Category Archives: Fashion

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Well, they’re fashion people of some sort, I suppose (but how would I know?)

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Well, I guess that I should be telling you about meeting some of the good and the great of the fashion industry.

Except that, apart from them all appearing to be very rich, I haven’t the faintest clue who they were. There were some fat men. There were some, ahem, ladies past their prime. There was a hat designer who came late, sporting a hat that (for those of you from the UK) would be best suited on some working class, washerwoman – a lot in the style of the wife of Andy Capp or, even, not unlike the way that Hilda Ogden used to be dressed on Coronation Street (but without the rollers in her hair).

Some woman, of a certain age (which was, actually, very uncertain – but O L D nonetheless), with a bright orange bouffant but very thinning hair-do and a very pale complexion caused either by her being very ill or by her applying a whitening mask to hide the liver spots, which, by the way, was unsuccessful, thought that the hat was wonderful. She is like Anna Wintour, apparently. Everyone had to agree with her even if they, secretly hated it (and, certainly, the few people around me DID hate it).

Some woman next to me kept jabbering at me in Italian. I understood some of it. We had a conversation …… of sorts. F says sorry to me for having to be somewhere where everyone is speaking Italian. I tell him not to worry and that, if it becomes a problem, I will tell him.

I was there, after all, not for my pleasure, exactly but to be introduced (or should it be ‘shown off’) to some friends of his.

“It will be very fashion”, he tells be beforehand. Everyone will be from the fashion world. Although, as it turned out, there was also C, Fi’s husband and he’s NOT fashion but a chef. These were the people with whom we were supposed to spend Christmas and New Year. Apparently, they had organised a special party for New Year, in F’s honour. He is their ‘jewel’, so I was told.

I am to like P, even if I don’t like her. She is part owner of a rather large business in Italy. She has a house in Venice. And a ‘Guest House’ nearby. This Guest House is lavish and huge, apparently. F wants to take me there. P says that she doesn’t like Venice apart from going there a couple of days every so often. I don’t say it but for me it is the most romantic city in the world. It beats Paris, hands down.

We are at a ‘chic’ restaurant. Ristorante da Gaspare. I won’t link to it as it would be unfair. I am led to believe it is expensive. We had some antipasto of shrimps and clams. Some pizze and foccia. And then the biggest branzino I’ve ever seen was wheeled to our table – then taken away to be served up in smaller dishes so that we could help ourselves.

I don’t know how much was paid but I think it was a lot. The branzino was wonderful – but I didn’t get much. Nor did most other people (except the fat bloke almost opposite me – which explains his fatness, I would think). A couple of people had sweets. I tried one. It wasn’t up to much. The rest of it I could take or leave, really.

The atmosphere was great – for the people we were with. The place itself lacked atmosphere being bright and more like a canteen. I’m sure the fish was very fresh but it wasn’t really anything special.

Fi and C were lovely. They bought presents – for us for Christmas – some stone dogs which, apparently, in Austria (or in one town/village in Austria anyway) people put outside their houses to warn people that they have a dog. It was sweet of them. There was one for me and one for F. F pointed out that, if we put them outside our front door they would be nicked. Fi hadn’t thought of that. There was also a special cake for F’s birthday. Bless them. They think the world of him, I can tell. I think I passed the test :-) I think they liked me.

They were all nice people, really. Even the small fat guy who, if I hadn’t been told he was married – with a grown-up son – I would have placed as being the most gay of all gay people at that table (there was only F and I). He wore, round his neck, a black scarf – no, more like a shawl – with beads round the edge. It was more feminine than all of the ladies at the table! His wife was lovely.

F told me that the lady wearing the Missoni dress was a journalist. Married to the old guy with the pin stripe at the other end of the table. I’m guessing he was ‘something’ in fashion. I was more amazed that it was a Missoni dress. It looked much like something you could pick up in a junk shop – something from the 70s. I didn’t say anything. F surprises me sometimes and he obviously has a great deal of knowledge about his industry – but doesn’t say anything to me, much.

Before the event, though, he did say that, as it was very ‘fashion’ I should dress accordingly. I dressed in my normal ‘smart’ way – as I would for any night out with friends, or, even him! I don’t know whether that was right or not. He doesn’t ever tell me and I don’t want to ask.

We are, apparently, to meet up for an evening out with P. She seems nice although with her head somewhere else half the time. Still, I don’t dislike her and she is a good friend of F’s – or maybe Fi’s – I’m not really sure.

Fi didn’t really stop talking. She is almost as bad as F’s sister! We are to go there in May or something, when the weather is better. And, probably, after Rufus has left us.

This morning I took F to the airport. He is away for 11 days. I can’t wait for him to be back ……. already!!!

p.s. below is a clip where Jennifer Saunders is wearing almost the same hat as I mentioned above – except hers is a dark colour and this one, the other night was bright pink! Enjoy the clip anyway, it is very funny.

French and Saunders version of The Exorcist!

F’s Birthday and stuff

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Well, further to my post below, Rufus seems much better. Ain’t it always the way? But I know better than to assume that he will remain this way for long.

Last night we went to Giacomo – it was F’s birthday. I had raw scampi to start (and some of F’s raw tuna) and branzino (sea bass) with artichokes as a main. F had the mixed raw fish to start and then a cooked tuna steak (he loves tuna and has it whenever he can). A nice bottle of wine, some mirto and then home.

This being a restaurant that is, as F would say, very fashion, there are the great and the good of Milan and many of the rich tourists or others who are here for business. In this case, there was a model who, apparently, used to work for Helmut Lang. However, I didn’t even recognise the name. Apparently, Giacomo has opened a new restaurant near Piazza Duomo, with views over the city. We are to go there for my birthday, I am advised :-).

Yesterday, I went to see FfC and go out for lunch. She is getting ready to return to work next week after months off whilst she had a baby. The baby is about 7 months old now. He is big. She suggested he looks like his father and asked me what I thought. As I’ve said before, babies, to me, just look like babies and not like either of the parents or anyone else for that matter. So that’s what I said.

Then, later, after we had been out for lunch, she was sitting on one of the sofas opposite me and the baby waved at me. Apparently they’ve been trying to get him to wave for a while so she was delighted that he had, finally, done it. She was going to phone R, the father, as soon as I had gone, to tell him.

She told me, during lunch, that she had, really, given up on the idea that she would become a mother and that was when she found herself pregnant. Maybe there’s a thing about trying too hard. We also spoke about FfI. FfI went back to her home country for Christmas and New Year. She planned to spend Christmas with her family and then New Year with her daughter who is in another part of the country. Her common line is ‘I hate Milan’, quickly followed by ‘I want to go back to my country’. I always thought – well, go then!

I email her to wish her a happy New Year. She emails me back to tell me that she cried every day (and that everyone except her one brother, she had fights with), she spent New Year’s Eve in a motel room all alone and that she was cold and miserable and couldn’t wait to get back to Milan. She also promised that she would never say that she hated Milan again. We shall see. To be honest, I feel sorry for her. What a dreadful way to spend Christmas and New Year! But FfC and I were talking (and we have much the same views on most things) and agreed that it’s really important to be ‘happy’ with what you have and where you are.

Milan may not be the most beautiful city in the world, nor with the best climate but it has charm and a character of it’s own. Without coming to Milan there are so many experiences that I simply would not have experienced, both good and bad, things that I would not have enjoyed and have made my life richer and more fulfilled as a result. Of course, the main thing is that I would not have met F and, for that, I would never want to change the past because it is the past that has led me here and to this point.

We also spoke (FfC and I) about V. She was quite disappointed when he didn’t turn up one evening because he was shopping for a new outfit for Christmas, after she had prepared food and everything – and he didn’t even text or phone but relied on FfI to tell her. It made me so grateful that I am no longer responsible, in any way, for him. I explained to her that my thinking on the reasons why he had, effectively, cut me off from his life was that (and I learned this from FfI) he had been telling the new boyfriend that ‘the breakup had left him with so much debt’. She was as incredulous as I had been. But it is his way and if I were too close, there would be questions from other people which would lead me to tell the truth and the truth would not be what he wanted others to hear. Ah well. At least, now, I can understand the reason even if it’s a poor one. I remember telling him, when there was the previous boyfriend – ‘don’t lie about stuff’. For lying always, at some point, bites you in the ass further down the line. But, with him, he always seems to get away with it. He is, as FfC says – always being ‘fabulous’. Fabulousness is all about show and does not necessarily have any substance. And it’s so true of him. I just hope that the fabulousness doesn’t wear off any time.

Saturday, we’re having Tiramisù!

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I am, of course, expecting something different.

A few days ago, in the hunt for eggs for F, I had, following instructions from the Internet and then from some people who quite obviously lived in that area and told me with a lot of certainty where I should go, veered off track from my normal way home and, in the process, found myself on a real ‘track’, across fields, eventually leading to a farm with a no-entry sign, which I promptly ignored, to park my car and get out and, because I could see no other living being – human or otherwise, traipsed all over the farm and then onto another road where, after some time I found some people who had just driven up who told me that I should go somewhere else.

I gave up at that point and went back to the car and headed home.

Since we are talking Italians and directions and, given that there is so little in the way of sign posts (well, that’s not actually true – there are a million and one sign posts, normally pointing to things you really don’t want or, where there are ones pointing the way to somewhere you want to go, they are lost amongst the irrelevant sign posts or, worse, pointing ambiguously – so you never know you are on the right road until you see another sign post that you want (and since sometimes the sign posting just disappears for a bit, you can never be sure either way)), I asked Pietro (see his blog link at the side) if he would kindly phone this place that I couldn’t find and get the directions from them.

I was bloody determined.

You may wonder why I was travelling all over the Italian countryside for eggs.  After all, I can buy eggs from the supermarket that is about two seconds walk from my house.  Ah yes but, in line with some of the weird and wonderful things to do with F, it seems that not all eggs are, in fact, quite good enough.  It seems that unless you know the hens lineage, one never really knows what one is getting.  OK so I exaggerate just a little.  However, he never eats eggs unless he is at his parent’s home.  This is because, apparently, supermarket eggs are simply not fresh enough and he doesn’t trust them.  So, being the good boyfriend that I am (and, secretly, between you and I, because he has promised me a home-made Tiramisù – but only when he can get fresh, almost plopped-in-your-hand-from-the-hen’s-bottom eggs) I am trying to find somewhere I can buy them directly.  As I work outside the city and, so, travel everyday through kind of green bits (with things like farms and trees and stuff), I thought that I must be able to find somewhere on my way home.

I had visions.  I would find some little farm which had chickens walking about the farmyard with some farmer’s wife responsible for collecting said eggs.  She would be short and round with rosy cheeks and always be wearing an apron over her rather old-fashioned small-flowery dress, with slightly unkempt hair but kindly and I would ask for eggs and she would go the some outhouse where she had some eggs that were still dirty, since they don’t wash them and she would pick some for me and they would still be warm.

I explain to Pietro, jokingly, that, ideally, the eggs would still have hen’s feathers stuck to them.

He asked me why I hadn’t spoken to him before.  He usually does this.  He phones.  They tell him that they stopped selling fresh eggs some time ago.  Hmmm.  But then he explained that there was this place, just outside the town I work and, sort of, on my way home.

I go.

I drive up the lane but, as I approach, instead of a farm yard I see a car park.  The car park is full of cars.  And there are supermarket trolleys abandoned over the car park.  And there are lots of people.

In fact it was, what we would describe as a farm shop.  One of the large farm shops that you also get in the UK.  They sell everything and, were it not for the slightly less salubrious surroundings are, in fact, like a supermarket!

However, F is not with me.  I won’t tell him.  If he thinks, like I did, of a rosy-cheeked, slightly scruffy and old-fashioned farmer’s wife, selling freshly collected eggs from her kitchen, then why would I spoil that image?  Actually, he probably doesn’t have that image.  It was my image.  I still, sometimes, think of Italy as if it was the UK when I was a kid.  And when it isn’t, I feel slightly let-down, wanting it to be true to reinforce my idea that Italy has not pandered to this desire to be modern (except with it’s furniture and fashion and cars, of course).  I want everywhere to be a bit like rural Herefordshire – 20 years ago!

I enter.  The first place is full of veg.  I see signs on the wall for the different sorts of fruit.  I see one for eggs.  I wander over, looking at all the boxes of veg of various types on the way.  I get under the sign and look around.  I don’t see eggs.  What I do see, of course, are grapes.  I had mistaken ‘uva’ for ‘uova’.  It’s a bloody ‘o’ is all.  I feel stupid but, at least, I didn’t speak to anyone and, so, have ‘got away with it’ (or I would have if I hadn’t mentioned it here).

There’re no eggs in this section of the warehouse.  I go, past the tills, to the next section.  Here there is wine, cakes, biscuits, etc.  I see no eggs.  I wander down to the end where there are jams and stuff.  I see an assistant who is loading shelves.  I ask for uova.  She tells me they are held at the till.  I see the tills for this section of the warehouse.  They are on a semi-circular desk next to the door.  I go over.  I stand there, proffering my wallet until the slightly-harassed-looking assistant asks what I want.  I say I would like a dozen eggs.  She gives me two egg-boxes of eggs.  They look, well, much like eggs you could find in a supermarket.  Will he believe that I didn’t buy them at a supermarket, I wonder?

When I get home, I look at them.  On one of the eggs there is, indeed, one of those small wispy hen’s feathers stuck to it.  I am beside myself with joy.

When F gets back to my house, I show him the eggs and point out the hen’s feather.

Saturday, we are having Tiramisù :-D

I don’t have a dream

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Looking on the bright side (as one should), I didn’t have any dreams – good or not.

That’s because I didn’t sleep at all well. And it wasn’t because of me, if you see what I mean. It was because F was feeling a bit poorly. And so, he tossed and turned all night, waking me up (what seemed like) every five minutes. However, looking on the bright side again, he cuddled me a lot more than usual, I think because he felt cold, as one does when one is coming down with a cold. Still, I loved it even if, because of the heat, I couldn’t stand it for long.

Last night, the plan was for him to come to me. The plane was late and got in at about 10. By then I had put up the table, rearranged the furniture (and in the process smashed the glass globe shade of the Saturn lamp – but it’s only a thing and so not really important – and, anyway, as usual, was because of my own stupidity), disassembled the desk and, whilst doing all that, made some pumpkin soup and some tomato soup – which is now in the fridge – to be transferred to the freezer tonight, if I can find the room, that is.

But it was raining – that solid, more-than-heavy, continuous downpour (raining cats and dogs isn’t enough) and he wasn’t feeling well. I took the dogs out and we all got soaked. I texted him and suggested that I come over (without the dogs) and he readily agreed (and, I think, was grateful for the suggestion).

I got there and he was about to take a bath. I sat on the toilet and we chatted whilst he bathed. He is a sexy guy and, at that moment, seemed so beautiful that I wanted to smother him with kisses. We chatted about his trip, about his friend An, with whom he had stayed, about work (his work) and about his time away.

I didn’t tell him about the table, nor the cupboards for the bathroom (which are still in their boxes), nor the smashed lampshade, nor the soup (one of which I will offer him tonight) nor the events of the weekend, nor anything – since I want it all to be a surprise.

He stands in front of the mirror, sucking in his stomach and flexing his muscles and then says that he must do something about it. I tell him he is fine as he is but he won’t have it. I do understand but there are more important things to worry about than that! And, to me, he is fine as he is.

He told me about the change in priorities of his job and how, since they plan to open more shops in this country, he will be travelling around more. On the plus side, he will be doing less of the sales aspect. He seems pleased with the change in priorities and, anyway, this is really his job and the bit he loves, more than the sales.

After he has his lemsip (just in case), we go to bed and he watches a bit of television and we go to sleep – or not.

He texts me this morning saying that I had had a terrible night because of him. I say it was fine. If I don’t he will suggest sleeping apart tonight and I would prefer to be with him, sleep or no sleep.

And, anyway, I don’t have a dream.

This isn’t right, I know, but what can I do?

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He cut the eyebrows by using a comb to pull them out and then slicing them off. Oh, so that’s how it’s done, I thought. I was so close to my grandfather and his face was in profile to me. There was something about carrying bags – to the car – which had a suitcase or bag in it. I thought, briefly about taking the bags back to the ‘place’ and then going to get the bag from the car afterwards and then, as I was already halfway back to the car, decided to carry on.

V was there – somewhere. Next I knew I was in the car; he was driving; we were going down Broad Street, in Hereford, the magnificent Cathedral ahead. It was dark but not black – like it was early evening. An old couple were crossing the road, some lady with a stick or one of those walking frames, crossing slowly. V didn’t slow down. I almost curled up as we passed her at some ridiculous speed. “Oh, don’t be so stupid”, V said – or something like that.

I woke up. The dream left me with some uneasy feeling which I couldn’t (and still can’t) put my finger on. The first city wasn’t Hereford but somewhere else I know or knew or, maybe, a mix of places. It had steep streets. I realised I had slept really deeply. I checked my phone which had been lying on the bed next to me. I had missed a call – I mean, the phone had rung about half an hour before and I had not woken up. It was a deep, deep sleep.

I must have needed that, I thought. I’ll just have another 5 minutes, I thought, setting my alarm for half an hour later. But I couldn’t get back to sleep because of the dream and so got up anyway, had a cup of tea and got ready to go to A’s place.

I had only gone to lie down for 5 minutes in the first place, almost 2 hours ago.

It had been quite a busy day. It had been quite a successful day, all in all. But that was only stage 1. Stage 2 is today, with me sitting here, writing this, instead of getting on with the things I should do, procrastinating about doing some things because there are other things to be done which are less unpleasant but, still, I write this instead of doing anything. I don’t know why I do that. I wish I didn’t. Yesterday was an example.

It’s so hard to explain. There’s a fear that I have. It’s a fear of people or something. It’s a fear of situations. Situations that might be a little bit difficult; people that I don’t understand. And, yet, when I actually do the things, it usually is OK and, although I know that, it doesn’t stop me feeling this fear. It’s stupid. I tell myself it’s stupid and I know that it’s stupid but it doesn’t stop me.

Even yesterday.

I had intended to get up by 8 and walk the dogs and start doing the things I needed to do.

I got up at 8.30 and decided to have coffee before I took the dogs out. I had two coffees, doing not much except surfing the net and playing games and reading the news. I had set reminders on my phone. I reset the reminders as they came up. Just another half an hour, I thought – the real reason being that I didn’t want to go out. I’m sure that, without the dogs, who MUST be walked, I would spend most of my time like a hermit. It’s like addictive things (smoking) – I know what I’m like.

I’m sure I’m only a step away from becoming crazy.

Eventually, I set my ‘final’ deadline to leave. I must go. I have no choice but there are things that worry me about the whole day. There are four things to do for today. A chatted to me on Facebook, yesterday, meaning that there’s a fifth – but I may lie to him about that and say it wasn’t on the way. I reset my deadline. I reset it again. But, I must be at the first place before 12.30. And so, at one point I do make the effort.

It’s a bit of a drive. I know the way except, at one point, I realise that I have taken the wrong road. Damn! But my sense of direction is good and so I end up on the right road in the end. I drive to the place and park the car. I had toyed with the idea that I wouldn’t question anything – having to do it in Italian (or, rather, Italian and a mix of hand signals and miming). It would be easier to say nothing. I berate myself for thinking this. We shall see.

There’s no one in reception. I walk round to where it says ‘Office’. There’s a couple of guys there. One asks me what I want – or rather – ‘Tell me’ or ‘Speak to me’ – “Dimi”. I explain, in my really crap Italian, that I’ve brought the car in for a check and to pick up the car ownership documents. We go to the office. He tries to find someone from reception. He suggests they are having coffee and, this being Italy, I resign myself to the fact that the coffee break, being so important, I shall not see anyone for another 10 minutes. It’s OK, siamo in Italia.

The lady comes. I, kind of, explain what I want. Another guy takes my keys. I go through the explaining of the two problems. It’s a mix of Italian, English, miming and gesticulating. However, he seems to understand. The lady searches to find my documents, which she does. I ask her about the MoT Test (revisione, here). In the UK this is done when a car is three years old and then every year. She explains that, here, it is after four years and then every two years. I am quite pleased with that. It won’t be due until the end of next year.

The guy explains that the braking ‘problem’ is normal. He explains that the ‘pinking’ problem is because of some cheap fuel that contains water. I don’t believe him but say nothing. He suggests using different garages. We shall see. I never believe mechanics. But I can’t argue because I don’t really understand. It’s a bit like doctors. Still, I am quite pleased with myself. I asked about everything and got an answer on everything and I understood, which is always an achievement.

My next stop is equally ‘harrowing’. But it has to be done. And I have checked and double-checked what I am going for. I also checked the way since, to go directly from the garage would incur some stupid couple of euros in tolls and for the sake of a few kilometers, I have found an alternative route.

The alternative route takes me past the ‘fifth’ place. I decide that I will stop, after all. Looking costs nothing. I walk towards the back of the ‘store’. I know where they will be, more or less. I see ones that are done in the old style but are actually reproductions. €1000 or more – and that’s with the discount. No way! Anyway, they don’t look that good. I walk on to the second-hand stuff. There’s nothing like the one I found and that, after procrastinating for so long, missed it – it being scrapped as it had been there too long. But, wait! There is one that doesn’t look so bad. Nice size but covered with other stuff. I look underneath and can’t work out how it works although it is obviously extendible. I look at the price. I can’t work out the discount price. It looks like €200. It has four chairs around it. The chairs are not necessarily with the table but they do go with it, sort of. I wish I had someone else with me. I don’t like doing this stuff on my own.

Still, I remember the last time I was here and missing out on one which was, probably, Art Noveau and, so, I decide to bite the bullet.

I go the the front cash desk and ask the lady for help. My Italian is crap but, somehow, I manage. I amaze myself sometimes. She finds a guy for me and we walk to the table. He struggles with it but suggests that it is €200 as I suspected. I ask if I could see how the table was extended as it’s not possible to see without taking all the stuff off.

He gets someone to take the stuff off and pull it out so as to extend it. It is badly scratched in the centre – but nothing that can’t be fixed or, rather, nothing that can’t be fixed eventually. It’s a solid table. I’m not sure what period. Maybe fifties or, even, sixties but it’s solid and a good table. Not quite what I wanted but better than this bloody horrible IKEA desk that I’m sitting at now and making the lounge look so terrible (in my eyes). I think about waiting until F gets back from London and getting him to come with me and look but decide that, in doing that, I am just procrastinating and, who knows, maybe it will be gone in a week – just like the other one.

I ask about the chairs since I can’t find a price on them. The guy finds the price. They are €80. They are good, solid chairs. The seats are soft. The colour of their wood is almost that of the table. If I don’t get these then I would have to get some less comfortable ones that are new and cost €35 each. I phone A to ask if he can help me. I need a van to get them all to my place. I will have to hire one – but it will be cheaper than paying €200 for delivery by the people here (which is a crazy price and would mean taking a day off work, etc.). I explain about the €200 and the fact that it will be cheaper to hire a van for a day and do it that way. He agrees and says we can look later, when I go round for dinner. He asks if I want him to negotiate a discount. I say that I’m OK and I can do it myself (to be honest I hadn’t even thought about it). We discuss about doing it tomorrow and I ask them if they are open – which they are. We finish the conversation. I ask the guy for a discount. He says he has to go and find someone else. The first guy comes back and I suggest a price of €250 all in – making a point of the scratches on the top. He thinks about it and then goes away. He comes back and the deal is done.

So I pay the deposit and, feeling even more pleased with myself, get in the car for the next place which was, in fact, place 2. As I said before, I had selected the route to avoid the toll on the motorway. I picture the ‘map’ in my head. I go to the place. I hate this place with passion. It is full of cheap crap – but it’s cheap crap that does the job even if most of it won’t last like my new ‘old’ table. It is full of people that, I am sure, spend their whole weekend just walking around it, they are so slow and seemingly admiring the ‘set rooms’ that are there to show you how wonderful your home could be – if only you bought all your furniture from them. But they do cupboards and I want cupboards for the bathroom. I want to move towels out of the bedroom and I want my huge pack of toilet rolls to be not on show and not on the floor. Perhaps F is rubbing off on me?

I walk round the store, since I need to find the cupboards I want and note the code number and place to find them in the warehouse section. I also need to check which doors I want.

There is one saving grace about this place (other than it’s cheapness for cupboards) and that is the meatballs. Swedish meatballs with gravy and redcurrant sauce and chips. But, I am on my own and it’s another thing to fear (the mass of people, the sitting on one’s own, the having no one to talk to, the mass of people (yes, I know I mentioned it twice but I really do dislike being around all these people – these kind of people)). I find the cupboards and the doors and make notes with the conveniently supplied pencil on the conveniently supplied checklist. It’s all very convenient – except for the mass of people who, quite obviously, are here to wander and, generally, get in my way. Of course, I am much later here than I had originally intended to be – but only through my own fault.

I go, as fast as I can, dodging the fat people who, walking as fast as snails and three abreast or more, block the pathways. I am irritated but not so much as usual because I have, after all, already accomplished a lot (in my head, anyway). I reach the end of the ‘showroom’ and I see the restaurant. It is mid-day. I decide that I will treat myself to the meatballs. The queue is long. There are so many children. The man in front of me, when we reach the place to pick up the trays, is on the telephone. Obviously he has ‘gone ahead’ to get the stuff whilst his family or friends (or both) trail behind. Now he is here, having to make selections and the others are not. He is reading out what is available. The person on the other end is obviously passing it to the other people and then relaying it back to him. I find this annoying since it means he is taking too long to decide. But I cannot be angry – I am too fearful. I concentrate on anything other than him. The children are, in general, bored. I can’t say I blame them. Me too!

I decide on 15 meatballs. You have the choice of 10, 15 or 20 – all conveniently priced. 15 seems the right choice. Not greedy but enough. It seems that I don’t get my proper portion of chips but I’m not complaining. It will be enough. I grab a beer and a glass and queue up to pay. It’s less than 10 Euro so reasonable value for money. The place is bursting. People have ‘bagged’ their table by dumping coats and bags on seats. I toy with picking a table with a ‘spare’ seat, knowing that it will probably annoy them but decide not to. Who needs the hassle? I find a woman sitting on her own at a table of four. I ask if the seat diagonally opposite is free. It is. I sit and eat and enjoy my meatballs. Perhaps I shouldn’t eat them as I’m going to dinner later but, what the heck!

I go down to the warehouse part, through the kitchen stuff and the storage boxes, etc. I go to the warehouse. People now have big trolleys which they can’t steer and there’s even less consideration of others. I steer mine to the place I want. I pick up the flat-pack boxes containing the cupboards. I move on and pick up the boxes containing the doors. I worry that I haven’t picked up the right stuff so check the codes again and the colours again, marked on the edge of the shelves. It should be OK but I have no one with me to confirm – like everything today. I go to the check out. They have the ‘do-it-yourself’ ones. I’m happier with those. After all, It means speaking to less people. There is one free and the helpful assistant sees me hesitate before waving me through. I check out. It’s all the price it is supposed to be.

I load it into the car. There is someone waiting to have my place and the man has got out to safeguard the place. I unload my stuff but then have to take the trolley to one of the trolley areas. Instead of saying that he will do it for me or do it after they have parked he just stands there. I decide to make my own little protest. Having got in the car I spend a few moments organising myself and not rushing as I would have done if he had offered to take the trolley. There! That’ll show ‘em!

I drive home, more pleased with myself at having done everything I meant to (and more – now that I have the table) and it is still only about 1 o’clock. I unload everything and get it home.

But, still I haven’t finished. I have to go out again to the ‘3rd’ place. Again, not only venturing out of the flat but also having to put up with lots of people. I make myself tea. But I have to go and do this thing. Well, I don’t HAVE to but I want to. It’s for F. Of course, this has the added ‘fear’ in that, this is the first time I will do this and is it the right thing to do? I mean to say, it’s a risk. If it had been V there would be no risk but F is different and I don’t know him that well or, rather, not well enough. Still, as we walked past the shop the other night, he said that he really liked them.

I go. I have to get on the tube. Every move I make is hard. I just want to go home and do …. nothing but at least I wouldn’t be here, with all these people around. I get on the tube train. I feel self-conscious. I stare straight ahead, seeing myself in the reflection of the window. I am an old man. Do other people see that too? I am slightly shocked when I look. The wrinkles, the sagging face, the flappy neck. I don’t feel like this but know I am like this. But what do others see? It’s like the liver spots. They have appeared, on my hands and arms, in the last year or so. Mostly faint and only a few. It’s not really a problem, just a reminder. And, yet, I’m not ready for it. It’s not like I really care it’s just that, it seems to creep up on me and I can’t see myself in the way that I see others and, so, I am curious as to what others see.

I get out of the tube and walk up the road. The streets are thronged with people. Too many people. Strolling around on this Saturday afternoon. But not many bags. That’s the thing to look for. How many people have bags. There’s a crisis. The shops are full but not enough people buying; not enough consumers to pay of the debts or, rather, increase the debts to put more money in the system. I go to the shop. OK. I’ve picked the blue one. That’s the one I like most. I go in. First you have to find where they are. There are three or four floors. I go to each one. Eventually I find it – the blue one. They are on a shelf above me. I get them down. The sizes are L or XL – I want medium or small. I could ask. If only I knew, for certain, who were the assistants since, these days, people don’t wear uniforms. It’s to give everyone the feeling that we are all equal or something. It’s all casual. As if the assistants are supposed to be like your friends rather than someone there to assist you. I guess. I prefer not to speak to anyone. I decide that I won’t ask. Normally, these days, they’ll just say they only have what’s on the shelf anyway. I think I’ll go to the one on Corso Buenos Aires. I get back on the tube and go to Lima. I get out and walk up to the shop. I realise that I haven’t actually spoken to anyone in hours. Even if I am surrounded by so many people. In fact, I haven’t spoken to anyone since I did the deal with the table!

I go into the shop. They don’t have quite the same things as the other store. I wander round. I can’t see the blue one. But I find a grey one that seems similar. Grey and red. I try it on. It fits me so it should be OK. I take it and go to pay. I hand over the item. My credit card doesn’t work. The cashier explains. I ask him to try it again since I know that the card is OK – I used it in IKEA, after all. It still doesn’t work so I use the debit card. I leave. Now I worry about the purchase. What if it is too large? What if it isn’t one that he likes? I shall leave the price tags on in case he doesn’t like it. I have to try this the once, at least. If he doesn’t like it then I can always use it. It would be OK for work, if nothing else.

I realise that, as I am going to dinner tonight, I should go and get some wine from my ‘wine shop’. Now this is fine. For this I have no fear. I don’t know why this is. After all, this is another case of me having to rely on someone else. However, I quite like the guy and he always says ‘hello’ to me if I’m passing the shop and he’s outside. Also, I can trust him. I say what type of thing I want and he will tell me the different ones I can choose – and he’s never let me down yet! I tell him I want a white wine, not sparkling or fizzy and dry. He points me to some. Telling me how each one is good. I select one. I love his shop. On the counter are some bottles of beer and cider. One group is for Bulmer’s Original cider. I smile to myself. This is from home, after all and it’s funny to see that whilst being in a foreign country, there is a little bit of Herefordshire, even here. And no one knows – like it’s a secret between myself and, well, myself.

I need to go to the supermarket. I could go to Unes, round the corner, or go home, drop off these bags and then go to the local Carrefour. I don’t like Unes, really. Or, rather, I don’t like the assistants. And, more particularly, I prefer the milk from Carrefour. I walk home, down my street, which is long. I am struck (again, after all this time) how my street is like it’s own special place; it’s like a village in the centre of town. I love my street.

I get home and drop off the bags and go straight out to get the shopping I need. I have decided to get some DVDs and CDs – to copy some of the stuff I have on the computer to play in the car and stuff. The tills are almost empty. I pick the one with the woman that reminds me of the woman that used to work for my grandmother when she had the post office. She always seems so miserable though but she’s OK. I ask her about the CDs and DVDs. She says I have to get them from the desk (where the expensive or easily-stealable stuff is kept). I don’t fully understand at first and ask if I have to pay for them over there. She explains that I have to get them and then bring them to her. I do so and as I return she says “give me”. Smiling as she does so. I laugh and tell that she speaks perfect English. I say that in Italian, of course. It pleases me because I know she is another of the cashiers that I will like and will be OK in the future.

>I go home. I am so tired. I will just go and have a lie down for a bit.

I think of the day and know that making the effort was worth it. I did many things. I know that my fear isn’t right, nor logical but what can I do about it? Every step outside, on my own is such a big deal in my head. I worry that, one day, it will become too much. I worry that Best Mate and I have too much in common – have this in common and, one of these days, it will become a hurdle I can’t get over. For sure, it isn’t right, I know, but what can I do?

The mist spills over the mountain top

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The mist spills over the top of the mountain as if it is a waterfall. The mountain is not black but, rather, dark grey. The sky, over there, a long way away, is bright and white. Here it is raining. The heating is turned up in the car – at least, in the car, I have heating!

Autumn is here with a vengeance!

Friday night was rain, Saturday rain for half the day, Sunday sun and warmth and this morning rain again and cold. Nope, I like summer (and spring if it’s warm enough and not like this year).

There are a ton of half-finished posts – I just couldn’t get my head round them to finish them. Maybe this will be another. I did do lots of little odd jobs around the house (as F was working), which was good. It was only little things – but it makes a difference and makes me happier. Still a lot to do though.

Things have happened that, really I should have mentioned before; that I did mention in those half-finished posts but of which you, of course, know nothing. So let’s tell you something, at least.

R&Al, with whom we went out for a meal (or, rather, R, whilst we were having a cigarette, outside Baia Chia) told me that, in all the time they have known F, he has never spent so much time in Carrara! I thought, at the time he told me, of how lovely that was. Since then (and, in particular, this morning), I’ve been thinking that, perhaps there is another reason. My own paranoia stepping in and leading me to doubt the motives. I force myself to put those thoughts aside since it is highly unlikely that they have any basis in fact.

A few days ago (or maybe a week or two, now), F said that he would ‘like to go away for Christmas, just you, me and the bambini’. Obviously, the holiday was even better than I thought it was. It was very relaxing and he would like the same thing for Christmas, except ……. before this statement …….

Well, it seems (according to R) that he used to spend nearly every Christmas in Vienna (his favourite city). As such, his friend, Fi, phoned and he agreed that we would go there this Christmas (after he had checked with me) and, so, Fi found us a flat in the centre for us to stay with the dogs. To be honest, even if it will be cold, it should be lovely. And it is his favourite city and one to which I have never been, so it’s time. In addition, Fi is a very good friend of his (who I have not yet met) and is married to a guy who is a chef by trade – so just imagine how spectacular Christmas lunch/Christmas Eve dinner would be! Yes, I said, of course I would love to go. And, if there is snow………for Christmas……..how wonderful that would be!

But, we shall see what happens. However, we have been talking about how we should spend our 1st anniversary. I know, a whole year! Hahahaha. This time last year, we had only chatted online. The restaurant we choose (for it will be celebrated over dinner, of course) will be one of our favourites. Probably Giacomo’s. It won’t be L’Assassino, which is where we were on Saturday night, even if it is a lovely restaurant with 1st-class service. In the end, it is similar to Giacomo’s and the real cost was €154 for the two of us – anitpasto, secondo, dolce, l’aqua e vino – but I had a voucher meaning that, on Saturday night, we paid €54! Of course, the voucher (for €100) cost me €50 about three months ago via City Deal.

I did wonder if it would really work. The basic concept is this. A company (restaurant, hotel, gym, etc.) offer a deal – in this case – €100 voucher for €50. If you want to go for it (you have to be signed up to do this), you click on the appropriate button within the 24 hours that the ‘deal’ is active (each deal is available for only 24 hours). However, that doesn’t mean you get the voucher. The company have set the minimum number of people that must take up the offer before it is effected. If, at the end of the 24 hours, enough people have signed up for the deal then they email you the voucher which you print out.

In this case (and another that I have for another restaurant), you book the restaurant, go and eat and then, when you ask for the bill, show them the voucher. I did expect a bit of a fight and half-expected that I would be told that ‘you had to tell us at the time you booked, sir!” but no, none of that. Just a ‘Ah, you have a voucher’, then the bill with the explanation as to how much we were to pay and that was that.

It worked fabulously. Next is a restaurant near my flat and one which I have wanted to go to for ages. Unfortunately, it is a meat restaurant and so the intention is to go with A, later this week. I’ll let you know.

One downside to this City Deal is that you get two emails per day with offers (it used to be one) – each one lasting until 23.59 of that day, so no chance to go and see first, if you see what I mean. However, it was a really good first experience of both City Deal and L’Assassino.

And now we have entered the ‘stressful period’. Last week was Milan Fashion Week, with the Showroom Sales in full swing (hence the working all weekend). Towards the end of this week is a two-day trip near Venice, followed almost immediately by Friday and the weekend in London. And then, in November (for he plans his stresses in advance), he will be away every week.

On the plus side, as we were walking back through the centre of Milan, past the Duomo and up Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, we passed the Zara shop and we looked in the windows (as it’s part of his job, he can never resist) and he saw a cardigan that he said he really liked. So that sorts the anniversary present, then :-) and that I can get on Saturday, whilst he’s away – and, maybe, go to IKEA and get some cupboards for the bathroom so I can tidy up a bit more of the flat – I have a goal, after all!

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!

The Fashion World – just part of his job

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He says it again. The three words; the phrase that I wait for. It makes me feel all warm inside. I don’t say anything. I already say them more than him anyway. And I do mean them, I really do.

It turns out he wasn’t at work at all yesterday. I didn’t realise that he was having all the windows replaced in the new flat. Well, he wasn’t, but his landlady was. And so, he had to stay in the flat, of course.

I text him before I leave work asking what time he would finish work, so that I knew or would have some idea as to what we may be doing and when I would go and see him.

That’s when I found out he wasn’t at work at all. He calls me as I’m driving home. A few minutes before, I had thought it would be nice to go to Baia Chia, the restaurant that is his favourite. I asked him if he would like to go but that I would be paying. He thought I said something about buying something from Ikea ….. buy eekaya (the way that they pronounce Ikea here). I explained. He said ‘Oh, Maria’s!’.

He booked and we were going to eat at 9. I was really happy about it as, not only is it a lovely restaurant and the staff so nice and the food so good – but he was going to let me pay! And, as I told him as we clinked glasses, it was to thank him for a wonderful 2 months.

And, although it wasn’t then, even if I don’t remember exactly why, he said the three words again and it made me very happy, as I am, often, with him.

He said that he was less worried about the flat now. He knew it would be small and that it didn’t worry him any more and that he would move in and everything would not be perfect but he would live with it even if it was a mess and that he would sort it out even if it took three months.

But I didn’t believe him even if I hoped it would be true.

I told him so by saying ‘I’m not sure that you can live without everything being tidy’.

He said that he could. Later he said that he doubted if he could. And, certainly, that I DO believe.

On the way home (his place) he said that he was more relaxed now. It’s not really true but I know he is trying.

He also said that we should quit smoking. Or, at least, cut down. I told him that he couldn’t change me so quickly and I was already doing other things. Which he knew and understood. And he said that, at least he would cut down. And I know that I will try, when I’m with him, to smoke less. I guess.

And I told him I was a bit worried about Rufus. It seems that the deterioration is going in spurts. He doesn’t wee in the house all the time but more often now. And that seemed to happen suddenly. Then, on Thursday night, I noticed, when we were out, that he seemed to be a bit drunk; Friday morning much worse; Friday night still just as bad. It’s not like he collapses (the back legs are very weak now) but seems to stagger a lot, just as if he is drunk.

I know it’s coming, the end, so I give him extra hugs and stuff. And, of course, I have the added thing of telling V. And, yes, it is a little upsetting, especially as he has been such a good dog but V will be really upset, which doesn’t help. Even if he really hasn’t had anything much to do with him for the last 12 months (since the break up, over a year ago now). However, it is all part of having a dog and I do have Dino now, as well.

F says ‘poverino’, as he does with Rufus.

And now, as I write this, I am back at home, having picked up my suit (after alterations) that F has decided to give me as my Christmas present. We are going to the cocktail party in the shop on Wednesday, where he is going to introduce me to the big boss and he told me that I must be very elegant – he will be showing me off, after all – even if he didn’t say that bit :-D.

He wants me to wear the suit or, at least the jacket with jeans. I said that, next time he is at my place, he needs to look through my stuff to decide what I should wear as I will wear whatever he wants. I said that I had no idea what to say to the big boss, other than ‘hello’ and ‘nice to meet you’. But there will be plenty of people there that I know so it will all be fine. And I get to see him in his element and I know, already, that he is good at what he does. So I am half looking forward to it and half apprehensive about it. I mean, I have to make a good impression, for his sake. And it will be another ‘first’ for me, as I’ve never met a ‘designer’ before, so that will be good. And, the fact that he wants me there and wants to introduce me to the big boss, says a lot, I think.

And so, in spite of everything, it seems I will be more involved with the fashion world after all, which I find quite funny now. Years ago, with V, it would have been important. Now, with F, it’s part of his job and, so, feels so different! And I am really outside it and, so, I think it all feels different for him. I will do a post after Wednesday to let you know how I got on in the Fashion World.

Needy or not?

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‘I like you a lot’ he writes, after he explained that he is not good with words.  OK, fair enough.  He doesn’t want to wear out the three words and, anyway, actions speak louder than words, as we all know.

I missed him last night, even if I did get to bed at 2 a.m. and went straight to sleep (aided by a few glasses of wine).  Still, it would have been nice to have been able to curl up to him and kiss him, softly and tenderly.

Perhaps, even if he were to see this blog, it would hold little interest for him.  His thing is music.  Mine is words and, more often than not, written words rather than spoken words.  We kind of compliment each other, which is good and as it should be.

And today he will be so busy, working into the night, probably.  And so, it is likely that we won’t be together tonight either although I hope we shall be.

If necessary, I will go to his place (providing I have had some sleep first).

In the meantime, we text and chat and call.  We both have jobs that we take seriously (even if I don’t have so much to do most of the time) and we’re both good at what we do, even if he enjoys his more than I enjoy mine.

And, today, I have been busy with clients again.  We spoke as they left.  He is preparing stuff but won’t start the main work until about 7 p.m.  He doesn’t know what time he will finish.  I said that I was going to get a couple of hours sleep and then I could come to his place, if he would like, as long as it wasn’t 2 in the morning or something.

He then suggested that, if I would like, I could come to where he is working and get the keys to his flat, go there and then he could come later….if necessary, I could even go to bed and he would call me when he arrived home so that I could let him in.

He wants this as much as I do.  I actually said that it’s if he wants, as well, as it takes two of us.  But he doesn’t want to appear so needy, even if he is needy.

He makes me smile.  I will call him later, after I have slept.

And, so, I replied to his text of liking me with ‘I guessed that as actions speak louder than words’.  And then reminded him of what he had said (about everyone looking for the same thing) and said that maybe, hopefully, we had both found it!

He laughed (in text form).  And then the call later with the suggestion of me going round, before he gets home.  The same as I wanted last night, the same as he wants tonight.  And, once again, I am happy.

>At least, when he has done this week, he will be less busy with work and can concentrate on his flat and painting and decorating and buying the furniture, etc.

And he should start to relax a bit and things should become easier.

Last night, we made a start

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There was, of course, the trip to Ikea and other ‘out of town’ stores for looking at furniture.  Mainly for his new flat but also a wardrobe for mine.

He had the car from work.  He wanted to be there for about 9.30 a.m.  We stayed at his place.  I woke at about 7.30 first but dozed until it got to about 8 or 8.30.  I would have preferred to sleep in and, in fact, he said at one point, that, perhaps, we should go tomorrow.  I replied that if we didn’t do it today we might miss tomorrow and then, next Saturday, he would still be in Germany and really we should get up.  Even if I didn’t want that.

We got up, had coffee and then went to do the dogs.  Once the dogs had been walked, he drove to the first store.

Now, I should remind you that he is not so tall, slightly built and so very sweet, never really getting angry.  Well, that’s not quite true but almost.  He does have very strong opinions about certain things.  Take the Chinese family living next door to him.  He has threatened to kill them several times now.  Last night, with the children screaming and crying and much shouting going on, he finally snapped and went to get a shoe to bang on the wall.  It had the desired effect.

However, generally he is sweet and without real anger.  Until Saturday morning, however.

I have driven with Italians before.  Italians drive in a particular way.  Cutting each other up; Signalling left when they subsequently go right; Stopping suddenly to ‘park’ (we would say double park); Pulling out from a side road in front of you, etc.  It means you really have to pay attention to the traffic and expect the unexpected.  I do use my horn more often than I would in the UK but that’s because it is really one of the only ways you will survive here.

However, generally, I don’t swear and shout at other drivers.  Why would I? What’s the point?  It’s not like they can hear you and it’s not like it would change their driving habits either.  So I remain quite calm.

Other Italians, when I’m in the car, do tend to be more demonstrative when they are driving, both verbally and physically.  However, Saturday was a little different.  F became a different person from the one I knew.  It didn’t scare me or anything like that and he is quite a good driver but, in the half hour or so it took us to get to the first store, I probably heard all the Italian swearwords (and, in fact, a few more that I didn’t know before) and more than once.

As I pointed out to him, it’s a bloody good thing that our first ‘date’ wasn’t him driving me somewhere otherwise I would have thought him a very aggressive and uncontrollable animal.

As it was, because I know that he is only like this when behind the wheel, I found it somewhat amusing.  What amuses me further is that he is a little like this even when I’m driving!  However, not nearly as bad.

Saturday night we were meeting my friend G and going to the Brasserie Bruxelles on Viale Abruzzi.  A & F2 were coming too.

They have a rather excellent selection of beers.  Once again, F proved to be so good, chatting to A & F2 whilst G & I were able to catch up.  G saying that F didn’t really seem like an Italian – a little more Anglicised – and not only because he drank beer like any good Englishman.  G had phoned me to say he had arrived at the station and I told him what bus to get.  The F phoned to say that he was at the station (the car was being taken by another colleague) and could pick G up.  Of course, neither of them had each other’s number so there were a couple of phone calls with me in the middle.  However, F found G, even if they had never met before and then they got to the bar by car

Then we went for a pizza at Al Basilico, just a block down from the bar.

A & F2 were then going home but G wanted us (F & I) to meet R, the new girl in his life and so we went to this bar/restaurant/club place called Shanghai.

G is going back to the UK.  He hates the mentality of the Italians and the fact that it is so difficult to get things done here – every step halted by a wall that always seems impenetrable.  He hates the fact that the Italians are too busy (well, maybe this is particular to the Milanese) looking the part without the substance (which is also how F feels, certainly about Milan).  He’s been here for 10 years.  I explained that, being here for so long, there’s no way that he can go back and live in the UK.  For all that Italy and the Italians may drive you crazy, there are things that will happen in the UK where he will suddenly think how much he misses Italy (and the Italians).

But back to Shanghai.  I hate and loath these places with passion.  A huge hanger-like place.  Far too full of people; all busy being the best there.  We were going for a drink (but really to meet R).  She was very sweet and very, very pretty.  But neither F nor I were really happy about being in that place.  I mean, it’s a place for people that neither of us really like and exactly one of the reasons why G was going back to the UK ….. but he was there only for R, of course!

If I never get to go back to Shanghai again, it will be too soon.

We go home.  His home.  He wants to spend the night at his place because he has to get ready for his trip and because he wants to have Sunday breakfast at the café.  So, maybe, it’s his ‘thing’ too, after all?

We get up late(ish) and go to have breakfast which, as you know, I love doing.

I go and do the dogs, some washing, etc.  He gets ready for the trip.

I get back later and he does dinner.  I have brought wine and moved the car to nearby his place.

We don’t have dinner immediately.  When I arrive, he is getting ready for a bath, having spent some time doing his ‘beauty’ treatment stuff.  He is in his white underpants.  He is incredibly sexy.  I wonder, at one point, why I think he’s incredibly sexy and why does he turn me on so.  I don’t know.  There are things about him, his body, that, ordinarily, I would not find a turn-on and yet, here he is and every single part of him is so sexy.  Even his feet, which I think are beautiful!  I find myself looking at him and wanting him – all the time.  I sit and chat to him as he has a bath, concentrating on the chat to hide the fact that I just want to look at him.

After dinner he does his Farmville thing.  He sits on the chair with his legs crossed under him, without socks.  I sit next to him and stroke his feet.  I have never had any sort of foot fetish but, with him, I think I could!

I go home later to walk the dogs and come back just after 9.  We go to bed early as we are getting up at 5.30 – I’m taking them to the airport.

Neither of us can sleep.  Not because we aren’t tired.  We talk a little.  I tell him that I get paranoid when I’m not with him (about the lack of things in common) and I worry about that because this will be the longest time we’ve been apart.  I tell him that I know it is stupid and he agrees and says there is so much we can learn from each other.  And I know that is true, still, I think he’s starting to understand me and he is more affectionate than normal.  He tells me of the things going on in his head – the reasons he can’t sleep – work, the new flat, the lack of time to do everything.  I tell him not to worry and that everything will be OK and I will help him if he asks and that, at the very worst, he can stay at mine if everything is not ready.  He knows that and says so and says thanks and means it.  And we talk a little more about his actual work and why this trip is important both for him and the company.  And I have a better understanding of why he is where he is within the company.  He had said over the weekend that he will be introducing me to the big boss as his new boyfriend – and I think that he is proud to do so.  And that makes me happy.

He is having the test soon and is worried about that.  I ask him if he wants me to have the test too.  He doesn’t really say but I know that he does.  I tell him that I will do it.  I know it will make him happy.  He asks when I last had the test and I tell him that it was about 22 years ago.  He is shocked but I explain that there was no need.  I was only with V.  He asks if I wasn’t worried that V was with someone else and I said that no, I wasn’t.  And that was true.  at least it was true for the most of it.  Still, I know it will make him happy and he says it would make a big difference (and you can work that out for yourselves).

The Chinese people next door don’t help.

This morning, he says we’ll just have 5 minutes of cuddling before getting up.  Then another five minutes.  Then we get up.

He says he is so appreciative of me taking him to the airport.  I explain that it means extra time with him.  He doesn’t seem to get it – every second with him is like some sort of bonus.  He has said that I should not come and pick him up but agrees to it as I leave them at the airport.

And so, I shall pick him up on Saturday and be glad to do so.

And, in the space of the weekend, he has become even more demonstrably affectionate, as if he is understanding that I am true.  And, even if there is so much more to discuss, at least, last night, we have made a start.