Category Archives: Experiences

It’s a very good feeling

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No, I was wrong.  This wasn’t Bunch but, most definitely Brunch.

Her husband (I presume) was from American stock and so there was bacon, scrambled eggs (with, because the husband was American, Heinz Tomato Sauce) and pancakes with maple syrup.  She also baked – blueberry muffins, carrot cake that was almost like ginger cake, a fruit cake (that reminded me of my mother’s rock cake) and raspberry jam tart!  Mmmmmm!  Delicious.

Most of the conversation was in Italian but it wasn’t too bad.  As I’ve recently said to Man of Roma in the post On Being British, my understanding of Italian improves.  The hostess was particularly kind when she found out that I didn’t understand perfectly saying that the few words I had spoken were perfectly pronounced and so she thought I spoke Italian.  It made me smile.

As did F, who, when we are together, doesn’t show affection so often but when we are out, touches me more (rubs my knee, strokes my leg, holds my hand, kisses me (although not today)) and in such a way that it is genuinely affectionate.  I know he loves me.

I was introduced as his findanzata.  I like that.

I watched him during the conversations.  He has such a way about him, such style, such a good conversationist, so friendly, so instantly likeable.  I got the small pastries that we were taking and went round to his flat before we went for brunch.  He was getting dressed.  At that stage he wore a white shirt and underpants.  So very sexy.

We walked back to his house with his colleague who had also been at the brunch.  I followed behind them sometimes, when the pavement was too narrow for three abreast, and noticed the back of his neck or, rather, the nape where his hair fanned out (though it is short) almost like an upside down peacock’s tail.  So sweet.  And I wanted to kiss it there and then.

But that’s for later when he comes round.  Now I should be making the bed, washing up the few things, putting the house in order.  His idea to come round.  He misses the babies (the dogs to you and I).  Especially Dino who loves him, probably, only slightly less than he loves Dino.

Yep, I like being his findanzata.  It’s a very good feeling.

Online Dating – Dos and Don’ts and Scams

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Well, those of you who have been following my ‘adventures’ through 2009 will know that I used online dating websites to find the man of my dreams.

So, obviously, I have a good opinion of them.  But there are a couple of pieces of advice I would give.

1.  Some are good and some are bad.  You will learn which are which but, if you’re serious, use as many as you can find to start with, weeding out the ones that are not good or don’t have the right mix for you later.

2.  Don’t part with any money to start with.  Just get a feel for the site and the type of people who are there.  Once you find the site(s) that have the right feel and the right people, only then consider paying.  Don’t worry about emails and stuff until you’re sure the right people frequent the site to begin with.

3.  Be very specific about what you want.  Specifying, for example, an age range of 20 to 70 is really not what you want, I suspect.  I thought that people just above my age would be fine but found that, in reality, I didn’t want anyone that bloody old. Nor, indeed, did I want a ‘kid’ who lacked maturity (and even below about 35 was pushing it – we are talking about men, here).

4.  Remember, people will put forward their best side.  This is a bit like going to a club or bar but without the loud music or drinking or dancing.  You see someone you like, you chat to them for a bit and, then, maybe, you get to see them.  Seeing them in the flesh (or ‘second date’) may be a bit of a shock.  Be prepared.  I have to add that, sometimes, I was amazed at how awful the photos were when compared to the real person, so it’s not always the best photos they put up.

5.  Remember that some people are looking for, how shall I say, one night stands.  That’s OK if that’s what you want.  Just be aware that, maybe, they’re not looking for what you are looking for!

6.  Be safe.  Be careful about where and who you meet. I wasn’t particularly and one of them could have been a bit hairy but wasn’t in the end.  But, then, I’m lucky in that I’m a bloke.  Tell someone where you’re going and give them phone numbers or any other information you can about the person you plan to meet.

7.  Beware of scams.  There are people out there who are just trying to get money.  I had one of them and, on looking at the photos again, I could see that it was a model and not a real person.  But here is a link to an article from the Guardian that is an interesting read.

But, for me, it was just like going out but easier since you could send a ‘wink’ or a message or an email and, well, if they didn’t respond it was nowhere near as painful as going up to someone in a bar and getting a rebuff.

And F is the result and so it worked out really well for me.

If you are looking and try it out, I hope it works out well for you too.

Yesterday, we became four.

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I am at the computer.  I’m standing but bent over.  It’s not the most comfortable position but, given the lack of anything I could use as a chair, it’s the best I can do.

The screen springs to life, suddenly showing the background at the same time as it makes the sound.  Great.  The usual Skype message comes up.  It should be upgraded but it’s not mine to do.  I tell it to continue anyway.  I select the Skype account I want to use.  Best Mate may be online.

I go type in the password but nothing happens when I type.  Then there is a new window that comes up.  I don’t really read the screen so don’t know what it says.  I am busy trying to get into Skype.  As I am closing this very annoying window, I notice something about Bluetooth.  As it closes, I realise that this keyboard has no connection lead to the computer and, therefore, must be Bluetooth.

I need to find this window again.  This utility.  I start searching.  the problem, other than I don’t really know Macs that well, is that it is an Italian machine and everything is in Italian, of course.  I go for Finder, since the icon I would use on my machine is not in the right place (or, rather, non-existent) on this computer. I look for the obvious thing.  Something called Bluetooth or Connections or something similar.

On the way to finding this I see some things that I have an urge to see.  Some photos; some other things.  I resist the urge.  It would be like spying; like looking into a private diary; like reading a blog that you’re not supposed to know about (whoops!).  I want to and don’t want to at the same time.  I don’t want to more than I want to and so I don’t.  I give myself a self-congratulatory pat on the back for being good.  It makes me feel good even if I am still intrigued.  But I have no reason to doubt and, therefore, this is something that should be left alone.  But, still……

I don’t find what I want.  I close down the computer.

I switch on the computer again.  The same window/utility appears…..eventually.  I am right!  The keyboard is not being ‘seen’.  I look at the keyboard.  I see that there is a screw thing at the side and open it to find batteries inside.  I know this was all working as he had used it a day or two before when he proved that the telephone line had been installed and everything (including ADSL) was functioning.  I decide that, maybe, one of the batteries is to blame.  But there are no more batteries that I know of.  And, so, I swap the two from the mouse (which IS working), taking two from the keyboard in exchange.

I try all again.  No difference, although the mouse still works.  It is unlikely to be one battery.  I look all over the keyboard, eventually pressing, by accident, the switch that turns the keyboard ‘on’.

Everything now works but a) I am standing and b) I have almost had enough and so, instead of writing a blog post, I play ‘the bloody game’.

The men arrive with the wardrobe and bed.  I don’t really like them.  I was hoping for the three that came to my place.  That would have been just fine.  I don’t really trust these guys.  I smoke and am aware that the smoke seems to fill the flat much more quickly than it does mine.  I think about the time, in the very near future, when we are here, at the computer together or watching a DVD or sitting on the brand-new, white, all-(simulated/something)-leather sofa – smoking and it being difficult.  This worries me.

The windows are slightly open, as they always are.  I notice that, the flat, seemingly so warm every time I have entered, seems quite cold after a couple of hours.  This may not be so good.

The men finish with the wardrobe.  Well, not quite.  I do not know what the man says but I think he says that he has another set of drawers and where should they go?  I don’t know.  I knew where the wardrobe was to go, I had asked F the night before but the second set of drawers?  I phone him and get no answer.  He is working, of course.  The men need an answer as they are now building the bed (which won’t take long).  I send a text explaining that I need an answer and hoping that he has the phone on him.

He calls me.  They should be shelves and not a set of drawers.  I realise I could have got it wrong.  I say yes they are shelves – hoping that I am right.  But where are they to go?  He tells me they are to go in the middle part, above the set of drawers, equally spaced.  I tell the guys.  They tell me what they can do.  I tell them that is OK.

They finish.  There is some discussion about the payment that is to be made.  I cannot pay him the exact money as I don’t have 33 cents.  He has no change.  I know that, in the UK, there would be no money given to the delivery/installer people and I wonder at how this can possibly work properly in Italy.

I change what I have given him.  Now all he has to do is give me 17 cents change.  He only has a 20 cent coin.  I explain that I don’t have the 3 cents to give him and that it’s my money we’re talking about (he already knows that it’s not my house, nor my furniture).

He huffs and puffs.  But, reluctantly gives me the 20 cents.  I don’t care.  I’ve noticed that the guy in the supermarket that I thought was a good guy regularly charges me for an extra plastic bag.  I don’t go to his till any more.  It’s only 4 cents but the Italians, with the old lira in mind, take less notice of the small coins.  I am English and I don’t.

When they have gone I decide that the room is really smokey.  I have only had about 5 cigarettes but I know that F won’t like it and so I open the window wide in the lounge and the bedroom to try and get rid of it.  There is no breeze and so no air through the flat and so it doesn’t disperse.

I get much colder though and, from a starting point that is quite cold, this is not pleasant.  I have texted F to say that everything is fine and that I would go and do some shopping and go home shortly.  I also added that I would come back to the flat whenever he wanted as, of course, I have the keys!

I close the windows and the shutters.  The smoke still seems to hang in the air.  I know my sense of smell is terrible.  I go out of the flat and come back in.  I can still smell it.  If I can smell it, I muse, then it will be a hundred times worse for him.

But I cannot stay.  Or, rather, I cannot stay and not smoke!

I leave.

Later he phones.  He is still at the office.  He has got the company car tonight.  He will go and collect his clothes and take them to the flat.  I offer my help.  He says that I have done enough already (having taken a day’s holiday to be at the flat for his wardrobe and bed).  I reply that it is really no problem and I really don’t mind.

All this is true.  All this is in my interest.  And, anyway, it means we are together and I am helping him and it makes me feel good.  And, also, I want to be there when he opens the flat door – to see the reaction to the smokey smell, for I feel as guilty as hell.  And I have weird thoughts that go through my mind like a) he won’t want me in the new flat or b) he will insist that I stop smoking or something along those lines.  If I were to be there I would know, immediately, if it were a problem.

I wait at home.  I am anxious.  I feel useless.

This is like those times when you were a kid.  You had done something wrong and you knew, as sure as night follows day, that your parents would know.  Perhaps they were out and would know when they came back.  Perhaps they were there and it was one of those things that they would find out about and you just didn’t know when.

And it’s the waiting that is the worst, of course.

And this is how I felt.  I also worried that, after a full day at work, he was going to be doing lots of moving stuff to the car and from the car and it would be so much better if I were there to help.  And it would be quicker.

And then I thought that, perhaps, he didn’t want me to be there because he wanted to spend the night at the old flat.  The previous night had been restless for him.  Apparently Dino had been restless and walking to and fro and playing and crying and other things.  And then I thought that perhaps he just wanted to have a night apart.  But why?

It got to 10 o’clock.  I had heard nothing.  I hadn’t taken a shower wanting to be ready, just in case he called for help.  But now it was time for the dogs to go out.  By now, after all my thinking, I had come to the conclusion that he was not going to be coming here for the night and didn’t want me to go to him and that was why he hadn’t phoned until now – leaving it too late for me to do anything – presented as a kind of fait accompli.

I decide to go out with the dogs; I won’t bother with a shower.

As I’m walking with the dogs I think about going to bed but staying fully dressed and lying on top of the bed so that, if he calls, I will be ready to go.  Maybe the flat stank of smoke?  Maybe he’s just had enough – with not having enough sleep the night before?  Maybe I’m just being too much for him?

I hear the phone ringing in my pocket.  My gloves mean that I can’t get the bloody thing out.  The phone stops ringing just as I get it out of my pocket.  I look at the missed call.  It was F, of course.  I phone him back.  It starts ringing.  Dino, just at this moment decides he must do the biggest poop ever.  This means I cannot hold the phone to my ear, put them on short leads, open up the bag AND pick it up and dispose of it all at the same time.  Something has to go.  It is the call.

Not because I want to but because the poop is more, shall we say, pressing.  Damn Dino!  I pick it up and, as we are only a few minutes from home decide to wait until I am in the lift before trying again.  We get in the lift and I take their leads off and try calling again.  He answers.

‘Can I call you back in 10 minutes?’, he asks.  Of course, I reply – I can tell he is carrying stuff.

He calls me back.  I explain I was out with the dogs and why I called but couldn’t wait for him to answer.  I ask him where he is.  He explains he is in the car and is trying to find somewhere to park and then he will be with me.

‘But I still need to take a shower’, he states.  I breathe a sigh of relief and tell him that I, too, must take a shower.

I finish my glass of wine.  I feel guilty about having a glass of wine (well, in honesty, two).  I don’t know why.  But it’s like when I eat a bar of chocolate.  It’s not that I’m lying about it and it’s not like it’s such a big deal that I feel I must tell him; it’s just like I don’t want his disapproval – like I am a child.  I wonder why this is.  It’s my house and my wine and I can drink it if I want.  Still, even that doesn’t stop the feeling.  It’s like I haven’t told him the whole truth – even if I have or had.  I rinse the glass and stop myself from washing it up.

I start to undress.  I notice that Dino and Rufus are making for the door.  They have heard something (or, rather, Dino has heard something and is very excited – Rufus is just going along with it in that confused kind of way that he has now – that old people have when they know something is going on but have no idea what it is).

Then I hear it too.  It is F, outside the door, making the slurping sounds that gets Dino so excited.  I laugh.

I go and open the door.  F is there, shirts on hangers in hand, a bag over one shoulder, with other bags and things. I keep Dino away from him so that the shirts will remain dry and not get wet from the Dino-slurp.  He explains that he thought he would bring a few shirts and stuff so that he doesn’t have to worry about it for the next few days.

In spite of all the crazy child-like thoughts that have been going through my head all night, at this point, the child inside of me is jumping up and down and clapping my hands and shouting in sheer happiness – whilst the Andy on the outside just smiles and says of course that’s fine and why don’t you hang those in the wardrobe – which is what he does.

I go over and hug him and give him a kiss.  He unpacks his bag.

‘This is for the bathroom’, he says as he hands me his washbag.  I cheerfully take it there, whilst feeling stupid.  Stupid for being so happy and stupid for having thought all those stupid thoughts all night.

Later I ask him about the smell in the flat and explain why.  He says there was no smell other than ‘new wardrobe and bed and paint’.  I am relieved, to say the least.

We have tea, showers and go to bed.  He is cold, he says, as he is in bed before me.

I cuddle him and take his hand and put it on my stomach.  He withdraws it and I ask why.  He explains that his hand is so cold (which it is) that he doesn’t like touching my stomach, knowing it is so cold.  I tell him it is fine and take it and hold it there, getting it warmer and making him feel better.

I resist the urge to tell him that I love him – even if it is true and even if I really want to tell him so that he knows.

And, he hasn’t moved in at all.  He’s just staying with me for a few days although, he said, it could be for all of next week too.  I think I curb my enthusiasm for this quite well.  Or, at least, to the outside world.  Or, rather, to him.

Late last night………………..

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…………….it came to me as I was lying there, in the dark and the heat, unable to sleep.

I had been asleep.  We had ‘made love’ earlier, in spite of us both being tired.  And it was good and he makes me feel good.  After, we lay on our sides, me with my back to him, he cuddling me – ‘spooning’ as it is called.  He likes that and it suits me fine.  I must have fallen asleep.

I wake up.  Suddenly.  Unexpectedly.  I don’t know why.  I know it is not just before the alarm but I am, almost, wide awake.  I turn over.  He is lying on his back.  I don’t put my arm across him both for his sake and mine.  I am too hot, half of me outside the bedclothes already.

He does the pfffff sound that Italians make.  It is peculiar to them.  They make it, it seems, to express displeasure or annoyance or exasperation at something.

I ask if he is OK.  He says he can’t sleep.  I ask if he has been awake all the time and he says yes.  I think (but do not say) that it is he who, probably, woke me up.  I turn over so as not to succumb to the urge to put my arm around him to say ‘everything is alright’.  I know the sound of the pfffff.  I know what that means.  He asks what time it is (as I have just looked).  I say it is a quarter to twelve.  He makes the pffff sound again.

He asks if we should go for a cigarette.  I say yes as I am not close to sleeping and, anyway, I quite like the idea of a glass of milk.  I get up.  He changes his mind and says he’s not coming.  That’s OK.

I have my milk and cigarette, taking my time, cooling down and hoping that, when I get back to bed, I will feel much better – more like sleep.  It is not a quarter to twelve.  I realised that as I was getting up.  Anyway, it cannot be a quarter to twelve.  We only switched the light off at 11.30 something and then we had sex.  No, it was a quarter to one.

I creep back to bed.  I am still too hot.  I burn, as normal.  His flat (well, S’s flat) is too hot.  He keeps the heat on overnight.  It’s a nice idea but with my metabolism, it plays havoc.  I lie as still as possible, not wanting to wake him if he is on the verge of sleep.  But you know how it is.  When you need to be quiet you feel the urge to cough, or scratch, or sneeze or move because it’s uncomfortable.  Even your breathing seems as loud as an express train going full belt.  I do all these things, except the sneezing.  We touch legs.  We both need that; some physical touch but just not too much.  We both suffer in the same way although I am, generally, hotter than him.  He didn’t know anyone could be as bad, let alone worse!

I turn over to face him.  His knee, crooked up, fine whilst my back is towards him, not so fine when I’m facing him.  I still cannot sleep.  I open my eyes and look at his face.  The dark not so total that I can’t see anything but, still, I see no detail.  But I know what it looks like.  I smile anyway.  I’m tired, exhausted really, but happy with this, with what I have, with what we have.  I try to figure out if his eyes are closed but I just can’t tell.  Not in this light.

Or, rather, lack of light.

I turn again.  and that’s when it suddenly comes to me about these life-changing moments.  And, for just a split second I wonder what they are.  Then I think of the camp.

I also think about the time when I promised to marry someone.  Her name was Gilly.  Gilly Gaskell or Gaskill or something like that.  I remember, holding hands in the garden.  Her garden, the bottom of the garden.  I remember it as if I am watching it on a film – I’m not there but here, behind the camera, watching – but I can’t see my features but I remember her hair.  Blonde.  The fringe tied back with a clip.  I promised her that I would marry her.

It should have been one of those life-changing moments/events.  But it’s not.  Nor was it then.

We were five.

Kill those damned homosexuals!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One food in common – Anchovies!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story that cannot be shared

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I really don’t know how to explain this but I’m going to try.

Last night we went to a concert given by Ornella Vanone.  The problem is that, if you’re not Italian or lived here for a long time, you may not even know who she is.  Until a few weeks ago, I certainly didn’t.

She is, I understand, in her mid-seventies.  She has a good voice and sings love songs that, according to FfI are almost all about saying goodbye to a love and saying that she’ll wait for them to return.  All heart-rending stuff.

It was a good concert.  My first time at Blue Note which, as it is a jazz club, I had thought would be rather sleazy.  As it turned out it was rather nice.  Almost quite posh.

Ornella is Italian (from Milan, I think) and sings with a slightly husky voice.  A nice voice.  Not really anything that special but nice.  Of course, I don’t understand the words and, when she’s speaking, either because she’s old, or drunk (someone said she drinks a lot) or just because she’s playing to a Milan audience, her Italian is difficult to understand for me and she speaks very fast.  OK so I get some of it but not really enough.

F keeps asking if I understand.  I don’t want him to translate everything, not least because it will get so annoying for him.

But, with some songs, he goes really quiet, whilst on the other side of me, FfI is wiping away tears.  And this is the bit I want to try and explain.

Even if I could understand her words, her songs to their fullest, I’m not sure I would be so moved by them.  There’s a history that I cannot share.  Cannot even hope to share.  There’s a story behind all these songs, a story that’s different for everyone.  But, of course, that’s normal.

What I’m trying to explain (badly) is that, whereas, if I was with people from the UK or, even the USA, there would be a common, shared history to the singer.  I mean, if I was in the UK, and with someone from the UK and we were to watch someone like, say, Shirley Bassey, then, even if she’s not my favourite singer, we would all know something about her, about her history in the country, about some of her hits, about her love-life or private life or things like that.  It makes her a ‘real’ person and a person who can be ‘shared’ by you and those around you.

Whereas, here, I could not share it, could not be part of it.  I wanted to be part of it but, unless I were to read all about her, study her and her music, put each song into the setting of the time, I cannot be a part of this.  It is a history beyond my capability to perceive, to live, to have.

And to me this was striking and difficult to determine how I should feel about it.  On the one hand, it’s not important, of course.  On the other, it is a part of F that I cannot share.  I don’t mean the past, for, of course, the past is gone and neither of us can share our pasts with each other; only recount stories but never relive them.  No, this is also the future.  For the future or (in the case of the concert) the present, has a part of the past that is beyond either of us to share with each other.

We (F & I) are supposed to be going to see Joan Armatrading next year.  Being my favourite singer, it is important to me.  Her songs hold special meaning for me.  I know most of the words to the songs; can sing them with correct inflection, breathing, etc.  But, if we go, F, although with me, cannot be with me during certain songs.  Cannot be in my head or fully understand nor appreciate the meaning and the subtlety of each word.

It was a good concert.  Probably, if I had grown up knowing her, her songs, the history, I would have said ‘great’.  But I cannot say that.  I don’t know if it was great.  Was she always like this or was this substandard?  How the hell would I know?

What I do know is that it was good and that, being with F was all that really mattered.  As he held my hand or kissed me or lay (just for a moment) his head on my shoulder, it felt good and right and perfect.  And all I wanted to do was hug him whilst this (to my perception) slightly mad (and mad-looking) old lady, moved around the stage, drunkenly or unsteadily or maybe she’s always like this, singing songs about love or about the end of love, with a voice that reminded me of how, probably, Shirley Bassey is, now, in concert.

And, in my heart, so full of love for F, there was an ache for the ‘missing’ part; the part of me that is outside his experience and a part of him outside mine; a part that cannot be shared for, in a final way, we are, in fact, from a different culture, with a different history and in spite of anything that we may build together, a future of shared experiences, loves, hates, friends and enemies, there will always be this ‘missing’ history, the story that cannot be shared.

Sometimes, I find Italy a little frustrating.

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4

Of course, I should have known better, really.  There are the three rules:-

1.  Siamo in Italia
2.  Customer Service.  Sorry, what was that again?
3.  Siamo in Italia ancora.

My phone was ‘broken’.  I really believe that they set a ‘useful’ life, at which point, the phone stops working, making it imperative that you buy a new one.  The reason for this?  I had a phone. Nearly 4 years old.  Suddenly, it stops making any sound or giving any screen display to show that a new message has been received or a call missed.

It’s just my phone, I thought.  Someone with the same model lent me theirs as they have no use for it any more.  It does the same.  And yet, if the sim is put into a newer model, it works fine.  Hmmm.

So, the choice was to go and get a new phone or change provider.  Since transferring to a new provider gives you a much better rate and a cheaper phone (special deals for new customers), it seemed the wisest thing to change provider.

First there was Wind (part of Infostrada).  I didn’t want it to go on my credit card (you don’t have the consumer protection thing here like you do in the UK – if a mistake is made you have to prove that it’s not your mistake an, in the meantime, the money is taken from your bank anyway), so asked to set up the equivalent of a Direct Debit.  We spent a few hours in the shop, taking copies of my passport, noting my Codice Fiscale (similar to a National Insurance number and absolutely necessary here if you want to do almost anything), etc.  Then came the fun part of typing it into the computer.  After a number of tries they said I must have either the actual card for the Codice Fiscale or the Health Card, neither of which I have.  So that was that.

Then I tried TIM.  TIM were great.  The situation would be sorted in about 2 weeks and when the number stopped working with 3 I was to go back to the shop, pay a small amount and get my new Blackberry.

After two weeks had passed I went to the shop.  Apparently there was no problem but it would be another week.

Another 2 weeks passed.  This morning I found that my 3 (spit spit) sim didn’t work anymore.  Great, in that the transfer was made.  Bad in that the new sim from TIM didn’t work in my (crap anyway) 3 phone as it is locked to 3.  Never mind.  This would all be fixed this evening when I went to the TIM shop and got my brand, spanking-new Blackberry.

Luckily, I borrowed an old phone to try out my sim – it’s working fine – but it’s not my phone.

As I sit here now at the computer I look at the phone a colleague lent me, very grateful that he did.  I drove from work, rushed straight to the TIM shop.  They were very helpful.  They found the Blackberry and proceeded to fill in forms; enter stuff on the computer and, as is normal here, generally take half an hour to do something that should, in reality, take about 10 minutes.

However, the problem, it seems, is that although TIM have moved the number, it takes 24 hours for the contract to appear on the computer system.  And the other problem is that the ‘special offer’ that applies to my contract has ended.  The brand-spanking-new Blackberry is sitting in the box but I’m not allowed to have it.

‘Can you come back tomorrow?’ she asks.

There was no solution – and, trust me, I tried everything I possibly could.

Tomorrow, I must go again.  That, plus get my suit altered, take the test, do Nan’s Trifle to take with us tomorrow night to R&Al’s, etc. etc.

Sometimes, I find Italy a little frustrating.

I can’t wait until tomorrow afternoon

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2

Overall, it’s not been too bad.  I didn’t get paranoid apart from the other night, when he didn’t text back quickly enough.  Oh, yes, and then after Monday night when I got drunk and phoned him so late.

And then there’s today.  And today I start to worry about how it will be when we meet at the airport.  I mean, after a week apart, will I really feel that something again?  And this is after this morning, when I had woken before the alarm and started to think of us, in bed, and sex and all that and how good that made me feel and seeing him and holding him and being with him and being turned on by only the thoughts of him.

So there!  It’s just being stupid.  Although not helped by the fact that I’ve had no message this morning.  Normally one of us texts in the morning and the other replies and then we have several text exchanges during the day.  Today, so far, there have been no texts from him, which is strange.  So I texted and went for the receipt on delivery thing you can do.  No receipt.  This means he has no phone (forgotten) or it has no battery or something else.

Of course, the “something else” worries me.  I am a worrier, it seems; no, it’s not ‘seem’, I know I am.

And, tomorrow, I shall make Shepherd’s/Cottage Pie (one of his favourites) and, maybe Nan’s Trifle or Treacle Tart and then take them with me when I pick him up, so we can have that Saturday night or, if he doesn’t want that ‘cos he’s too tired, Sunday.

We spoke last night as I’m walking back from A’s house where I had been for a drink.  He asked if we were going to FfI’s house on Saturday night.  I said no and that I had told everyone that he would be tired and that, anyway, we hadn’t seen each other for a week and that we wouldn’t be going anywhere.  He was pleased with that and said so.  I remember how it is when you’ve been away.  And then there’s the adjustments that you (have to) make when you’re back together – although we haven’t been together long enough for there to be a real problem with that – that comes later with time I think.

So, there’s me worrying about how I will feel when we are together again………and then, seconds later thinking about how I want to hold him and kiss him and squeeze him and stroke his feet and caress his back and run my hand over his head like I do and play with his ears and kiss those too to turn him on and look at him………..and?

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A friend said to me that V wasn’t very nice (to the friend).  I feigned not knowing and not understanding.  But I knew.  And V was like that sometimes.  It made my life more difficult.  I don’t know what to say/didn’t know what to say.  I said that I still loved him and that you can’t just let 20 years go and that V was a little strange sometimes.  I had to stop the friend bad-mouthing V.

It was true but I don’t want to hear someone else making out he was not perfect.  I can do that but can’t hear it from someone else.  Strange, I thought.  What does it mean?

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I look at his picture on the screen.  I look into his eyes.  I love that face.

I can’t wait until tomorrow afternoon.