Category Archives: Experiences

Is it time? Or, rather, is it even necessary?

Posted on by
Reply

Everyone wants to ‘fit in'; to be accepted by the people around them.

Me too, to some degree. Our friends are people who accept us as we are, warts and all. If they don’t, then they don’t, usually, stay friends which is fair enough.

So what things are important? after all, not everything everyone else thinks of as ‘fitting in’ suits me. For me, I just want to be left alone. As long as I’m not harming other people, why not?

So, I want a place to live that’s warm (at least in winter). I want to spend time with friends. I need to work, not only to earn money but also for the other benefits that working with others brings. I want my dogs and to be able to walk them and feed them whilst, at the same time, respecting other people who aren’t so keen on dogs. I want to go out to restaurants from time to time, or a pub or bar. I have to eat – even if not in a restaurant. I need clothes – they don’t have to be designer labels but it’s nice when they are. I want to be able to see different places, different people. I want to be able to live my life in the way that I want and in peace from other people. I want enough money to live my life comfortably but it doesn’t need to be over the top.

What I don’t expect is that everyone else will want what I want nor that they will, necessarily, agree with my choice of life. That’s OK as long as it doesn’t affect me and I’m not harming them, then what’s the problem?

Well, the problem comes when there’s a bit of trouble.

For example: if F were to go into hospital, me, not being a blood relative, would have no say in anything. In theory, I would not even have the right to visit him. Nor, if the situation were reversed, he me.

If I die, he does not automatically get everything I own.

I can only imagine the results of those things. Luckily they have not happened as yet.

And, the same was true when I was with V.

So, in one way, as the video below says, it’s time. And yet, there are advantages to having the life I have. Nothing in my life HAS to conform to the norms of society at large, if I don’t choose it. I am not locked into any stereotypical roles in my life except those that I choose to adopt (although there are, probably, quite a lot of people who would pigeon-hole me anyway).

I like being a bit different. I like ‘not quite fitting in’ It’s now doubly so since I am English and living in Milan. So, I have two ‘edges’ that, for me, make my life more interesting. Certainly not making it boring.

If we had all of the rights that other people have, maybe we would no longer be different and maybe we would have to conform more. I’m not sure that I really want that. So, maybe it’s not really time. Maybe it will never be time? Perhaps this is not really what we all want?

After all, marriage is two people living together through thick and thin ………….. until you divorce. And the real difference between that and, erm, being together? – well, for me, it’s not actually different. It’s only really different if you believe in the God thing and because you have a piece of paper to say you are married. And society’s view of you which is important to some people.

Anyway, this was the video that was posted on a (straight) friend’s Facebook page:

I did the right thing! Rufus.

Posted on by
2

“What do you think about having a tree this year?”, I asked.

“Yes, why not”

“Good because I bought one today”

“Is it real?”

“Yes, of course”

“I have balls – red ones, to put on”. He means baubles, of course.

When we got home, I showed him the tree and we discussed where to put it. It was the right decision after all. I suggested we decorate it during the long weekend. He agreed. More importantly, he is already thinking of how it should be decorated. I am very happy about that.

This morning, he took Rufus to the vets. He is having the big lump removed from his back. To be honest, I wouldn’t do it but for the fact that a) it is very, very big and b) it never stops bleeding. The one on his neck seems to be fixed by using the new cream, so that’s good.

I pick Rufus up tonight. After I have (with any luck) got the revisione done. I’m certain, of course, that it won’t be straightforward at all but one has to hope. It will be the second visit to the revisione centre so one can only hope that my ‘minimum of two visits to do anything here’ will replace ‘minimum’ with ‘only’.

Wish me luck. And Rufus, of course.

Love and hate. Is it really the same thing?

Posted on by
Reply

It has been said to me on more than one occasion that it takes about 7 years for an ex-pat, living in Italy, to come to terms with Italy or move away.

I have been here 6.

I have one more year to go.

And then I could be leaving.

Although, after the last two days, I won’t need the next 6 months or so.

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE Italy. I also hate it. It’s not the country, as such, nor the people (well, except for a few – as anywhere else in the world). No, it’s the crazy bureaucracy and ‘job’s worth’ mentality.

Just over a year ago I bought a car. I bought it from a garage that sold second-hand cars. I realised I was paying over the odds but I got a zero-kilometre car (therefore, almost brand new) for much less cost than a new one. (Although I deeply regret not choosing either a SEAT or a Ford and, instead, lumbering myself with the ugly duckling that is the Fiat Ypsilon).

The advantage, thought I, with buying from a garage is not only the fact that everything will be done properly but I will also have some sort of guarantee – plus (and this is a big plus), they will fix all the paperwork which, because I don’t have an Identity Card, is a nightmare to do yourself.

The car, however, celebrated its fourth birthday (officially) yesterday.

It’s fourth birthday is important because at four years, you are required to take it to have a revisione. A revisione is like the MoT Test in the UK.

I’m not worried it will fail since, although it is four years old, it has only been driven round for less than 18 months, so it should be fine.

Apparently, I could do this revisione at any time during the month of its birth.

I was a little concerned that the tyres would be a bit worn. However, it needed to have the winter tyres put on and they would be fine since they had been used for less than 6 months and very few kilometres. So, I booked to have the tyres change. Unfortunately, that could only be done last Saturday. No problem though as I then had three days to fit in the revisione.

With Pietro’s help, there is a place nearby that does not require an appointment. And there’s not time like doing it now and so, yesterday afternoon, I took time off work to go and do this thing.

I have a theory about Italy. When you have to do something that requires official paperwork, you will have to visit an office more than once and normally three times.

I go to this place. I give the receptionist my logbook. There is a problem, apparently. It seems that the ‘use’ for the vehicle was not a normal private car. They cannot do the revisione until the ‘use’ has been changed on the logbook. Hmmmm.

Pietro is called. No problem – he finds me the nearest ACI (Automobile Club of Italy) office, where things like this are done with a wave of the wand.

Unfortunately, this office had lost their wand.

They could do it but I wouldn’t get the logbook corrected for about 2 weeks. And it will cost me €70! But, please note, it COULD be done – it was just a matter of time. I can’t wait, of course. The car will be ‘illegal’ by Thursday morning. It seems the only way to do this was to go to the equivalent of the DVLA. They might be able to issue the corrected logbook immediately. The woman seems fairly certain they could.

So, that’s the end of Day 1 in the saga. there is nothing to do but go home and, rather than go to work, go off to the west side of Milan, in the outskirts (the opposite side of town from my house), and get this thing done.

My plan then was that, armed with the new logbook (which would surely take no more than an hour and a half), I would go straight to the revisione centre and do that. Then to work.

As you may know, I’m always looking for the positives. In this case, the positive was that I would get up three quarters of an hour later than usual – 6.15 instead of 5.45!

I was a bit later than I had wanted to be this morning since Rufus had sprayed shit around the flat overnight. Poor thing. I’m wondering if the operation tomorrow morning is really worth it?

Anyway, I use the metro. Better than trying to take the car across Milan. I’ve never actually travelled at rush hour in Milan. It’s a nightmare. The platform was about 5 people deep. I ‘missed’ two trains until I could fit into one.

I get off and find my way to the DVLA place. I’m not sure where to go but take a guess. It seems right. I wait in a queue for the desk labelled ‘Information’. She has a coat and scarf. We are inside. I check other people in their office. some are wearing coats and most are not. No one is dressed as if they are outside (which is cold), except her. I show her the documents.

Apparently it can’t be done. Either the garage that sold me the car has the required notification or I need to do a statement at a police station (yes, I know – but here nearly everything requires a statement from a police station) to say that the notification of change of use had been lost and then I could come back there for a new/updated logbook.

I speak to Pietro. Pietro seems to think I should speak to the garage. I’m thinking it will be easier (and quicker) to get do a statement at a police station. I know that Pietro is probably right but, still ……..

Pietro calls the garage for me. He says they are checking. In the meantime I ask someone if there is a police station nearby. I walk to the police station.

It is very cold out here, far from the centre of Milan. I think, again, that I could never live somewhere like this. 15-story apartment blocks – the place has no ‘soul’. No restaurants, no bars, no shops to speak of. It’s like living in a town with nothing around. So, like living in the country but without the countryside. I’m sure I would die here. Or, at least, my soul would. I think that if I had to come here, I would seriously consider relocating back to the UK.

I find a bench. There are several benches arranged around a sort of pedestrian piazza. But it is soulless in that there is nothing there, in the centre. The benches are wet with melted frost. I go to the one that has been in the sun the longest. It is drier that the others although not completely dry. I sit anyway, my coat protecting me from the worst of the water. I wait for Pietro’s call. I see my phone has not much battery left. Typical!

An old man walks into the ‘piazza’. He carries a small plastic carrier bag with something in. He checks some of the benches and tries the water with his finger as if he doesn’t really believe it’s water. Maybe he things it is just shiny? He now knows that it is water. He looks at another bench and sees it’s the same. He ambles away. This would be worse, I think. To be retired in a place like this. To be in a soulless place while your life ebbs away. Dreadful.

Don’t get me wrong, it has lots of trees and space. But there aren’t that many people, certainly not walking around. The buildings are uniformly hideously boring. There is no prettiness in this place, in spite of the trees and the space. This is a place for sleeping. For hibernation. So depressing.

Pietro calls. Apparently, the garage are going to get me an updated logbook by tomorrow, if I go to them with this one. Oh well, on the bright side, I won’t have to pay €70 (I can’t bring myself to say ‘save’ since, two days ago, this wasn’t in the budget in the first place!).

I go back to the metro station and get on a train.

As I walk from my metro station home, I pass the Tuesday market. I decide that I will get a new ironing board cover. Also, there is a place selling Christmas trees. I get one. It costs €25. It’s probably going to be slightly too big but it will be OK. I’m hoping that it’ll be a nice surprise for F.

I go back to the flat and give my cleaning lady the new ironing board cover. It won’t fit – but I’ll make it fit, I just don’t have the time right now.

I put the tree on the balcony.

I go to the garage. This is far to the north of Milan. I know the way, more or less. I hope I will get there before 12 noon. I am worried they will close and then what shall I do? Already I’m taking more time off work than I would like.

There are some major road works which closes off the road I know. I am sent on a detour and, as usual, the detour signs stop suddenly. I pick a road. Eventually, I end up on the right road, more or less and get to the garage at a quarter to twelve.

I go in.

The woman takes the logbook and gets me to sign something. I don’t know what it was and don’t really care. She faxes off the logbook to their ‘agency’ that deals with registrations of cars, etc.

After about 5 minutes, the woman from the agency phones. Yes, we are fully aware that there has to be a revisione done by tomorrow night. That’s why I’m here and that’s why we need an authority for me to drive without the logbook and why we need the logbook back tomorrow – so I can do the revisione.

We wait.

Eventually, the permission comes through the email and the woman prints a copy for me.

Tommorrow, at 3.30, I go to the garage again to get the new logbook, then race back to the revisione centre to have the revisione done. There had better be no problems!

If only I could believe that, after traipsing here and there across Milan and outside of it, there would be no problems, I would be happy and relaxed. I don’t so I’m not.

I have used the words ‘fucking’, ‘bastard’, ‘bloody’ and ‘Italy’ in the same sentence many times today. At least to myself.

I may update and change this post tomorrow. Running out of time. Sorry.

I just seem to be having a bad day – my visit to the post office; Christmas stamps

Posted on by
1

Dunno just not a good look this morning

You know. Sometimes you just get those days.

I saw the picture and, apart from the hair, it reminded me of the post office worker on Saturday.

I have to say that I really do hate going to the post office. As soon as I found out that I could pay bills via the tobacconist, it cut down my need to go to the post office to almost zero.

However, when you send parcels, it is impossible to avoid them (although I might try something different next time).

And so it was that the birthday present for Best Mate needed to be posted. I found an old jiffy bag and popped everything in it. I sealed it up very well and put the label on. And, Saturday morning, as I was already up early (the car tyres were being changed plus I needed to go to the vets with Rufus), I walked down to the post office.

They used to have a ticketing system – a bit like they have in the supermarkets for the deli counter – but that is gone now. Instead we have a system remarkably like the one in the UK. People queue. This wasn’t how it used to be but it seems to work now.

So I queued for the postal counters. Obviously, there were a lot of people queuing but it was OK – I had time. I got to the counter. The woman behind the counter looked a lot like the picture.

Now, as you know, being English, sometimes it is better to not speak Italian. Sometimes (but not always), I get away with things that I wouldn’t if I spoke Italian.

She tells me that I can’t send it like that.
I ask why not.
She tells me that a) the package is broken (which it isn’t but it does have a strip of something on it and so it’s not perfect) and b) that it’s dirty. By dirty she meant that the package had printing on it. In particular, the bar code used by shops in the UK to process the sale of the jiffy bag. Apparently, from what I could make out, the other post office workers wouldn’t be able to understand that this was part of the envelope and not a bar code they are supposed to use for tracking or sending the parcel!

Although, at that point I nearly laughed (based on the fact that I do find it hard to believe that their postal workers are quite so stupid), I didn’t. Instead I feigned stupidity and ignorance and not being able to understand much of the language. I argued (in my best English) for a bit and also tried the ‘I don’t know what you are saying’ face with silence and just waiting. Sometimes that works a treat. This time, although she got a bit frustrated, she cheated rather than give in to my intransigence.

Ah well, it was worth a try. After about 10 minutes, she managed to find someone else in the ever-increasing queue who translated for me. Apparently, I would just have to go round the corner to purchase a ‘new’ envelope and then I could come back but would not have to wait in the queue.

I went to the shop. I found a bag big enough and paid an extra €1.80. The bag was useless – too thin, not enough padding – were it not for the fact that I just slid my jiffy bag inside.

Then I went back. Of course, having started this pretence of not really understanding Italian, one must keep it up. It’s no good at that point, suddenly spouting Italian like you can really speak it (albeit with a terrible accent).

She wanted to know how it was to go. I said, in my best English ‘to sign for’, miming the signature bit.

I asked, in faltering and badly pronounced Italian, ‘When?’. She said Wednesday or Thursday.

On another postal note, I am almost at the stage of writing Christmas cards. I have ordered stamps, as every year. This is from a colleague who’s mother works in the central post office in Milan. The problem this year is that it seems there are no Christmas stamps!

Having checked previous years, on the post office website, the Christmas stamps are available from about October. This year, there is no issue of Christmas stamps or, at least, no Christmas stamps issue date showing. This is more than a little disappointing. V (the colleague) still thinks there might be some but I have my doubts. We shall see. Such a shame, though, if they aren’t doing them this year. Some, in the past, have been rather lovely.

A pin in the neck.

Posted on by
2

It’s new.

Well, it’s been in my wardrobe for a few weeks, maybe months but, yesterday, as there were customers and I was wearing a suit, I wore it because I hadn’t worn it before now and it’s a nice shirt. F had got it for me so it was one of the designer ones. It was nice too, and comfortable and slightly ‘green’ so that caused me a bit of a problem since I didn’t really have a green tie. So I wore a blue and grey striped one. Of course. Especially since I was wearing a brownish suit. It all fitted together perfectly. I work on the basis that if the colours don’t match then you might as well go for contrasts. Hah!

I got up early, as is normal, since F was going out of Milan and, therefore, for him, getting up early – about 2 (nearly 3) hours later than me.

So I walked Rufus and Dino. Rufus now is so slow that it can’t really be called ‘a walk’ but more of ‘a saunter’. Hence I now get up five minutes earlier to (try to) give him enough time to pooh outside rather than inside. Not that it actually works so I don’t know why I bother. I think the only solution to that is to get up at 5 and have at least one hour’s sauntering.

So, I get home and get ready and put on my new greenish striped shirt. It’s nice. It’s been washed, obviously. And ironed (by my new super-cleaning lady).

I go to work. I am a little early since the customers want to be here earlier than I would like. It’s OK. They go away today.

We continue our meeting from the day before. There are a load of pictures they have taken and changes that they want done. To be honest, I fucking hate them and their pickiness even if, sometimes, they are right.

We move, later in the morning to the shop floor to view the part and the changes they want.

My shirt is feeling less comfortable now. It’s the collar, It’s a bit like it’s rubbing which is strange because it’s not too small with plenty of room but there is something. Of course, I don’t actually think about that too much, I just rub my finger round the collar, pulling it away from my neck.

It doesn’t make much difference. It’s not at all painful – just slightly uncomfortable.

The discussions on the shop floor continue. I wish there was a way to tell them ‘No – we’re not doing it’. I’ve been searching for that. But I know it won’t happen, really.

My shirt collar is still a pain in the neck, so to speak.

Again, I rub around the collar.

And, this time I find out why it is a pain in the neck.

It should be, quite literally, a pain in the neck since it still has one of the pins in it – the one that they put near the top button on new shirts. It is sticking out of the shirt straight into my neck. It IS a pin in the neck.

I worry about two things:

1. How can I get this out of the shirt without attracting attention and
2. Does this mean that there is blood all over the shirt.

On point 2, I can’t really do much. Point 1 has my full attention. Since, apart from potentially stopping any more of point 2, it has the added advantage of potentially making the collar less uncomfortable.

Sometimes these pins are difficult to take out having been inserted in the thick part of the area near the button.

As it is, once I have the right end of the pin (now I may have blood on my finger!), luckily, it is an easy pull and it is out.

Now I have point 3 to worry about.

Point 3. Where to put the pin.

I think about putting it in my pocket but:

a) the outside pockets of the jacket are sewn up (it helps the suit to retain it’s shape),
b) the inside pockets of the jacket are not really an option as the pin would be difficult to retrieve later and,
c) the pockets of my trousers are not really an option since the pin, sticking through my pockets and into my legs would be worse and I use those pockets to put my hands in so they might also get lacerated at some point during the day when I had forgotten about the pin I had placed in them.

I have to find a bin.

I find a bin.

I casually (when no one is looking) drop it into the bin.

My pin in the neck has gone.

Later I see there is no bloody mess on my shirt.

Today (for this was yesterday), as I write this, I keep fingering my collar as if this shirt has the same problem. Also, as I write this, I wonder how I missed it when I took the shirt out of its packaging and think that I am sure I checked. Perhaps there were two pins? Having found one and taken it out it wouldn’t have crossed my mind to look for another. I also wonder how my super-cleaning lady could have missed it when ironing the shirt!

Stepping back in time………….

Posted on by
2

You’ve seen the films. Usually American, depicting the High School Prom. The dancing, the essential glitter ball, the live band. Particularly from the 50s or 60s.

The strings of lights from the roof. Maybe, if it’s a dedicated ballroom, it has mirrors round every wall. If it does a dinner dance, the tables are arranged, length outwards from the longest two walls, leaving the central part as the dance floor.

You sit at the tables. Maybe you drink some wine. You have the first course and the band starts playing. Between courses, rather than going out for a cigarette, people start dancing. The cha-cha-cha, waltz, tango, etc., etc.

In those days, this WAS the Saturday night out. Couples went to enjoy time with their friends, eat and dance. All for a very reasonable price.

_______________________________________________________________________________

We have the address. An’s birthday was that day. She had been persuaded by her colleague (whose birthday it was last week), known to us as the Lesbico since she is lesbian, to join her birthday party.

An had an address. It was a street I have walked down so many times and yet, I could not remember any restaurant being there. We met up at An’s flat for a glass of prosecco and walked, together, to the place.

‘It’s a bit trashy but it should be super fun’, she told us. ‘The food is super good’, she added.

It was next door to the police station. ‘It can’t be here’, she said when we got to 2A. ‘But this is 2A’, I said remembering that there was a place offering dancing lessons. Yes, it was here alright. We walk down the steps, following the signs for the entrance.

We walk down some underground corridors. Quite wide, lined with that pale, fake-wood boarding. It was very well lit but strange. We turned left and then right and then left again, going through several sets of doors that had been opened.

We arrived at a bar. It had a few people sitting around. There were no windows but still very bright. But the ‘entrance’ was through the bar. I wondered what type of restaurant this could be.

We walked up a few steps.

We were on a fairly narrow balcony. The balcony had a railing over which was a …. ballroom. You could check your coats in for 50 cents. We walked along the balcony and down some stairs. It felt like we were a long way below ground – but that was probably not the case.

The room was a big rectangle. Round three sides were mirrors so the place did not have a claustrophobic atmosphere. What looked like trestle tables (but with table cloths so I couldn’t say they were) to seat 10 people (or 12 if there were people sitting at the heads of the tables) were arranged along the long-side walls, lengthways out from the wall. This still left a huge area in the centre. They had a small table in the centre on which there was a selection of salumi and some parmesan and a couple of buckets holding ice and wine. And plastic cups!

It struck me that this was similar to the Feste delle Unita things I’ve been to in those country places. This was not something I ever expected to find in the centre of Milan. It was like it was a volunteer thing and yet it most certainly wasn’t.

We all sat down at our tables. M (The Lesbico) had done the seating arangements for the five tables we had. All An’s friends were on one table with a couple of M’s friends to fill the table up – but, very kindly, M had arranged that these people spoke English. However, some of them had cancelled. It looked like there were the 5 of us plus another couple meaning there were four empty places. But these were filled later when people turned up to M’s party who weren’t on the list!

The other thing was that M had told all her friends that the women should wear dresses and the men, DJs. An had only found out that morning. M, we learnt, had also sent out special invitations.

There were probably towards 250 people all told. In the end we learnt that there were at least 3 birthday parties being hosted plus, along the one wall, people who really knew the ropes and seemed to come there often (I’ll explain later).

Just after we sat down, the band were introduced and started playing. They were a good band. Not a group to go and see in concert but tight and well-rehearsed.

There were bottles of wine and water on the tables. They started to deliver the antipasto which was a kind of vegetable lasagne. Not bad. Whilst we were eating that, they cleared the table from the centre. Then people started to get up and dance.

The staff were efficient. After the antipasto was risotto. It was OK (me, not being a big fan of risotto) but a lot of people didn’t really like it. Finally the main course, which was a veal casserole with polenta.

As it was An’s birthday, she had bought a strawberry gateau and that was our sweet.

And, for entertainment there was, of course, the dancing. We were struck by how good some of the dancing was. As we discussed, soon this type of thing will die out since most people of my age and younger don’t know how to do this type of dancing. I have tried (and I’m sure I’ve blogged about it) but failed miserably. My feet just don’t seem to be able to function for this type of thing.

F did get up and dance with this rather strange looking woman – short, no neck, a smile as wide as her head, short, black dress and white pearls (or beads, anyway). She knew all the ‘formation’ dancing that went on and was on a table on the opposite side of the wall to us – which I think was ‘the wall for the regulars’. Fabulous! In fact, she only smiled when she danced with F.

We met a couple on our table who were going to get married next year, although they seemed to have a definite disagreement going on about the honeymoon.

Oh, yes, and there was a tombola (that’s the English tombola not the Italian one). In fact, the woman due to get married (who was Irish but has lived here since the late 90s) won the second price – and overnight bag!

The whole thing (without the tombola tickets) cost us €20 each and it was a great night – so much fun.

I think it wasn’t so much ‘trashy’ as ‘old fashioned’ but so weird to find in the heart of Milan. However, if you have a party to organise, it’s a fabulous idea. I would definitely consider it as it is really a hidden gem.

If you wanted to know, it’s called the Sala Venezia and is at Porta Venezia. The link I’ve put is to a blog that gives more details (in Italian).

Mist over Milan

Posted on by
2

Damn! I missed it.

By the time I remembered it was already 11.44.

Not that anything happened at 11.11. Still, it would have been nice to have noticed. Kind of.

This morning was much colder. There was a mist hanging over Milan as I took the dogs out this morning. It was almost as if Milan was asleep. We ‘owned’ the city – or, at least, the parts where we walked. We don’t see many people – if any at all – at that time in the morning.

And, although I hate the cold, when it’s misty or foggy or, even, snowing, it has a beauty about it that I can’t explain. Of course, the beauty is there only because I know that I’ll soon be in the house again; in the warmth. It wouldn’t be beautiful at all if I didn’t have that to look forward to.

It’s not freezing yet – that is to come. But it’s quite close.

Berlusconi is supposed to be resigning today. To make way for a technical government. Maybe, perhaps. Will that make everyone happy? I doubt it. Italy have had technical governments before now. The EU think they have what they want. They think that they can make Italy more ‘European’ but they’ll never be able to get Italy to lose its uniqueness – its underworld, its ‘in nero’, its patronage. It’s a daily thing here. It invades every day, every aspect of ordinary life. There are things I accept here that I would never accept in the UK. You can try to fight it all you like but it is (in my opinion) unlikely to change or be changed. If it were a minority of people who accept it like this then there would be a chance to change – but with the majority accepting it all – you can’t change that.

You could say it was education. But you can educate all you like – if the wheels work better with a little oil, taking the oil away won’t make it stop – you just find some more oil.

And, anyway, from a few days ago when everyone thought they knew what they wanted we are in now where the things that people want are different than before and different for different people. And, anyway again, the problem is really so deep-seated that we have to crush everything and start from scratch. And no one will want to do that because it’s too scary; because we don’t know what will come in it’s place.

A bit like removing Berlusconi, really.

You replace one lot of shysters for another lot. It’s all the same. Nothing really changes. The mist still hangs over Milan; the dogs still need walking; the sun still shines …. or doesn’t – over which we have no real control.

At the end of it all, everyone wants something to change as long as it doesn’t mean they end up with nothing. But, not everyone can have more. For some to have more, others must have less.

From what I read, Obama has been giving a good talking to to the European leaders, telling them to get it sorted. This is from the leader of the nation that has actually caused this in the first place by allowing its people to run up huge debts that they cannot repay whilst they are chasing the ‘American dream’. More of an ‘American nightmare’ really.

But now I’m joining in with the finger pointing, which is what is happening right now. Articles about how it’s this country’s fault. Or that country. When, in reality it’s none of them individually but, rather, all of them. And the banks. And the greed. And the consumer society that says ‘MUST HAVE’ to every new thing whereas it should be ‘would like to have’. ‘Must have’ is for food. And shelter.

But all this crap that is happening now was perfectly predicted in The Sword of Achilles. Not the crisis, as such, but the changes. The changes necessary.

Just how long will it be and what will it take for people to say ‘basta’ (enough)?

Like the mist over Milan, it seems that most people have their heads in the fog and some are completely lost.

Racing to Italy

Posted on by
Reply

Before I was 14, we lived in rural Herefordshire. I went to a ‘posh’ school and, so, had ‘posh’ friends. Among those friends were farmers’ sons and the like. One of the things that was a favourite pastime was going to the point-to-points. These are like horse racing but over fields rather than at a race track. There are no stands and no real facilities (obviously, basic toilets and stuff – but in tents rather than fixed toilet blocks).

I used to love it. Even it it was illegal (which I’m sure it must have been), as kids we would go to the bookies and make bets on each race.

It was fun. It made the race fun – obviously, you wanted your horse to win. It taught us about money, weighing up odds, the form, etc., etc.

It was a game and, like all betting games, although you wanted to win, it was the thrill of the race that was the thing.

Most of life is like this. Certainly, recently, it seems as if the whole world is like this. Will they win? Will they lose? How much money can they make from a single bet?

So, the ‘markets’ (which are, in reality no different from us kids betting on horses) want to win. So far, they have forced Greece towards an implosion. And, now, after weeks of pressure on Italy (from the markets in the main) they appear to have got what they wanted. Mr B has said he will step down.

I, for one, don’t believe it is the end of him. He’s a bit of a shyster and I’m sure he’s biding his time before he says something like ‘See where that got you all? Now you need me back’.

And the markets have reacted in quite a predictable way. Since there is (I would think) a LOT of money which has been bet on Italy being the next country that needs a bail out (since you can bet on anything now), unsurprisingly, the markets have reacted negatively to the news that Mr B will resign. One could ask ‘What do you want?’ – but, of course, what they want is to make more money. Didn’t someone say that money was the root of all evil. Of course, if I won a few million, I would be different ;-)

To be honest, with or without him, this was almost invariably going to happen but they have given him a bit of a boost given that before he announced his resignation, the bond yields were below 7% and now they are above 7%. See where it got us?

Everyone may think of him as a bit of a buffoon but there is no one who can easily take his place (either left or right) and, in truth, the markets like strong government, not weak. The politicians here have successfully ensured Italy’s slide to a bail out, in my opinion.

But, overall, it may not be a bad thing. Maybe this time, things will change? Maybe this betting on failure will be stopped, for one? Maybe Europe, as a whole, will default? Maybe we’ll get something better than the current system?

Oh, well, one can always hope.

Crisis? Oh, yes, that old thing.

Posted on by
Reply

Apparently, we’re fucked.

Well, on the plus side, at least the Italians (around me) seem to be talking about things. It has always seemed as if ‘the crisis’ was happening elsewhere – some other country in the world.

But, rather than the crisis, per se, the talk is about Buzz Lightyear (Mr B) and how long he can hang on for and who will take over from him.

And there’s the rub. Because, as I’ve said before, there is no one. Neither the Left nor the Right have anyone who has any real hope of pulling parties together to form a government. Buzz, at least, has enough charisma to do so.

I read this on the BBC site.

However, it’s a little strange. After all, even if it is written by an ex-pat Italian, she writes that ‘the school’s walls are covered with graffiti”. Hmmm. Yes, of course they are. And they were before the crisis. It is ‘normal’ here. In the UK, people would be up in arms and the police would go and find the culprits. Here, in Italy, graffiti is on most buildings. It’s a cultural thing.

And, in the time I have been here, I have noticed that the Italians, in exactly the same way as the Brits, complain about the money being spent (or not spent) on schools and hospitals and how the service from both is much worse than a) it used to be and b) other countries (especially in Europe). For that matter, the same is said about public transport.

Anyway, my view is that Aunt Cristina has it spot on. When explaining why Buzz keeps getting voted in, she says:

“It’s not just the pensioners, you know,” she says, jabbing at the air with her fork. “It’s a macho thing. So many Italians think he’s all man.”

That and the fact that there is no one else who could be a possible leader.

My colleague at work suggests that the President (who has all the power of our Queen in the UK) will call for a Technical Government, here. A government that will be full of economists and the like and who won’t actually ‘govern’ as such but just concentrate on the fiscal side.

But they will have a tough job ahead of them. After all (and I might have figures wrong here – but it’s something like this), there are 72,000 cars for officials in Italy compared to 195 in the UK. I think that says it all, really.

Anyway, by the time you read this, Buzz could be out of office, or Greece could have left the Euro or the world could have collapsed – or, more likely, everything will be, more or less, the same.

Is this really what we have in store for us? God, I hope not (well, at least for me).

Posted on by
5

Everyone is different; has a different character and, most definitely, different needs.

I really don’t care if you are married, co-habiting, single (by choice) or anything else (I’m not sure if there IS anything else) – as long as you are happy and as long as (if you have a partner), I don’t want to kill your partner or partners :-)

To be honest, what you do with your life is absolutely none of my business – unless it directly affects my life – in which case it is my business. Of course, if you ask me, I may or may not (depending on whether you’re asking for a confirmation of what you think or really asking me) tell you what I think.

Luckily, for my lovely readers, this blog is about what I think (at this moment that I’m writing, of course – in two hours I could think the opposite although, in this case that’s unlikely).

From Lola’s blog, I read this article entitled “All the Single Ladies”.

The strange thing is that I was quite disturbed by it. I mean, unsettled. Basically it was saying that, given the way that society has changed and the general ratio of men to women, being a single person was now more likely.

Perhaps I was unsettled by the truth of it, for it is not a truth I want for myself.

I understand that some people say they are happier alone. Bar a very few people, I cannot believe it, I’m sorry. True, not every society works in the same way and, for sure, partly why I am happier being ‘with someone’ is that I was brought up to believe in a household where two adults live together (with or without children).

And friends are important. Good friends are irreplaceable, of course. I have many friends. Not thousands but enough for me. Being in a friendship takes work on both sides. And yet, there are friends (like Best Mate and I) who don’t need to be in contact for quite a while and just pick up the friendship where we left off. And I would do almost anything for Best Mate. She is there, even if I am having problems with my partner or even if I don’t have a partner. I love her to bits.

BUT

She is not the same as a partner – and I don’t mean for sex. After all, for sex, if I wanted to, there is a tall, leggy prostitute that hangs on the corner of the street and is there when I take the dogs out for a walk. We even say ‘hello’ now. Well, why not? Anyway, as an aside, business seems to be quite good for her. Maybe it’s one of those businesses that thrives in crisis periods?

But I digress. And, anyway, she is a woman so not really interesting to me.

So, if not for sex then what is a partner for? Why is it that I consider it essential for my life and others (including the woman who wrote the article) don’t?

But, then again, the article doesn’t say that a partner is not essential but that, given the fact that she dumped her (probable) partner some time ago, assuming that she would be getting one later and could settle down when she felt like it, and now, finding that a partner is unlikely to be found, she has, in fact, come to a realisation that ‘this is it’ and that she had better get on and enjoy what she has.

And I think that is my point.

My greatest fear is to be old and alone. Since I don’t have (and won’t have) any children, unless I have a partner, I shall be alone when I am old.

But it’s not even that, really.

After V, I thought that, given my age, I would remain alone. For those of you that have been readers for over three years, you will know this.

But I found, after a few months of being alone, that ‘being alone’ was not an acceptable life for me. I NEEDED a partner to share things with, to cuddle up with at night and, mostly, to not feel ALONE. ALONE I cannot handle. And, as you may know, I thought that I cannot be the only person in Milan who thinks this way and so I went out to find the other person who felt the same (or, more or less, the same).

And I think that’s the problem with this woman. She hasn’t come to terms with what her single life is and doesn’t want to commit. And, by not committing was thinking that when the right man happened along, they would both know and everything would be fine.

However, as I said before I started the online dating search, it’s no good waiting for Mr Right to come knocking at my door if I am stuck there night after night. No, I needed to go out and FIND him.

And I think that, in spite of her positiveness, she is, in fact, ALONE and, possibly too busy to feel LONELY – but she may well feel lonely later and that she is fully well aware of that.

Friends, of course, will be important to her but there are those times when (even when you’re with friends) you feel alone. With a partner, I don’t get this feeling. With F, I don’t feel alone anymore.

Anyway, sorry for the ramble. They are, after all, just my opinions and thoughts.