the days too short (in terms of light) meaning that things like walking the dogs has to be done early and ‘gets in the way’ of other things.

The bright spots being that Milan is quiet and that, at least it is a holiday.

But now, now that we are back, and four days into the ‘new term’, so to speak – oh this is the worst.

The weather is still too cold and bleak and wet or snowy; making the daily drive anything but a pleasure; the days seem to get shorter even if they are not; there is no ‘light’ to look forward to (at least not for three months or so, depending on when Easter falls).

There is a bleakness to it, a sadness to the threads picked up from the things that were (or weren’t) finished before Christmas – everything the same and yet with nothing to look forward to – or, at least, nothing soon enough.

And worse than all that, you know that there will be more (and possibly worse) bad weather and gloom on the way.

I ache for the time when I can discard the three or four layers of clothing; when the chance of rain is diminished; when I can take the dogs out in the morning and the evening and there is still daylight; when it is warm enough that smoking doesn’t cause you to be shivering outside, even with the layers of clothes.

Everyone is expecting more snow.  The forecast that I use says it will rain but not snow.  I am glad but the rain is still miserable.  The dogs get dirty and the flat is impossible to keep clean now.  Dino seems to have gone into a chewing phase – well, chewing and eating everything.  I could kill him sometimes – but, of course, I couldn’t really.  But I can shout at him.  That’s something I suppose.

Rufus deteriorates, week by week, pulling himself back sometimes so that you think there’s nothing wrong with him.  But it’s only a matter of time, I know.  Ah well, such is life!  And he has lived a long life for the breed and for being a city dog for the last five years or so.

The answer to the Final Question is halfway to being complete – but it should have all been done and dusted before Christmas and the fact that it is only half-way irritates me.  But, again, such is life.  And I have this sinking feeling that the whole thing is not really over yet – like there’s going to be more shock, disappointment, inconsiderateness, etc.  It’s what I expect.  I want to expect better but, if I’m honest, THIS is much more like reality – this let-down.

OK, so this is NOT a good day but I shall bounce back tonight when there is a meal with friends.  Well, I hope to be bouncing back but I shall be annoyed if there is let-down again – and by two people, not just one!

And, although I really want to go back to find F there, I know he won’t be and I know I won’t feel like the trek up to his place and so, for the first night in weeks (or is it months?), we shall sleep alone and I don’t really like that a lot.  Not now.

Yes, today is a bad day – maybe it’s because it’s Tuesday?

Kill those damned homosexuals!

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That’s not the headline, exactly. Let’s be honest, I have some special interest in this. Not that I’m planning (or was planning) to go and spend some time in Uganda but perhaps now would not be quite the right time, even if I was/had been?  This piece, in the Guardian, effectively opens the same debate but with the twist of the readers being able to openly criticise the BBC.

It’s the reactions that get me the most.  Both on the Have Your Say site (but only the ones I saw quoted) and on the Guardian site.

I find it amusing that some people are so ignorant that they post things that suggest that, if all gay people were forced onto an island, the ‘race’ of gays would die out.  Hmmm, what a splendid idea!  Shame that the person shows up how stupid they are.  Do they think that my parents were gay?  OK, so it seems to have turned out that my sister is gay too and a 50% rate (there were four of us) does seem a little higher than the average but, unless my parents (or one of them) weren’t entirely honest, it is just a coincidence.

And, then, on the Guardian site there are some people suggesting that the BBC should not have asked the question.  OK, I can understand that you think people should not be allowed to say this sort of thing and incite hatred (opposition to which seems to be the latest ‘craze’ in the UK) but I, for one, would rather know the kind of people out there.  Not talking about it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist in peoples’ minds.

In fact, if Uganda is considering introducing laws to effectively kill people who are gay, then I think it’s perfectly right to ask the question – at least, then, we all know where we stand!  And the BBC are saying that the proposed Ugandan law will do exactly that.

There are also those who, apparently, think that killing gay people would be a good idea.  They are fed up with all those gay pride marches.  Yes, damn me if we aren’t marching through the streets at the drop of a hat in a look-at-us-aren’t-we-normal pose, trying, as we go, to recruit members of the public or, worse, touching them because gay people, as any fule no, are highly infectious!

Actually I have been on two gay pride marches.  Two in London.  To be frank, quite boring.  Sitting on some float trying to be happy with the terrible British weather and a load of people, most of whom I couldn’t stand the sight of.  However, whereas now they are just an excuse, the original ones did do something to help [us] and for those people who marched, from that time, I am grateful.  Now, I don’t even notice that the marches are happening since the original meaning and requirement has gone.  It would be something to see people doing it in Uganda though.  Now they WOULD be fighting for something and I would give them a big cheer.

And, for those of you who have come here thinking that I am going to rant about those damned homosexual people and how terrible they are and how they undermine family values and take our jobs and harm our children and are bad people all riddled with disease – then you came to the wrong place.  Because none of that is true and it only worries me that you should be so frightened of it.  Perhaps you are on some sort of shaky ground yourself?  But fear not, I don’t think you can corrupt me into becoming a raging heterosexual.  You can keep your weird sexual practices to yourself, thanks.  I’m fine, just as I am!

One food in common – Anchovies!

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F was in his element. Greeting people like he had known them for years, and some of them, of course, he had. For those, he knew their names (something I always struggle with) and remembered things about them. I have always admired that but I am aware you can train yourself to be better at it.  I don’t have the will, really.

F took my coat – mainly because he was ‘showing me off’.  Which is fine.  I was introduced as his ‘findanzato’ to a number of people.  I am proud to be so.  And I can do the ‘being very charming and nice’.  I am gay, after all!  I just can never remember their names after 2 seconds.  Ah well.

Of course, other than FfI (with her ‘walker’ as she described him) and N&aS, I knew a number of people already.  People that I have met, including M who is really lovely (and drinks beer like a true English woman), the Manageress of the shop, D – tall, long blonde hair, S, who works with F and is helping with the flat also and a really nice guy, D another guy from the shop, etc., etc.

And I met the BIG MAN himself.  What a really pleasant, down-to-earth guy he was.  I spent a few minutes chatting with him, laughing and joking.  None of your snobby ‘I’m a designer so look at me’ thing going on.  Really nice guy.

There was champagne and nibbles.  After, we all went for a meal.  Nice evening all round.  And then F, who was going to go back to his flat, decided to come and stay with me and this, after no pressure from me whatsoever.  It’s times like that when I feel that he feels the same as me.  And that makes me feel so good.

V and I are exchanging emails as you may have realised from the post below.  It also includes various other things (Rufus, the conclusion of the Final Question, etc., etc.)

I had invited him to the do last night.  After all, this was the world he wanted to be in.  However, he couldn’t go (or chose not to go).  And, I had mentioned that I would be seeing S&N there.  He included a last paragraph, saying that he was concerned because I had changed so much and he thought perhaps I was getting in too deep and he didn’t want me to be hurt and was I sure that this was good?

I wonder why?  Yes, I have changed.  My hair is no longer dyed, so it’s grey.  The clothes that I am wearing are, somewhat, being chosen/determined by F.  As I pointed out to him – I may seem changed on the outside but I am the same ‘me’ inside.  And, as I also pointed out, I am the ‘all or nothing’ guy.  What is the point in doing this if it is half-hearted?  Why bother unless you commit – without that the partner is nothing more than a (more) intimate friend?

And, as I also pointed out, I will be fine as long as F is truthful to me and, to date, I have no reason to distrust him and hope I never will.

Not really sure what his motivation behind this was.  Maybe he was genuinely concerned and really doesn’t want me to be hurt?  Who can tell?  I’m not even sure HE could tell.

When I woke F up this morning, he wanted to stay asleep.  ‘Let’s call in and say we are sick and stay in bed all day’ he murmurs from under the duvet.  ‘It’s a lovely idea’ I say, smiling.  But the reality is that neither of us would do that and we both know that.  It’s the type of people we are.  Different but the same in important things.  And now we have found one food in common – anchovies!

Everything is, always, mostly, nearly completely perfect.

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“That’s why I love you”, he says.

This may be in a jokey way – or maybe not.  Or, maybe both?  It doesn’t matter as it’s true, in any case.

As usual, all my doubts, uncertainties, confusion, etc. melted the moment that I saw him.  How does he do this to me?  I have to be honest and say that, were it not for the internet we may never have even noticed each other, even if we had met before, although, if we had spoken, maybe it would have been different.  But now, I only have to see him, even from a distance!

I had sent texts during the day.  He hadn’t replied.  I was aware that he may not, what with the BIG DAY being today and, I guessed, everyone running around as if the Queen were about to visit.  His responsibility being the ‘look’, I thought he may be even busier than most.  That was OK.  I knew what this was like (sort of) and, so, was not pressing.

I got home and waited.  Eventually, he called.  He was going to go home.  He was late.  I suggested that he may want to come to my place first, to check out and decide what I was going to wear for the ‘do’ tonight.  He thought that was a good idea.

He got to Porta Venezia and suggested going for a pizza and would I like to come there.  I said yes but I had to change and sort out the dogs.  Then he rang saying he was already at Porta Venezia and should we meet at Pizza OK.  I suggested Timeout 2 as it was closer to my place and he could then come back to mine for the five minutes it would take to sort through what I would wear.

I walked the few minutes to Timeout 2, realising, as I walked, that it was, probably, closed.  It was Tuesday and I was convinced that it was closed for that day.  It was.  I try to phone him.  He is on the phone (as usual).  I walk up towards Pizza OK as I know that’s where he’s coming from.  Trying to call him all the time.  Still engaged.  I start walking back to Timeout 2.  He is already there and calls out to me.

We kiss on the cheeks, well, almost on the lips.  We end up in the pizzeria Liù.  V & I used to go there when we first lived in Milan in Via Eustachi.  We talk.  He tells me about his day.  How the stuff he had to do in the shop should have taken a couple of hours but how customers would ask him about the price of this or that or how they find the right size or where is so-and-so and, so, it meant he was there for over 8 hours.  On his feet all day, a new phrase he learnt last night.

And how, because he was in the shop and so busy, he didn’t have his phone on and so only read my messages just before he phoned me.

He has electricity in his flat now.  He will be able to finish the decoration.  He is happier.  I tell him I’m meeting A on Thursday night.  He might come.  I said I had told A that F might not be there as I didn’t know what he was doing but that I would be there anyway.  I have to see A as he is leaving for his parents early next week.  I say that I have agreed to meet G on Saturday night for a beer and a pizza.  Again, I have said I don’t know if F will be there.  He thanks me for this.  I explain that I know he’s feeling stressed right now and I understand and so, although I have to see these people and would prefer that he were there, I understand if he is not.

And he thanks me again for being so understanding and that’s when he says “That’s why I love you”.

The pizza was good, the base being particularly nice.  I don’t remember if it was always this good.   We also have Milanese cake (that I forget the name of the cake but it is really nice – brought out at this time of year).  He says he will be spending a lot of time at the flat.  I explain that I have arranged to meet L and take the dogs (hers and mine) to the park near the airport on Saturday morning at 10 because I thought that he would want to go and do painting and that it would encourage us to get up and not waste the day.  He is happy with that and makes plans to come and stay at mine at Friday because he is closer to his flat and it means we can get up just that little bit later.

He tells me that he had planned that he would go home, have a shower, get his stuff ready for tomorrow and come and stay at mine.  I said that I thought it would be easier and better if he stayed at his, apologising that I wouldn’t be there as I needed to be in work on time.  He said it was a good idea.  And it was, even if it means spending the night apart.  He is, in fact, relieved that I came up with this suggestion as it will be much better for both of us.  It’s practical, anyway.

I tell him that, obviously, I would have preferred to be with him and that I missed him last night.  I tell him that much, anyway.

We go home.  I try on the jacket.  He is pleased with it and says it looks really nice and the sartoria (tailors) have done a good job.  I take all the jeans out of the wardrobe.  He goes through them, rejecting most.  He finds one that he likes and then another.  He looks at the jumpers I have (that I could wear).  He thinks a white shirt, or blue, is better.  For shoes he obviously is not impressed by my type of normal shoe.  It’s not his style, for certain.  But he decides, in the end, on the new ‘trainer-type’ shoe that I bought that time in Fox Town with A.

We hug and kiss.  He had said earlier that, being on his feet all day, his feet were doing that throbbing that they do.  I said I would drive him back home.  He protested that it was not necessary and I would have difficulty parking when I got back.  I said it would be OK.  I took him anyway and I know he was grateful.  I was back home within 15 minutes and found somewhere to park.  I was lucky, I know.

And, because I had seen him and been with him, sleeping, even if alone, was not so bad.  And I know that he misses me too and he had said, during the meal, that he had explained to a colleague and friend that he would be going to my place and staying there because it was only fair and that I had the dogs and he didn’t want me to be always going to his place because of them, etc.  I knew this anyway.

But, I still don’t quite understand why, when I see him, when we’re together,I don’t have any doubts or fears or concerns.  Everything is, always, mostly, nearly completely perfect.