Category Archives: Experiences

Rice Pudding with anchovy sauce.

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It looked like rice pudding. It had the right, creamy texture and when I took the first mouthful it was sweet and, really, like rice pudding.

Of course, the anchovy sauce and mozzarella made it risotto and not rice pudding at all. Still, in my head it had been rice pudding and not risotto and so, it tasted strange. Not unpleasant, just not what I thought.

I was introduced to customers and staff (that I didn’t know) as his boyfriend. Apparently, some people didn’t really believe that. He is proud of that fact even if he did say that I was lucky to have him as my boyfriend – which is true, in any event.

The people are nice, even if they are in the fashion world.

The food was mountainous. Too much even for the hundreds of people there. I didn’t eat much. I’d eaten lunch and had been stuffed full last weekend.

I had a glass of prossecco but then saw they had a bar with Campari and Cinzano – so, from then on it was Americanas. I probably should have stopped at the fourth – but didn’t. F told me he was quite drunk. Then the next time I saw him was with a very full glass of wine. I guess he was going to enjoy himself.

Some people went outside to smoke a joint. Outside – on the pavement, on a busy road. In the UK I’m sure (but I really don’t know), they would have been hiding away. Here, it seems better to do it out in the open.

There was dancing by the end. All a little bit crazy. All a little bit drunk. We got to bed about 12.30, completely shattered – and we had to be up early this morning as F was going away and I was taking him to the airport. He’s gone until Thursday.

During the evening, I looked at him doing his thing and thought how much I truly loved him.

It was a great evening with the designer, at one stage, cycling round the showroom whilst a photographer took some pics and, afterwards, dancing with the ‘girls’ some of whom are, of course, not really young enough to be called girls (and I’m being quite polite here).

Nothing to fear except a lack of self-confidence itself!

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I am disappointed that I didn’t bring one of the others; that I didn’t fully-charge my phone; that I didn’t bring something to write with and on. I think, “I’ll write this down when I get back.” But, even as I think this, I know that I won’t. There’s too much ‘worry’. It is, of course, all made-up worry and, therefore, not real. It’s just in my head.

Later, as I’m walking out, I think that, if it wasn’t for my ‘worries’, my indecisiveness, my (and let me honest here) fears, I could be great. Maybe. It holds me back. It stops me from doing things or, rather, sometimes it stops me and I am annoyed with myself for being such a wuss.

My fears are my greatest obstacle. But they are not fears of normal people. Or, maybe they are? Maybe everyone has these fears? I just don’t think they do.

I think they come from my childhood. Or, perhaps, this is the way I am and so those ‘happenings’ that reinforce and prove my fears are correct are the only things that stick in my mind. They were huge happenings. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me or that I should die. They have a reoccurring theme, of course. It is not a fear of failure or a fear of disaster or a fear of danger or risk. No, it is a fear of embarrassment. I mean, FFS, just embarrassment!

These were things from as young as 5. They are the only things I remember from that age. Not good things but terrible things. Or, rather, terrible things for me. Things that make me squirm even as I think about them.

Every thing I do is a challenge. There is a fear attached which has to be overcome. Well, not every thing but a lot of things.

There was the drive. Less of a challenge now than it was, say, even a couple of years ago. Now I know the route and I’ve been driving enough to recognise the driving and the road signs. Once I was in the house though, I was ‘safe’. Then, the next day there was the beach. Again, not like it was last year and this year we have our own (shared) umbrella. Still, there’s all the other people. Too many people. And, yet, on Saturday, it wasn’t too bad as it was quite cloudy and there was a strong wind. But then there’s the water. But I decided not to do the water yet. That will have to wait until F is with me. Then there was (in random order) the ‘leaving’, the ‘smoking too many cigarettes’, the ‘getting a sandwich’, the ‘running out of things to immerse myself in’, the ‘putting on of sunscreen’. It’s almost comic – as long as you’re not me.

I look at the people around. All shapes, sizes and ages. No one looks at me, I tell myself. I have to believe that. As if I should be just see-through.

I think about the sunshine and wonder if I am burning. I can’t tell yet. It will come later, after I am away from the beach. I’ve rubbed suncream where I can – even over the lower part of my back and my shoulders. I notice that my left arm is peeling slightly. Well, I think, I can’t stop it now.

I think about the fact that sunbathing is so dangerous now. It’s not that it wasn’t dangerous before, it’s just that we didn’t know. I think about the fact that it’s unlikely to ‘get me’ since there are many other things that will, probably, ‘get me’ first. Like the smoking. It’s OK. It’s not like I was ever destined to live forever. It’s not that I ever wanted to live forever in the first place. And, in any case, what’s the point if you just live within safety. Safety is for wusses. I spot some brown moles on my arm and think “were they here before?” I worry that I would be a hypochondriac. Maybe that’s too much of my Father’s side in me? I would be a hypochondriac but I never voice the fears of that and say the opposite thing since people don’t really know what I’m thinking and so I can say anything I like. But I’m sure I would be a hypochondriac if I let it take control. Which I mustn’t. Which I won’t. Damn my head!

The book was ‘The Blind Assassin’. And not because they were discussing it on Twitter (#1book140) but because I hadn’t finished it from last year’s holiday. And, really, apart from being my favourite book of all time, I can read bits of it and leave it for ages. Well, obviously, almost a year, before finishing it. I toy with starting it again but I don’t. That will mean I won’t read the new one that I bought also by Margaret Attwood (Year of the Flood) or my other, 2nd favourite one – ‘We Need to Talk About Kevin’.

I order a cheese and lettuce sandwich because that’s a summer sandwich. They don’t have any black pepper though. Damn Italians with their limited taste buds! Maybe I should buy some and put some on myself. Also the cheese is not cheddar so not so tasty. But it’s OK.

I have promised to go to F’s Mum and Dad’s for dinner. He ‘set it up’ as a means (I am sure) of making me go down there without him. I leave the beach about 4 since I have to take the dogs out and, anyway, it feels like it might rain soon.

My Navigator is worth its weight in gold. Especially as the things were programmed in last time. F insisted so that I wouldn’t ‘lose my way’. I have the casina, the dog walk, the beach and F’s Mum. The man’s voice says the names in an English fashion, which is funny.

There’s no one at the dog area, the same as this morning. I play with Dino a bit but he gets a dirty beard and he will insist on shaking near me, spotting my shorts with mud from said beard. Bloody dog.

F has telephoned already. “Are you going to my Mum and Dad’s?”, he asks. But even I’m not stupid enough to think this is actually a question

I go back. I take a bath. Timing is everything. I had noticed on the beach that my nails were just a little long. I cut them. After all, I am going round to the parents-in-all-but-law’s place.

As I am cleaning the bath, I hear a voice outside. I grab the towel and go to see the uncle from upstairs. The uncle is in his eighties and doing very well, even for a man years younger than him. I go to the door, excusing myself for being dressed (undressed?) like this. He speaks to me. I understand some of it but he lacks some teeth and so it is more difficult for me. F’s Mum. Bicycle. Move. Somewhere at his house. The rain.

But, am I supposed to take it round? He repeats everything. It’s doesn’t make more sense than the last time. He is slightly frustrated. However, finally, I think that it must be him going to take it round and not me. He was just being polite. Later I learn that he didn’t even know I was there and didn’t see the dogs. Of course, that would be because, even if I went outside, the dogs tended to stay in the house. They are strange sometimes.

I get ready. I take many deep breaths. This will be difficult. There will be no English. The conversation will be limited. Or, worse still, non-existant.

I drive there with trepidation. On the way, I stop in the centre of the town. Well, not the town in which I am residing but the next one. The Marina. Where the dog walk and the beach are. I go to the tobacco shop to buy a certain type of cigar for his Dad. Then, next door for a tub of ice-cream for his Mum. I would feel guilty not taking anything now that, this time, I’m not taking them the best present of all – their son! F understands my need for wanting to take something and doesn’t tell me that it’s not necessary.

I arrive at the house and they welcome me as normal. They are sweet, as always, with me. We sit down for dinner. This is early. 7.30 p.m. but since his operation, F’s father has to eat earlier than they used to.

I give the ice-cream to his Mum. She makes all the things like ‘You shouldn’t have’ as all people do, even the English. But I think she is pleased. I give the packet of cigars to his Dad who is definitely surprised and pleased. Bless him.

Of course, they have made too much. They have bought some bresaola for me. None of them eat it but they must have asked F. There is a whole plate full. F’s Dad got up at 6 a.m. that morning to make frittata – for me, since neither of them eat any. There is tuna, tomato and potato salad. There is bread. There are the prawns that they did last time – cooked and in oil with parsley. There is a beer for me but I request wine (don’t forget my wine diet even if, as I suspected, ‘diet’ is not possible with F’s parents). It’s a ‘local’ ‘known’ wine without a label. And it’s red (my favourite) which is cold. I like the Italians approach to wine. No snobby breathing or room temperature crap. This is summer. Keep your red wine in the fridge!

Then there is some cheese. Soft pecorino. It’s very good. Again, not something bought in the supermarket. Then there’s fruit salad with an over-ripe banana. Then, of course, the ice-cream. His Dad doesn’t want any but she forces him to have a small cone (the cone being the size of a thumb and came with the ice-cream). He takes it because he is polite. But afterwards, he has another – this is not for politeness. I have some and his Mum has some. She gets out some special plastic dishes made to look like fat, squat, ice-cream cones. They came from S. I have realised that they loved S. I only hope I’m not compared. S is mentioned several times. “S bought us these”. “S, even if he was thin, used to have such heavy footsteps”. It’s OK. I am English. He is English. I am F’s boyfriend. S was F’s boyfriend. Obviously, we have a lot in common.

I text F during the meal saying there is a lot of stuff. He phones his Mum. She hands the phone to me. We talk. We say we’ll speak later. I miss him but it’s not been so bad. Not nearly as bad as it could have been. I say that everything is ‘buono’, which it is. She says ‘Mangia, mangia’ and I say no, stop, rubbing my full belly. She laughs.

His Dad goes off to smoke a cigar. Outside because it’s too smelly in the house. Conspiratorially, his Mum, whilst making me a coffee, tells me that she is going to bingo but that I should stay for a bit to be with F’s Dad. I say I have to go soon to be with the dogs. I have texted R (according to my instructions for what to do at the weekend) to ask if he is at the bar-for-this-season but he has not replied. F’s Dad and I watch a bit of telly. His Mum has gone. I know that B, F’s sister, is worried that this bingo lark is like some sort of drug for his Mum. But I know it’s a social event for her. I’m sure she isn’t spending a lot of money.

I go. R has not texted back. I drive past the bar but go home. I settle down with the new MA book. R texts me. ‘Yes I am here. Come’ it says. I briefly toy with saying that I am already at home with the dogs. But this is another fear. I don’t know these people. They’re not my friends. But I am under instruction. And like a good boy, I must do as I’m told. I go.

R speaks English. He is sitting with the couple that, last week, had brought their new puppy to the bar. This time they haven’t got the puppy. I’m asked if I understand Italian. I say it depends. Which it does. Then someone talks about me or asks me something and I say something back in Italian. After a few minutes the woman of the couple realise that I am speaking Italian and exclaims that I speak Italian perfectly. Of course, this is not true but it is, kind of, nice of her to say.

Eventually I leave and go back home, citing the dogs. I speak to F at home. He asks if I have been out with R. He would have been disappointed if I hadn’t gone, I think.

The next day I get up about half an hour later so miss the two lesbians with their dog. I am also later at the beach. F’s Dad said, the night before, that I should not park in the usual place as there was some fly-past or sir show happening and the roads would be closed. I briefly thought about not going to the beach at all. But now I’m getting the hang of the place so found somewhere to park, nearby. I go to the beach.

The place is heaving although nearly all the umbrellas immediately next to ours are empty. I half-expect B to come but she doesn’t. Or, rather, doesn’t before I leave.

I leave early. I have to have lunch at F’s Mum (because I can’t say no – saying no involves explanation – in Italian. It’s easier to say ‘yes’). Most of the stuff is as last night. She has also done some eggs. Kind of like egg and cheese on toast but without the toast. And with the cheese under the eggs. I have one. It’s nice but with runny yolks it would be nicer. I do like my runny yolks. The eggs are not supermarket eggs either. I’m beginning to understand where F gets some of his strangeness from. Whilst it’s not strange if you live there and have lived there all your life and know lots of people, etc., it’s more strange when you live in Milan and don’t. His Mum pulls a face when she compares these eggs to supermarket eggs. I can see F.

I leave soon after. I don’t have wine or beer, saying I have to drive.

Of course, I have another worry that evening. I get home quite reasonably. I check the address of the dinner. I wish F were coming with me but he’s working.

In the end it was lovely. New (or nearly new) people all. Wine, good food and all only ten minutes from my house. Very enjoyable.

And I realised on my second walk back from the beach that although it is a fear, it’s more a thing of self-confidence. And, it seems, I have none!

A conundrum

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It’s close to midnight. I hear the dog barking. Not continuously but a couple of barks every five minutes or so. Her shutters are open but, I think, her windows are shut.

She had two dogs. One was very old. About 14, I think. It meant that you had to hold your breath every time you got into the lift if they had been in it. It was truly dreadful and my sense of smell is atrocious! The dog died. It was then that we started exchanging pleasantries. I had asked about the old dog and she told me it had died. So now, when we meet we say hello. She’s about 70 or late 60s at least. She doesn’t walk so brilliantly but she looks healthy enough, if a bit overweight.

Her dogs never make any noise. But the one is dead now. The (living) dog has been barking all evening. It’s not really annoying since it’s not that easy to hear.

I take mine for a walk. I meet P, my neighbour, the one we spent New Year’s Eve with. We talk. It’s quite funny really. She talks in Italian and I talk in English. I understand everything she says and she me. I think it’s more strange that I DO understand everything. In other situations I understand nothing and yet, here she is talking about her work, life in general, the crisis and ……….. the neighbour with the now-barking dog.

She’s worried. The dog never barks (which I confirm). And yet it’s been barking all evening. She’s been to the woman’s flat and rung the bell but there is no one there. Or, rather, no one answers. Or, rather, no one CAN answer. She’s wondering if she could call the Police or something. She (we, together, in our Italian/English mix) decide she will speak to the door lady tomorrow morning.

I go back upstairs and tell F. He becomes worried (Note to self: Do NOT tell him things which he can worry about. Keep it to yourself). I explain that I’m a bit worried. I think of FfC who had some brain attack and was paralysed. She tried to get out of bed and fell on the floor. She was unable to move. She was unable to reach her telephone to call anyone. She stayed like that for three days! Then she was in hospital for about 5 months!!

I tell F about that. (Note to self: Do NOT tell him things that makes him even more worried). He is more worried. We go to bed. I say that P will talk to the door lady tomorrow. We both think ‘But what if she really is ill and doesn’t last until tomorrow?’.

F can’t sleep. He is too worried. I tell him to call the Police. He doesn’t. What if she’s just out late? It’s unusual for her. She’s always home. But you never know.

So, what to do, what to do?

Answers on a postcard or in the comments, please.

Two birds …………… one Sunday

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It’s trashy really.

Just so you understand. I was going to post the one thing and then I remembered the other. And then I thought of ‘killing two birds with one stone’. Even as I thought it I thought how trashy and tasteless it was. Ah well, one can’t be perfect all the time, even if I am bloody close.

So, there I am, Sunday, walking to the car to get it ready for our departure. The sun is hot, especially on my shirt which, in turn touches my T-shirt which, in turn touches my skin which is burnt and, therefore, slightly sore. It comes of going to the beach and staying in the sun for about 3 hours without sun-cream (because F had forgotten to bring any and I’ve never bought any for about 35 years and I find it slightly daunting given that there is factor this and factor that and oil and cream and so much choice that I really don’t know what I want (or need) and, anyway, it’s all in Italian).

So we both got burnt a bit – even if the sun was behind cloud some of the time. So we bought sun-cream that evening – but it was already too late.

So, as I say, I’m walking to the car and on the high wall above the car I see a bird I’ve never seen before (that is, I’ve seen pictures in books, so I knew what it was, I’ve just never seen one in real life, so to speak), half hopping, half flying along the top of the wall, its beak full of something, moving away from me but not so fast as if the nest is very nearby but not wanting me to know where it is.

I’m still a country boy at heart, I guess. I still get pleasure from seeing wild birds and animals. So I introduce you to the Hoopoe:

Hoopoe

That evening we are eating at Liù and in walked some ‘famous’ people. I say famous meaning that F told me they were famous TV stars. Famous meaning they had been on Isola di Famosa which is a lot like I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here – i.e. full of ‘D’-list celebrities who need all the fame they can get to boost a new or failed career. I half-recognised the one. Then he said that the other woman was Victoria. Now Victoria I do know. She’s a London-born TV presenter. She speaks (so I am told) perfect Italian. I thought she had a Mancunian accent but perhaps I am mistaken.

She’s quite funny. I quite like her. And, F then told me that she lives round the corner from me. Who knew? I’m sure, given another few encounters, we would become firm friends ;-)

And so, here she is:

Very or Victor Victoria

It’s his way of showing me.

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“You go and get them”, he says, “because you’ve got to go and do it when I’m not here”.

I don’t say anything at the time. He makes me laugh. I tell him when I get back, as we’re eating the two sandwiches I’ve just bought. I can do things but he seems to feel that I must be ‘trained’ as to ‘how’ to do things. Of course, he’s just making sure I will be OK. I want to say ‘I’ve been here for 6 years. I think I can get by, now. Otherwise I would have died from starvation!” I don’t, of course. It’s quite sweet, really. Bless him.

It felt more than 2 days and 2 nights.

It felt like a week or something.

He had worked hard on the house. I said all the right things. It’s amazingly light. All walls are white, of course. It’s not perfect in that the sink in the bathroom only has cold water; the toilet doesn’t flush properley but you can’t have everything. There were new toothbrushes, soap for me, food for the dogs and many other things. A new telly was bought, rubbish bins, etc. The dogs love it although they are exhausted within a day.

His friend, R, had cut all the grass so the dogs could use the garden.

He’s happy even if it’s not perfect.

Someone asked him how long we had been together. “Almost 2 years”, he replied. It seems longer than that. Like the weekend.

I was shown our place on the beach. I bookmarked his Mum’s place, the house, the beach and the dog walking area on my navigator, as he needed to be certain I would be OK finding everything. He arranged that, when he’s not able to go, I will be able to meet R, have dinner with his Mum and Dad, etc. He wants to make sure that I’ll be OK. It’s like ordering the sandwiches at the beach. He wants to make sure I will do it.

Of course, that also puts pressure on me. a) to go down and b) to go to his Mum’s, go out with R, etc.

So now I will have to go down, even if he’s not there. But all this is his way of showing that he loves me, I guess.

Eat dirt and die. Except it’s not true and I didn’t (die, that is).

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My parents found out, eventually. Well, I’m not sure they found out the whole truth. The problem was that I found it so tasty and apetising that I thought my sister may quite like it. So I fed her some. But I guess she was a bit messy and left bits around her mouth and in the pram.

I don’t think they ever found out that I used to eat it regularly. And, to be frank, I don’t think I would ever have admitted it (online or anywhere else, for that matter) were it not for this little piece.

Of course, it’s in the Daily Mail, not a renowned source for little things called ‘facts’ so it could be completely made up but I like that it’s ‘out there’ now. Perhaps the other people like me, wracked with a sense of guilt of carefully selecting lumps of earth from the garden before popping it in your mouth and eating it, can now ‘come out’ in the open without fear of recrimination?

And, trust me, I did carefully select these pieces. I can’t remember the taste but I do remember that it was rather good although I didn’t like the gritty bits so much. Also the texture as you ate it.

I think I ate it from about the age of 2 until I was about 6 or so.

Anyway, I didn’t die, obviously and, according to the report, it might have done me the power of good.

Mud pie for dinner, anyone?

Anyone?

Not how it’s supposed to be.

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Well, this is NOT how it’s supposed to be at all. I get up and go to the bathroom. I am so tired. When I come back, I see the clock. No. It’s simply not possible that I’ve been awake for a whole hour and a half. Maybe I did doze off after all.

Earlier, as I sat opposite him at the kitchen table, it was really difficult to keep my feelings in check. He looked good. He was telling me about the events that happened whilst he was there, making me laugh. I loved having him back. I had been tired and would have, normally, been slightly miffed that he didn’t come until after 11. When he arrived, I was so pleased to see him that nothing else mattered.

And so, probably, that was the problem. Either that or, by the time we got to bed, I was just over tired.

Either way, I just couldn’t sleep. He cuddled up to me and immediately, I felt itchy all over. But I couldn’t scratch or move because I was worried he wouldn’t sleep. And so I lay there. Itchy. Awake. Dying for sleep but not feeling so tired. We turned over and I cuddled him. I think he was asleep but I couldn’t be sure. Then I got up to go to the bathroom. When I came back, he must have been asleep. He cuddled up to me – but really close. We were very hot. The only way he would do this would be if he was asleep. Even if it made me feel itchy (because I couldn’t scratch, of course), I didn’t want to move. I listened to the soft snoring. It meant he was here. I didn’t want to move away from him. I guess I got to sleep.

Even if I have had only about 4 hours sleep, I don’t feel so tired. Perhaps it will hit me later?

Summer Sunday Lunch; The House at the Sea Update; Please stop asking, I don’t really know.

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It is summer, after all. Summer requires salads and fruit and freshness.

I invited A & Fr over for Sunday lunch. I did some antipasto stuff (I seem to be coming almost Italian :-)) and then the Special Salad. Of course, Special Salad is not really so ‘special’ any more since, now, there is a dazzling array of salads that are different. But, ‘special’ is what this salad was known as, at least by our family, in the days that salad in the UK comprised of limp lettuce, tomatoes and salad cream. You see? This was in the days when there was no such thing as mayonnaise.

And, anyway, salad cream works best with this. I thought I had done it for them before but it seems not.

The ‘special’ ingredient is oranges but now that I’m in Italy, it also includes cheddar cheese and salad cream since you can’t get them here.

They said they liked it and I think they did.

Then I served up something that, I think, I’ve only ever made one time before, a long, long time ago. Summer Pudding. I made individual ones which was more of a risk in its own right. Still, I’m a little more adventurous these days, not bothering with trying stuff out first but just doing it. Maybe it’s a little more ‘couldn’t care less’ rather than ‘adventurous’. Oh well, whatever. the result is the same.

As it turned out they weren’t bad. But I need to find different bread than the stuff I used. And make more of the syrup. I’ll try it again soon and if I can make it as good as it should be then I’ll post it as a recipe.

Anyway, they seemed to like it.

And we drank. And then had cheddar cheese and port. And then went for a walk.

_____________________________________________________________

F did the bathroom, apparently. R, his friend, wasn’t there, yesterday. The ceiling didn’t go well. He suggested that he may not finish by next Sunday. This means we (the dogs and I) won’t go down at the end of this week. He said that he would ask R to finish things off (mainly the cleaning) so we could all go down the weekend after.

I’m still hopeful for this weekend and I am pretty certain that he will want us to come down if it is possible. Obviously, it is possible – it’s just not possible for him if it isn’t in a perfect state. Oh well, we will see.

I wonder what his Mum and Dad think of his sudden interest in his house and decorating it and so on? I mean, I’m certain they are fully aware of the situation but as it is never discussed, it must be slightly bemusing for them. The last time he showed such interest in the house was when he was with S.

________________________________________________________________________

Sometimes, I wish people would stop asking me about V.

It doesn’t seem to matter that I say that we are not in touch any more and that I don’t really know.

I don’t think I’ll be going back to live.

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“I couldn’t hardly get up this morning, Jack”, the woman in the dirty-looking pink hoodie shouts.

She isn’t shouting because of the noise, even if we are at the airport. A little later she almost screams, “Bye, Jack”.

It takes me a moment to realise that she’s doing it because the obese man opposite her is the one that is actually speaking to Jack on his mobile phone.

I am not pleased to hear that she couldn’t hardly get up this morning. Not least because of the bad English but also because of the Birmingham accent which, now, this time, this trip, really grates. Apart from the cold and the rain and the wind (as if that wasn’t enough), my desire to tell her and many, many more of ‘these people’ to ‘just fucking shut up’ has made my mind up. Unless I really, really, REALLY have to, I shan’t ever be back to live in the UK with its greyness both in weather, place and people.

Mind you, with this weather and so much abysmal, unfresh food, well, it would be enough to make anyone miserable. Obviously it didn’t rain ALL the time. There were moments of no rain and, dare I say, sunshine. The same with the food really, as I have already posted.

Not all people have this affect. Best Mate, for example. T, the new, old friend of BM who, so I was told, really wanted to meet me. That’s not unusual. People have never really understood our relationship. For that matter, neither have we (and we talked about it so I know her feelings are the same).

Just the weather alone would be enough. The people are just dreadful. The people in Hereford. The people in the airport. Just the people. I listen to other conversations. Mostly Brummie accents which really doesn’t help.

They are going or arriving. The ones arriving are dressed in shorts and T-shirts and flip-flops or sandals. They’ve come from somewhere hot, obviously. They don’t look particularly happy. Neither do the ones that are going.

They may all be respectful of personal space in terms of physical closeness but not as far as noise is concerned. I can see why other nations have such a poor view of the British people. Of course, it’s all a generalisation, even by me. Not all people are like this. My friends, for example. But there are too many like this and I don’t think I could live with it, day after day.

As I said to someone here, it’s probably as well that I don’t really understand Italian. Maybe I would have the same feeling about people here if I did?

No, I don’t think I’ll be going back to live there any time soon.

British Food – not really all it’s cracked up to be (or, Maybe the Italians are right?)

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Well, apart from trying to fix my blog for almost a month, now, I have also been doing other things.

Take last weekend, for example.

I went to Hay-on-Wye to see Best Mate. She wasn’t able to come here this year so asked if I would go over. F and I arranged it so that he could look after the dogs (and, finally, ‘do’ the bedroom – but that’s another post).

The travel there and back was one thing, again, maybe, another post. And the weather! So cold it was like being back in winter. In fact, the weather alone would be enough for me to never go back there, certainly to live – and that’s without the other things.

However, it was lovely to see BM who was considerably better than last time.

But I came to the realisation, whilst I was there, why it is that Italians have such a fixation about English=bad food (also see Lola’s blog post).

I used to relish going back to the UK. A Kentucky Burger was high on my list, if not essential. This time, however, it was very different. The real thing I absolutely love is Roast Lamb. The British do it so well. It is now, really the only thing on my list. But let’s look at the food I did have.

I arrive at Birmingham Airport at about 9.30 a.m. BM is there to pick me up and we drive back to Hay. This is about two and a half hours or so. By the time we arrive in Hay, I am ready for lunch, having had nothing but a biscuit and a couple of small croissants on the planes (it was Air France).

We go to Kilverts. The first thing is the beer. I’m afraid I forgot the ‘wine-non-diet’. The beer is great. The UK does great beer and, in particular, the real ale. I had some mild. It was nice and smooth. We looked at the blackboard for food. There was no lamb but I could choose something else. However, they were preparing the kitchen for the Festival (which is happening as I write this). We both agreed that was a bit strange. However, we had ham sandwiches with mustard. It was OK but not really as good as it was in my mind. Still, I had more beer, so it was fine.

That night we went to Red Indigo, billed as the best Indian restaurant in Hay, which makes me laugh because it’s the only one! The food was wonderful. I had a lamb balti. And beer – although Cobra beer. Indian food has come a long way from the time I was at University when it was, really, very hot or slightly less hot muck. Now it is fresh and so tasty. As normal I had Naan bread with my balti. In the UK they do nice large, thick Naan breads. Unfortunately, here, they do rather small and much too thin Naan breads.

Saturday, I needed to go shopping. I had things to buy – things I had come for. We got into Hereford and went straight to the cafe in the centre of High Town. It’s in the open air – so we can smoke. Aside from the cold, the coffee was a ‘Starbucks’ type cappuccino. I used to love these. Now they are too hot and too big. I am used to cappuccino Italian style. Tepid, small but lovely. As we are at the ‘bar’ ordering (of course, I noticed, for the first time really, how I am used to having a waiter serve me), I saw delicious-looking Almond croissants and decided to have one.

It was the first time I realised why the Italians think English food is so bad. It is bad. At least, if you’re not in the right places it is. The croissant (brioche, here) was filled with custard (crema, here). It had flakes of almond on top. Without the flakes of almond it would have been the same as the brioche I normally have for breakfast (when we go to a cafe on the weekends), except – the crema was not soft but more of a gel and it didn’t ooze out since there was so little of it. However, the worst thing was that, being used to having brioche that has been baked that very morning – this must have been baked several days ago. It was, quite frankly, stale. If they served this kind of stuff in Italy, the café would go out of business.

And then I thought: that’s how it has always been. The British tolerate this being given very little alternative or just because we don’t complain. I would have complained but I knew that this was perfectly acceptable here, so what was the point?

Later we got some cakes from Greggs. I had a Belgian Bun. It was OK. Actually, it was quite nice – but mainly because here, in Italy, they don’t do them. At least it was fresh, unlike the croissant.

Later still we went for lunch to the The Imperial. The beer (I don’t remember what it was) was fine. I ordered Gammon with Egg. It should have been good but it wasn’t. To be honest, G, here, in our canteen, does a much better job of making it and I had to explain how to make it to her! Also there were just too many chips. Don’t get me wrong, it was OK – it just wasn’t nice enough.

That evening we weren’t able to book a table at the Black Lion and so went to the Three Tuns. This was divine. Good beer (Butty Bach, I think) and rack of lamb. This is how British food should be. Fresh vegetables, good gravy and the lamb was perfectly cooked and juicy.

Sunday, we were in Hay for reasons I cannot disclose. We did go to Shepherds for a morning cappuccino (which wasn’t bad and much more like real Italian coffee) and, more importantly, I had a Toasted Tea Cake. Oozing with butter it is one of the things from my childhood. I adore Toasted Tea Cakes and this one was as good as any I have had.

We skipped lunch and I really wasn’t hungry anyway. That evening we went to the Old Black Lion. I do like the Black Lion. The beer isn’t so special but it’s OK. The food is very good, though. Again it was lamb. Again it was fantastic. I had some meringue thing for sweet. BM chose the summer pudding which I tasted and it was far, far better than my choice!

Before the Black Lion we were back in Kilverts where we met up with T, a friend of BM’s. I had a few pints of Butty Bach and I had really forgotten how good that beer is!

The next day I was back to the airport. I was there about 2 p.m. I had over an hour to ‘kill’. I went through to departures (after stocking up on nicotine) and went to the Weatherspoons pub in the departure lounge. The choice wasn’t brilliant but I chose a cheeseburger. It arrived. It was tepid which was a shame because if it had been hot, it would have been quite nice. Of course, they can do this as there’s no time to fix it, what with departing flights and all.

But it got me to thinking that, really, in the UK, if you don’t know the places, food is quite a hit and miss affair – in fact, mainly miss.

So, Italians are right, in a way, in that British food is not that good, unless you go to a place that does good food. Elsewhere it is liable to be fairly crap.

And, for the first time, I really didn’t want a Kentucky Burger. Too much salt and fat and sugar and crap. It seems I’ve moved on a bit!