20 years = 20 seconds for the gays?

20 years = 20 seconds for the gays?

‘Of course, that’s the thing with gay relationships, they don’t last so long’

Said to me today when I confirmed that V & I were no longer together. I don’t know but 10 years (with M) followed by 20 years (with V) seem fairly long and, certainly, much, much longer than quite a lot of straight relationships I have known. I realise it’s not quite forever but I do wonder what the hell goes through some people’s head when they say this kind of crap to me.

Anyway, it’s not the length of time but the quality of time.

But it does get me a little irritated when people say things without thinking.

Typical bloody stereotyping again. One expects better from people that reckon to know me.

It’s much worse than the expectation that A seemed to have that now V & I are over ‘were you thinking about a woman this time?’

Fucking A as N would say.

The thing on my finger

The_thing_on_my_finger

Finally it burst, just a few moments ago, whilst I wasn’t really paying attention, all the poisonous pus started to seep from the opening, from me.

I am grateful for that for this poisonous thing was and still is, ugly.

For days and days it went unnoticed by everyone, including me and then, yesterday it started gong quite crazy and I could see that it was going to ‘come to a head’. One could see the poison welling up, coming to the surface. It also hurt like hell.

And yet, it was only today, the day when, although at its ugliest, it was already mending itself, that people would ask me what had happened.

Even for the seepage, there is still quite a lot of poison there. It won’t be over today, nor tomorrow, nor, maybe, until next week. These things take time. However, I know it is over and I know the poison has been/is being ejected and it will all heal (I hope) and in a few weeks, at the most, it will look as it was before.

It was caused by a mosquito bite on my finger which, I guess, got infected and then poisonous and then, like a volcano.

And, as I sat there, watching this eruption of poison, I thought how like real life it is, except that I was my own mosquito and my own infection. But I watched the poison leave me in the same way as I just did with the thing on my finger. This time it took someone else to force the poison to escape.

For which I am very thankful.

The Price of Coffee and Plastic People

The_Price_of_Coffee_and_Plastic_People

She is wearing a red dress today. She tells me that it is the first time she has bought a red dress as she ‘doesn’t wear red’. I say, without any feeling, that I think she looks nice. She thinks that makes me a gentleman, which it does not but I don’t correct her, even if I should.

It started with me looking at her fingernails. The new fad of having them half covered in sparkley bits is something she had succumbed to. After all, she likes to think of herself as ‘young and hip’.

She goes on to say that she is tired of this fad now and has told her manicurist that she won’t be doing it any more. She is going back to short nails with brown. I am not impressed. Brown?, I say in that disgusted voice. Well, Bordeaux, she say. OK, so red then, I reply.

That’s why we talked about the red dress.

She then starts telling me about some film she watched last night. She can’t remember the title. But she’s going to describe it anyway. Already, I can tell that I am going to be bored and what I really want is for her to stop.

It’s the price I pay for a ‘half coffee’, which thing I’ve never actually understood but it’s a ritual for her and I benefit by getting the half coffee.

The film stars Kim Bassinger. She starts to tell me the plot from the beginning. I wonder if the price for my half coffee is actually worth it. I want to go back to my desk. I feign surprise, interest, enjoyment, etc. I briefly wonder if she can actually tell the difference. Would she know the real thing if she came upon it and, anyway, if she did ‘get it’, would it scare her? Would it make her ‘real’? Would she become less ‘plastic’?

And I wonder if, by feigning the responses that she requires, I am becoming more plastic myself?

The price of coffee is expensive, I decide.

I send an email but don’t send a text

I_send_an_email_but_dont_send_a_text

I’m afraid the madness is still upon me. The kitchen is full of the smell of something – and, initially I can’t quite tell what, though the smell is familiar. And then I realise it is the melon I bought, just-in-case, for the dinner last night.

A colleague at work got me some Boursault cheese from France earlier this week. I had invited FfI and another friend (in fact, the one who first introduced us to FfI – FfC) for dinner but really to taste the cheese with some crispy baguette and good wine but we couldn’t seem to work it out and so, FfI and her friend who has a shop in Isola were to come round last night.

I got home and, after seeming to break the hoover, I went to make the Special Salad (that used to be made by my Father) which, I am told is called Cob Salad in the States, to find that the fridge seemed not to have been working well, if at all. Maybe the door wasn’t shut properly. I had to go and by more salad stuff as the stuff in the fridge, in one day, with the heat, had become mushy. During the day, FfI had also invited her other friend so there were to be four of us.

Buying new stuff meant that I was a little later than planned and, therefore, rushed. FfI is moving again. She has to. She cannot afford the current flat and has found another which, in my opinion, she will be able to unafford equally as much.

She phoned to say that she was on her way round with the Friend with the shop and some guy who was giving them a lift but would not be staying. She had had a meeting with her current landlord and it had taken longer than expected so they were bringing nothing other than themselves. I told her that we needed bread for the cheese as that was one of the things she had promised to bring but that I had wine.

It was all going to pot but I just didn’t care. I had posted a comment on a blog that I instantly regretted and sent an email to a friend that I also instantly regretted. The madness remains. I promise myself that I won’t do that anymore.

They arrive with some bread (though it is not quite right it will do). Everything is not quite right but it will do, suffice, be enough – but is never good enough to be good.

The guy is some estate agent (realtor) in Milan. He found the new flat for FfI who uses her womanly charms every chance she gets, since she is not unattractive for her age and, being who she is, is forward enough to use it well although I never cease to be amazed at how gullible these men are to fall for the ‘trick’. He is of average height, very slim and, kind of, weaselly. I don’t dislike him but I don’t like him either. I don’t know him, of course.

He is, it seems, shy and holds back. The other two are concerned that I am not happy. They are right, of course but although they are friends, I can tell them nothing. I tell them that I am fine, just a little tired (which is not exactly untrue). Everyone is always tired in Italy and so one can use it as an excuse at any time.

Since the Weasel is not staying and the kitchen table is laid up for four, I suggest we first have a drink in the lounge. We open the first bottle.

The Weasel is talking to the Friend with the shop. It’s all in Italian and I really can’t be bothered to try to understand. I think they are talking politics. It turns out later that, although he is not a big fan of Buzz Lightyear, he is anti-left. I decide that’s the problem everywhere, but particularly here. People aren’t for anything, only anti something. I would like to talk that through with someone but always feel out of my depth here, not really knowledgeable enough to have a serious discussion. Still, it’s my feeling.

We open the second bottle of wine. The Weasel will take just another, small glass, apparently.

FfI seems upbeat about the new flat and a new job. I always feel she is upbeat but, behind the facade, she isn’t. It’s always a facade and I wish it weren’t. It’s an American thing, I think. It’s like the ‘Have a nice day’ thing. Behind it there is nothing.

The other friend, who was coming but not eating (after I had prepared the salad too) arrives. At least she has a bottle of wine.

She is also American and Jewish and truly over-the-top but I like her for her honesty. She was the first (maybe, only) person who correctly guessed that V & I had split up even when we were still pretending and not having told anyone. And she is not really a close friend. I am amazed by her perspicacity and admire her for that and her honesty, even if she will never be a close friend.

I offer more wine and the Weasel will just have one more. It is getting late. FfI had said it would not be a late night. It is already gone nine. The Weasel is making no signs of movement out of here. I suggest, to someone, that, perhaps we should do the cheese anyway, thinking that, perhaps, the Weasel will take the hint.

I get the cheese and cut the bread and bring it into the lounge. Everyone seems to love it which is, kind of, galling since, although I wanted them to like it, I watch it disappear too quickly and, for a moment, wish I had never mentioned it and been alone and had been able to eat it all myself.

We finish the cheese. I offer more wine. The Weasel will just have a little more. He is getting drunk and seems to be slurring his words slightly but I can’t place his accent and maybe it’s that. I give up on the idea that he will be going. I explain that there are only four salads. FfI will share with someone, the someone is the A/J, over-the-top friend who keeps exclaiming that she shouldn’t be eating and especially cheese, as she should lose weight (which is true) but has done a damn fine job of gobbling the cheese anyway.

We go in the kitchen. I offer more wine. The Weasel will have just a little more. He had taken off his tie in the lounge, earlier. He had opened his shirt a button or two (it is hot) but I notice that he had opened it more and I look at his chest with some longing, for although he really isn’t my type, I know of the madness which I described in a much earlier post as me ‘being vulnerable’ which was stupid really as it’s me being unable to control this madness. I could jump him right now but I won’t, thank goodness.

We eat. FfI so likes the salad (or, maybe, having no money, ever, has not eaten for days, I don’t know) eats what remains of the Friend-with-the-shop’s salad as well. I eat it but it’s not as good as it should be, the oranges not being enough nor good enough – but it will do. I want them all to leave.< All the meat is eaten. More wine. Friend-with-the-shop's husband comes over. He is nice and I like him. He makes a fantastic deer sauce for pasta. I have said, in the past, that I would marry him for that, although I could not, of course. It's just one of those jokes - jokes you can do when you're not physically attracted to someone and, therefore, you can, kind of, flirt with them in safety. Like I can do with women. He has some wine too but only a little as he is driving. He is sensible and half the height of his wife and Italian and white (and she is black) and, together, they look......well......, I think you can guess. I offer what liqueurs I have. There is a little Sambuca, some Amaretto, and an unopened bottle of port - good port. Friend-with-the-shop, who is English, would like some port, the others wanting one of the others. I bring out the bottles and the shot glasses. I tell Friend-with-the-shop that this is nice port. Now everyone wants to try. The Weasel, has a glass. Then another, then another, then, after some consideration, just a little more. I wonder, as I look at him, if he will stay behind a little, after the others have gone and wonder if he has stayed so long, so far, because he fancies me rather than, the most likely reality, that he has stayed because of the women where he has misinterpreted their flirting, since he is the sometime boyfriend of a friend of the Friend-with-the-shop (I do hope you can keep up with this). I know I am in the middle of this madness and hope that it doesn't show and am grateful that, at least, I recognise it in myself and can, I hope, keep my bloody mouth shut and not say anything I will regret in the morning. Whilst we were sitting at the table, during the port, the subject came up about the 'gayness of Italian men'. The Weasel explains that this is true but only of men from the south, Northern Italian men are not like this. I realise he is annoyingly stupid and racist and right-wing and hate him for that whilst his open shirt and the fact that he doesn't speak English means that, in bed, it wouldn't matter one bit. I am annoyed by myself for this insanity and desperation, for my lack of control over my feelings, for knowing that, almost (but not quite) any man will do. And I know it's not the sex, per se, but, rather, the closeness that I desire (although for certain, the sex would be important for that is the ultimate closeness even if it would leave me unsatisfied for not being true closeness). We move back to the lounge and finish the port. It's now 2 a.m. and I tell FfI that everyone will have to go. I am not V and the time has come for me to go to bed. I toy with the idea of going to bed anyway and let them continue and let themselves out (except they could not lock up and, so, I don't do that). They leave at 2.30 ish. The Weasel is not staying after all, although he does look at the dirty dishes and starts to try to help clean up and I tell him no because I will do it in the morning and, so, they all leave. I hold his arm, for a moment as we're saying goodbye and wish I could hug him but, even as I think this, I know there is no magic, no sensation in this touch, no thrill like there would be would be with a lover or potential lover. But at least it's some physical connection with a man, with someone other than women. And, now, I should go to bed but I go to the computer and the friend has replied to the email and, with the madness upon me and the promise to myself about to be shattered (see, I can't even keep my own promises with this insanity), I reply even though my head, the logic side, says I should not and I am too drunk and too tired but I reply anyway and then, as if the madness has not gone far enough, I write a text message to try and explain the email reply, which I have already regretted as soon as I pressed send because I realise that English is such a crap language and that even as I write the words, which, because I say them as I write them, gives them meaning which, when written and read by someone else, with a different voice, with different inflection, different tones, different, different, different.......means that the meaning has gone and the meaning becomes something else and I hate that and want that to be different; and so I regret the words I have written but can't take them back, for the words I have written now seem far too much if read in a certain way, without a smile, without humour and, yet, I didn't want to put smiley faces all over the email and, so, they, the words will be read wrong, and that's why I've done this text and, at the last minute, I delete it and I will, at least, be so grateful that I did when I get up in the morning because writing more words to explain the words before will not explain the words before because they are words that will be read in a different way to the way they were intended to be read because the previous words have already set the pattern. So, I will be grateful tomorrow that I didn't make the situation even more shitty. This much I know. And it is morning (but too late to do the things I intended) and the madness has gone and now my mind has to deal with the madness of yesterday and trawl through it trying to make more sense and being so grateful for not making a play for the Weasel and so much more grateful for not sending my friend the text even if I so want to explain properly, but with the voice, which, you know, if you read my stuff, is more important than anything, since I can put the real meaning to the words. And the dogs want to go out but I just want to stay in the flat, with the shutters closed, with just me, without having to have human interaction, for fear of the madness and losing control completely but also because it means putting on a show that I don't want to do. So we go out but we don't go to the park and I take the quieter streets so as to see as few people as possible, just in case someone should know me or, anyway, want to talk, or strike up conversation at which point I would pretend not to understand Italian at all but always with the danger, here, that they would speak English or be English and want that conversation anyway.

I am lucky. There is no one who wants the conversation and we do not go to the normal café or even past it as the dogs know it and always try to go to sit at a table and we arrive home.

There is a text from FfI. She enjoyed it last night and the salad and that the Weasel thought I was nice (but not nice enough to go to bed with although that too I would have regretted this morning in the same way I have with the stupid emails, the near text and all the other things I do with this madness upon me). I have been here before, 20 odd years ago.

And, I wonder, was last night just punishment from her to me for the fact that I didn’t text her or come round or help her with the problems of the unaffordability of the current flat or just to ‘get back at me’? And I find that I really don’t care, even if I now need to get more wine and more port and more stuff. After all, that is just stuff.

And, so, I said I wouldn’t write more posts but that was the sanity talking, which only happens in the morning before I have had the hours to think, which I must find a way to stop before I do some real damage. And so I write yet another rambling post to try and pour out my feelings – not even to be read, really, just to try and get the bloody things out of my head as if, by writing them they will disappear, which they do in a way but not enough and this time it simply will not do.

And I realise that I must talk to someone about this. And there is one person I want to talk to about this, as if this person can straighten me out (so to speak) but that can’t happen and so, unwillingly but desperately, I text Best Mate, who can’t talk right now but does, at least, recognise that something is wrong and phones me and I explain that I’m crazy and that I must talk and she say she will be back later and will be over in August anyway and I laugh and explain that I really don’t think I can wait until August ‘cos that’s weeks away and the madness is now and increasing and that I’m sorry to put this burden on her but I have no one else and she understands (or says she does) and I believe her because I think I can hear it in her voice because, after all, the tone and the way the words are spoken actually really express it all.

And we agree to Skype later.

And so, because the madness is abated at the moment I will not post this straight away but will hold it ready and, maybe, after the conversation with Best Mate will not post it, or maybe I will and then delete it later or not. But I feel I should post it because this blog has become some sort of place where I try to………no, I don’t know what I’m trying to do anymore.

It will do.

Some things

Some_things

I stand in the middle of the car park, my cigarette in my left hand, my eyes closed and facing left and upwards, towards the sun. I have to do it now, at 10, before it gets too hot to be able to do it. The warmth is so nice, filling my body, making me feel happier. I could go to sleep.

Talking of which, I’m sorry that the post below is protected. You will have to email me if you want to see it because it is, ahem, not my usual style of writing and I don’t really want anyone reading it except those people who really want to, knowing the subject and style and all.

I am angry with myself for putting on the tie that, a couple of days ago, I managed to splash with tomato sauce, at lunch time and although I used the special cleaning spray-on stuff they have here, in Italy, it has left a kind of water mark (though it’s not water).

>I wonder why I still wear a tie? I conclude that it’s some sort of hang-up I have. It’s like those of extreme religious belief who do a bit of self-flagellation. I wear a tie only at work; it’s a punishment to myself by myself for being stupid enough to be in this situation of working. It doesn’t hurt me but it reminds me that, whilst I have the tie on, I must suffer the degradation of working, and for what?

I wonder if I got that particular hang-up from my parents or is it just my screwed-up brain that deigns it should be so? I think of one of my other hang-ups. I’m pretty certain I got that one from my mother. I don’t exactly blame them but I wish that I could expunge them, clear my mind of these things that are not important but are so ingrained that I care and I hate the fact that I care – and they’re really just my hang-ups.

>And, I don’t know why, but a little earlier, I thought, briefly of my childhood and I thought:
I was unhappy all the time.

And, then I thought:
But that cannot have been so.< >So I tried to think of a time when I was, really happy.

And, I could not. I mean, there were some times – but only when I was on my own.

Maybe that’s where all my hang-ups come from and why I am less sociable than I should be or why being sociable is such bloody hard work?

A couple of nights in Milan, anyone? Only a couple of strings attached!

A_couple_of_nights_in_Milan_anyone__Only_a_couple_of_strings_attached

I have to go away to another Northern country.  I really didn’t come to Italy to be travelling outside all the time (OK, it’s not true but right now that’s how it feels).

V moves out on Saturday.  This is good – but, of course, it does mean that there is no one to take the boys whilst I am away!  Damn!

I immediately thought of the kennels.  I rang the shop to see what time they open.  10.30 a.m.  Hmm, no way to make Malpensa airport in about 5 minutes so no good at all.

V did offer to have the key to the flat but I’m really not keen on letting him have the run of the place.  It’s my place and I want it to stay that way.  If he comes here (without me being here) then, somehow, that makes it different – at least, in my head!

FfI offered the other day, so I might try her, tomorrow. Else there are a couple of other people or I could get someone to take them to the kennels on Monday night and I pick them up Wednesday morning.

Or, of course, you could come and stay here.  Near the heart of downtown Milan.  Beautiful (if unfinished) flat in a wonderful street!  Sounds tempting, eh?

The strings are a) you have to look after the dogs and b) you must be here by about 8 a.m. on Monday morning!

I’m waiting………(hopefully)……….

My trip to the Northern Lands

Unexpectedly (even for them) the weather was gorgeous – even better than Milan and less humid.

We even got chance to wander about the capital city and, being as it was so much further north, we marvelled at the daylight extending into the night (although I didn’t marvel at the bloody dawn starting so much earlier).

This picture is of, what we think was, the Cathedral.  My picture doesn’t do it justice but the tower of wrought iron (I guess) was quite fabulous.

Possibly_cathedral_in_Stockholm_about_10_at_night

We ate in a restaurant called Mårten Trotzig where I had fish roe with a wonderful slice of warm cheese pie to start and followed that with Reindeer with a sauce which, to me, was really like a redcurrant sauce.  It was really good food and well cooked.  A delight.

A nice red wine would have been perfect but I was with one colleague and one of the customer’s representatives – so we had beer.  Don’t get me wrong, I love beer and I like to taste different ones but, when I’m having a meal (unless it’s a pizza) there’s nothing to beat a glass (or bottle or two) of good wine.

The price, though, was astronomical.  For the same money I could have eaten in one of the better restaurants in Milan and had wine, water and more food.  Still, I won’t be unhappy to go back there again, if I have to.  Of course, the weather is not normally better than Milan!  However, next time, for certain, I will get a hotel in the centre, preferring to travel to the customer rather than be on the customer’s doorstep but having to travel into the city.

Nice_building_in_Stockholm_about_10_at_night

I don’t know what this building was but it was taken a few minutes after the other one – it was after 10 p.m.!  It should be noted that my phone (see post below) is not really that good for pictures and they seem a little dark.  It was not as dark in real life as it seems in the photos, sorry.

Not really missing the BBC; It must be summer; Looking forward to the weekend (almost)!

Not_really_missing_the_BBC_It_must_be_summer_Looking_forward_to_the_weekend_almost

Further to my post, I’m pleased to say that weaning off the BBC is a little easier than I would have thought. I always did enjoy the Guardian and now that I’ve had the chance to explore the website a little more, I am decidedly liking it.

I also like being able to comment on pieces, unlike the BBC which just had the “Have Your Say” which, quite frankly, was not really very good.

Just like in the UK, people here complain about the weather – often. At the moment we are getting above 30 degrees in the afternoon and they are complaining that it is too hot and too humid. Certainly, as we are in a city, the humidity is worse (but nowhere near as bad as in the UK) but really, it’s not so bad.

Well, at least, there’s one person in Milan who is thoroughly enjoying this hot weather!

And, I have to ‘fess up. I don’t like travelling for work any more (or, really, travelling at all); I don’t like Paris; I don’t like working weekends and I don’t like shows (even less if I am working the stand). But….. I am almost looking forward to this weekend when I shall be in Paris.

Don’t know why, really. Possibly because I will be able to have some really good food? Or a nice bottle of wine? Or get some of the cheese (Boursault – and I shall have to get some for V who is looking after the boys) that I really like? Or, the chance that I will be able to do some reading during the boring bits (which is likely to be most of it, I think).

On the plus side, I go to the airport directly from home (about 10 minutes by taxi) and from the airport, directly to the hotel. So I only have to put up with the ‘show’ for two days. Then Monday is an all-day job driving back. There will have to be frequent stops for cigarettes, for certain, as I shall be with a colleague.

But, still I’m not quite sure why I am almost looking forward to it. Very strange.

Things we never did

Things_we_never_did

We were, after all, very different people. That’s what made us good together. We offered different things to each other and to other people.

But, yesterday, I was reminded of the things we never (or rarely) did together. Of course, these were things that I liked to do but, for one reason or another, I usually did on my own. I suspect V has a similar list (and I can think of one thing already).

I suppose the positive side to this is that, as I usually did them on my own, nothing has changed. But, before, I always had the hope that “this time would be different” and that he would be there. Now I don’t have that and I find it quite sad. Not in a depressed way just in a “what a shame” way.