Category Archives: Experiences

Making a new purchase is difficult

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I’m not really what you would call “a shopper”.  In spite of V’s 20 years of trying to make me one.  And now that I don’t have him to “force” me to do so, I find that putting off making that purchase suits me just fine.

So, I really could do with some new shirts and there’s a shop just down the road with shirts for €10 so there’s no excuse, really.  But still, when I pass, which I do often, there’s always a good reason why “this moment” is not the right time.

The same is true of the table that I really want but just can’t be bothered to get in the car and drive to get, which is annoying, even to me and yet, not annoying enough that I actually do something about it.

However, if I need to shop or are in a situation where I am with others who are shopping, purchasing can be quite easy.

Food shopping I do actually enjoy.  Not going to the supermarket, exactly (but even that is quite nice if I have a recipe/meal in mind) but looking round interesting food shops (which I have been doing some of whilst abroad, recently).

And when I was getting my passport renewed, we were stuck for some hours in a town and I managed to pick up a couple of very nice T-Shirts for a very reasonable price.  For clothes shopping, the way that works is I walk into the shop, take a quick glance at the rails I can see and quickly determine if there’s likely to be any chance of finding something I will like.

I go to the rail and quickly flick through the things and only if there is something slightly unusual or interesting do I bother to even pull it out.  Then, if I can’t find my size within milliseconds I find an assistant who can do all the looking for me.

So, as you can imagine, finding something more “technical” quite fills me with dread.  Although I seriously need a new computer, I just cannot go looking.  The same with a new mobile phone.  You see, the problem is that there is too much choice and you can’t tell what you want just by “browsing” through a store.

However, I thought that getting a new vacuum cleaner would be a bit of a breeze.  Although I had put it off for about 2 months, I decided, yesterday, that I really had to do it as I cannot beat out the big rug – it’s just too big to go over the balcony and I was finding it difficult to clean.

I knew what I wanted.  A Dyson.  Now there’s a simple thing, I thought.  I go to the shop in Corso Buenos Aires that I know.  As I get to the right area I see an array of vacuum cleaners.  Not a good sign.  I find a few Dysons.  Actually, a few too many!  There’s one for allergies, one that says “Origin” (meaning original?) and a few others.  They are expensive so I briefly toy with the idea of a Hoover or similar equivalent but remember that the Dyson is definitely better.

I pick one as if sticking a pin in a map and deciding where to go.  It’s the Origin.  Not the most expensive but would seem to be the right one.

The one on display is the last one they have.  I ask for a discount.  They won’t give me enough and so I leave.  I decide to go to the other shop of theirs that is between Piazza Oberdan and Piazza Repubblica.  I can get the same one there that hasn’t been on display.

I go to the right areas for vacuums.  Here they have even more choice of Dysons!  There’s even one for Pet Hair!  Who would know that you could have a cleaner that was specifically designed to get all the pet hair up?  However, that one costs almost €200 more than the normal ones.  Although I may need it, I am not paying so much extra.  But there were at least another 4 different types!  Why?  Too much choice in this sort of thing just makes me want to walk away.

Anyway I plump for the one that I think will suit.  The girl has a good time (not) searching for one that has the correct tool for both hard floors and rugs but, eventually, finds one. I pay and catch the tram back home, grateful, in fact, that the tram stop is right outside and that I didn’t have to lug one from their other shop.

I put it together at home but didn’t actually try it as I am feeling so tired following my recent trips.

I decide to hoover up this morning.

I try to find a socket or adapter that will take the plug.  None do.  My flat is old and uses a special (old) type of socket that requires special adapters to permit normal plugs of today to fit. However, I was surprised that none of the adapters would work. Damn!

So now I will be back to the shop on Monday to find (hopefully) an adapter that works.  The cleaning will wait.

Is it Brunch or Lunch or just Italy?

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Brunch. Invented by the Americans or, more likely, people too lazy to get up early enough on a Sunday to have a proper breakfast but wanted a breakfast anyway, rather than a lunch. And so, the two merged together and became Brunch.

Great idea. And the times were flexible. An early Brunch would be about 11 or 11.30; a late one about 2 or 3 p.m.

Brunch was quite simply a late breakfast – to include bacon, eggs, sausage, beans and toast and marmalade.

And the Italians like the idea of Brunch a lot only, being in Italy, they’ve made it Italian.

What does that mean? Well, certain establishments do the bacon and eggs thing (with other things) like, for example Indiana Post on the Navigli. Other, more Italian places, have dispensed with that and just do the Italian Brunch.

And what makes an Italian Brunch? Well, basically anything you may have for lunch even, maybe, including pasta – but usually without the main meat course.

And on Sunday I was invited to M’s place. My first time there.

So, being Italian the thing is the number of dishes. Rather than having a few main dishes, they like variety. There was meat and there was cheese. Then there was a kind of chicken curry risotto and two different quiche-like pies. And there was this Sicilian/Sardinian bread (can’t remember which place it’s from). There was tea and coffee (American rather than espresso) and juice and water.

Then we had sbrisolona (not one of my favourites, I have to be honest) and la greca (both cakes from Mantova where one of the guests, Marco, is from). La greca was a kind of lemon/almond cake and very nice. I’ve certainly never had it in Mantova before so will be on the lookout for it next time I’m there. There were also normal (small) pastries. There was also fresh fruit (cherries, nectarines, strawberries and melon).

Luckily, I brought a couple of good bottles of Rosé and someone else brought some Moscato for the sweets.

Then there was espressos all round.

It was a lovely afternoon (we left about 7 p.m. having got there for 1.30) but, to my mind, Brunch it was not. Italian (it only missed being under a pergola overlooking the Tuscan hills), it most certainly was and, given the right setting (as I described), it was almost exactly what you would expect from an Italian summer lunch.

>I’m just going to have to do a proper Brunch for them all, aren’t I? Although, they would probably think it strange not to have more than a couple of hundred different dishes. Ah well, this would have to be another in my quest to get Italians to understand that not all British food is tasteless rubbish.

A Security Issue

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How well can we rely on the security staff at Europe’s airports to do their jobs? Can they really protect us from a terrorist who is determined to blow up a plane? Are they, or the machinery they operate, up to the job?

My experiences show otherwise. The number of times I have been checked through British Airports and then European ones, each having a different set of rules and each finding different things to concern themselves with, make me wonder what this security thing is all about.

Take my latest trip.

From Malpensa through Brussels to Birmingham. Fairly straightforward, you might think. However, add in the fact that, in order to smoke, I go through security more than once at most airports. I get to learn what they want and this makes it quicker (for them and me) – however, something is most definitely wrong.

I am taking coffee in my hand luggage. This is finely ground coffee. It’s special Italian coffee and is for Best Mate.

First there is Malpensa. In the tray I put my bag. In another tray I put my coat and my mobile phone. My coat contains my cigarettes and a lighter. I keep all my coins and my other lighter. Stupidly, I have worn my boots which have a large chunk of metal round the heel. The security guard wants these on the conveyor belt which is, kind of, fair enough.

I slip through the gate with no beep. I collect all my things and on we go to the aircraft.

We arrive in Belgium – Brussels to be exact. I leave the airport (as if I am going to Brussels) so that I may go outside to have a cigarette.

Of course, I have to go back through security. Here they want all shoes off – metal or no.

I put my bag in a tray. I put my coat (with mobile , cigarettes and lighter) in another tray. But wait! Here they also want loose change. I take the Euro coins from one pocket and the English coins from another and add them to the coat tray.

I step through. No beep.

However, here, they decide that my bag requires checking. Nothing has been added or taken away since Malpensa (except the Milan-Brussels boarding card).

They go through the bag. They are interested in the tobacco and the coffee but, of course, everything has to come out. Nothing is found that is bad (I am not a terrorist).

I pack up and walk on.

After coffee and a sandwich, I really need another cigarette. Once again I leave the airport to stand outside the arrivals and have my couple of cigarettes.

I go back through security. This is the same security gate that I went through before. Exactly the same gate. There were a few different staff.

I placed my bag in one tray; my coat (with phone, cigarettes, lighter, Euro coins and British coins) in another and my boots in a third.

Then he asked if I had anything else in my pockets. I said my wallet (credit cards and cash) and he wanted them too.

So, there I was, going through the same gate as I had done an hour before. Personally, the only differences between last time and this were:

Minus: Credit Card Wallet

Plus: One glass of beer (inside me, of course); One chicken, bacon and lettuce sandwich (again inside me); A couple of cigarettes worth of extra tar/nicotine/whatever; Dust or anything that may have been floating in the air and is too small to see.

It beeped.

So then I had to be searched as did my bag.

The guy actually said that he had seen me go through before.

My conclusion to this was that either:

  1. The machine beeps every fifth or tenth person through, whatever.
  2. Someone in the team had a remote control switch that made it beep (and that is for another post).

Either way, it simply WAS NOT POSSIBLE for the machine to detect beer, chicken, bacon, lettuce, tar or nicotine in my body. And I honestly assure you there was nothing else that was additional on my person.

Speaking to someone today who knows someone in the Civil Aviation Authority in the country they come from (not Italy or the UK) he said that his friend had advised that, in fact, these security checks were a waste of time, money and energy but that ‘it makes the passengers feel safer’.

Well, not me it doesn’t. It makes me feel angry as I now know that the security gate in Brussels (the one on the left as you go through to the UK flights) doesn’t work properly. And, if it doesn’t work properly, is it the only one? I suspect not.

And then there was the UK on the way back. Going through Birmingham security:

Female Security Person: Do you have a belt, sir?
Me: No.
FSP: Can you take your sandals off please sir?
Me: Why – that guy has just gone through with sandals?
FSP: Exactly sir, and it set the alarm off.

I went through sans sandals.

Whilst waiting for my stuff to come through, the next five people were allowed through with their sandals on!

I’m sorry but you are just being random. And random doesn’t make me feel safe. Random means lucky not secure. Random means you are there to annoy me rather than make me feel good. All this security rubbish has to stop.

So, Brussels security does not make me feel safe and Birmingham security are too random for me to feel safe.

At least with Italian security you know where you stand – I.e. they are fairly relaxed about it – but, weirdly, it makes me feel safer as, instead of concentrating on rubbish, they probably have time to truly observe the people going through and can spot someone who might be acting in a suspect manner.

When is a question not a question? When it’s asked by an Italian!

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Sometimes, I just love Italians and the way they think. It’s like living on a different planet.

Having been to Mantova’s Festivaletteratura a number of times I have found that, given the opportunity to speak in public, they really don’t know when to stop or, worse, get to the point.

This is particularly true when they ask questions.

The night before last, I was honoured to be invited to my good friend Stef’s graduation, for he has worked very hard over the last two years and got his MBA. As usual, when he is pleased with himself (as he has every right to be), he just can’t stop grinning.

Of course, before the actual handout of the certificates, there had to be some speech by some guy and then he was asked questions from the panel of lecturers. The last question though, took about 3 minutes to ask and then, at the end, the question failed to materialise! They are a strange people, these Italians.

There was another guy who, I think, was actually doing the handing out – he actually started his speech by saying it would be brevissimo (very short). Of course, he was Italian so that was his own special joke and he continued to talk for over 15 minutes!

Anyway, aside from that it was a very nice evening with drinks and apero food afterwards. N & I managed to get quite a few prossecco’s down us and I met Stef’s parents and younger brother.

There was only one thing, and this is one of those little things that still smart after all this time – if V & I had been together and there, after the event, it would have been nice to go for a quick pizza. But we’re not together and even though I really fancied it, I didn’t go on my own. I did resist calling him which, I thought, was good, as it would have felt far too needy – at least from my point of view.

Not just the British complain about the weather.

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This morning, as I drive to work, it is already 20 degrees! Over an hour earlier, before most people were even awake or, at least, before they were out and about, I was walking the dogs.

It is warm enough not to wear a coat and wear light clothes. I do not quite trust it enough to be wearing sandals but, another week of this and maybe I will.

Two weeks ago the Italians (and I) were complaining that there was too much rain and that it was far too cold. “It’s too cold for May” or “There’s too much rain”, they say (me too!).

Now the Italians (but NOT me) are complaining that it is too hot! “It’s too hot for May”, they say! I say “For me, if it were like this every day I would be very, very happy”.

Nothing in life is for free; I am no DIYer

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It is true. Nothing in life is for free. This weekend was as busy as it could be. Saturday trawling around Junk Shops (often called Antique markets in the UK) looking for suitable furniture and Sunday, well, Sunday was a few things.

I had been ‘given’ a tall cupboard for the kitchen. Of course, it needed to be disassembled and then transported to my flat.

I am told that the man with the drills and screwdrivers will be there at 3 p.m.

Siamo in Italia – I plan to get there at 4. I arrive. The man with the tools has been and gone – gone to go home and get the tools. We wait in a virtually empty flat. And we wait. The man with the tools is helping move the final items as the cheap mover my friend chose has broken/sprained his wrist. Except the man with the tools cannot actually lift or carry anything as he hurt his back. If I had known he wasn’t going to be there with tools I would have brought my own screwdrivers. Bah!

He arrives and is let into the building. After 15 minutes he has not arrived at the flat (which is on the first floor).

I suggest that I go down to help. He is kneeling on the floor, just inside the entrance, trying to close the toolbox lid (I’m not sure why it was open anyway).

I go and help. He seems to be having problems closing the lid but sorts it just before I arrive. I offer to carry the box. He warns me it is very heavy. Now, I am not Mr Universe, in fact, quite the opposite. I wouldn’t want to carry it for 5 miles but it really isn’t that heavy.

I walk up to the first floor.

He starts to take down the cupboard. After unscrewing one screw, I take over. In fact, I then do most of it myself.

I start to carry it, piece by piece, to the car. I realise the sides and door will not fit in the car and allow me to close the boot. I curse my stupidity for not bringing rope/string.

The man with the tools suggests we try it in his car. It has the same length as mine so will be the same problem.

I put everything in my car. The man with the tools lent me some of those stretchy things to tie down the boot.

I drive home slowly – very slowly.

I know that my friend will be very angry that I did not stay to help with the other boxes – but I am now running very late and cannot stop. I make the excuse that my car is open and cannot leave it like that. Anyway, I’ve kind of lost patience with her. She expects everything for nothing. But I am a gay man and unaffected by her charms towards straight men. They simply do not work on me. And, I have already done enough for her to deserve the ‘free’ cupboard.

When I get home I curse the fact that a) I live on the third floor, b) the things will not fit in the lift and c) I live on my own with no one to help. But, I get the stuff into the flat and rush to have a shower before going out to dinner, as had been planned.

Earlier, I had to do some DIY. DIY is not my strong point, although, apart from some cooking, what is, I wonder?

However, DIY in any shape or form is not in my list of things I do. Let’s be honest, V did almost all the DIY; all the fixing of the house to make it right. I did the cleaning of drains, the garden, etc.

I need to put up the curtain poles I bought the day before. I start with the lounge. First I must go round to the old flat to borrow the drill from V.

I trundle round and he tells me what I need. I carry it home (along with a barrel of beer that really needs drinking – but not now, of course!).

I have to extend the ladders to their fullest. I don’t do heights either – but I have no choice unless I have bought the rods for nothing and will have no curtains.

I climb up the ladder with the drill. I drill. I try to fit in the rawl plug. I realise I have the wrong size drill bit. I climb down and fit a larger one. I climb up and re-drill. The rawl plug won’t go all the way in. But the way is blocked by a lintel or something.

The fixing ‘screw’ has a screw on the one side for fixing in the wall and a different screw on the other for screwing in the pole support – so that no fixing will be visible. So that you don’t ruin the thread for the pole support, there is a little cap that is screwed on to create a kind of screw head. I screw in the screw thing.

I find I cannot unscrew the head from the screw. I only have on pair of pliers so cannot do it.

I go back round to V’s to get another pair of pliers.

With two pairs of pliers it does the trick. Also, on the way back home I realised that my ‘super scissors’ would trim the rawl plug flush to the wall.

I have success! I fit the other one (which is much quicker, of course), fit the pole and the curtains. At last! I now have to fit the tie-backs and do the same thing for the bedroom!

The whole thing has taken several hours! Just for a curtain pole! I look at the mess and realise I must go to pick up the cupboard (see above).

I review the mess every time I go to the bedroom. I will be busy tonight!

I had forgotten……

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……just how bad Telecom Italia were.

I am reminded this morning. No Internet. I phone the line. They ask if the ADSL light is on. It is. They do a check. They inform me that it will, definitely, be fixed before Thursday.

Someone (and I forget who) was surprised that Infostrada/Wind were so much better. But it is true. I think, in the 2 years (or whatever) I was with Infostrada, I only had to phone them once (and I’m not even certain that I had to do that!).

Whereas, with Telecom Italia, I had to phone them quite often.

They are, as I said before Teminally Ill – and crap with it.

I HATE TELECOM ITALIA! May they and all they arrogant, supercilious employees, rot in hell.

I remain, slightly, angry, in case you hadn’t guessed.

They’re back!

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It rained overnight and I guess that’s why they’re back. It’s to be expected of course. But it doesn’t stop it being very annoying.

I woke up with the alarm and, for the first time for absolutely ages, decided to hit the snooze button. But sleep was not to come. The droning started almost immediately.

First close and then further away – but always present. It sounds like one of those unmanned aircraft. But when it’s close it is quite loud. Instead of going back to sleep, my elbow feels itchy. I scratch it. Maybe it’s psychological, only, maybe not.

>And then it lands but in this case, although the droning has stopped, there is no ‘Thank Goodness’ from me.

That’s because it’s on my face and, in my half-asleep condition, I have no skill to kill it properly. I slap my face but know that it has already left – I can hear the drone in the distance.  I get up, before the alarm sounds again, after all, what’s the point, it’s not going away any time soon!

Of course, one swallow doesn’t make a summer – and so, one zanzare (or is it zanzara if it’s only one – anyway, they’re mosquitoes to you!)) doesn’t mean that, immediately the infestation will start. It may not be today; it may not be tomorrow but someday, soon, they will be filling the flat to destroy my night’s sleep or worse, creating large, red, lumps, over my body.

Worse still, after the first few ‘bites’ will I have the usual swelling of my arm, as most other years? I hope not. Not that it’s painful but it’s not pleasant.

Still, come July or August and they will be gone. Maybe, this year, the local councils will spray to get rid of them which, at least, reduces their number? Let’s hope so.

Mrs Dentist was wrong, apparently.

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Even the dentist agrees that something was definitely wrong.

I should not have been in that> much pain receiving the anaesthetic. And, he doesn’t agree that his wife (for they are husband and wife) is right about the pain being caused by the broken tooth (and I concur with him).

They have phoned S, earlier, to ask if I will go back, after work, for him to have another look. He wants to do an x-ray higher up, to include the jaw bone.

Looking at the new x-ray he decides that the far back one will, unfortunately, have to come out and the next one has a particular problem that was not apparent before.

I go back next Tuesday after the antibiotics have done their thing.

I wish I could say that I was looking forward to it…….

I go to the dentist (and once was enough) – an update from the previous post

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S phones her husband – who owns the dental practice where I now go. I can go in at 12.30.

I arrive. I am lucky (?) to have both dentists at my disposal. I explain what has happened and that I think it is infected (abscess). I need some antibiotics.

They take a look. They see that the tooth has a bit broken off. They think this is the cause of the pain. I try to explain that the tooth broke about 2 or 3 months ago and the pain started happening 2 or 3 days ago. In my mind there was no correlation.

They still think it is a result of the break.

The woman dentist injects my gum and, a few minutes later starts the treatment. The cold air hits my painful bit and I almost jump out of the chair. They think this is strange. They decide to inject the roof of my mouth. At first this is OK. After a few seconds it feels like she is sticking the needle into the painful area without any anesthetic.

I attempt to rise from the chair like she is a magician doing that levitation trick. At the same time, I make garbled shrieks. I have never felt this much pain in a dentist’s chair.

She stops but then says she must continue to sort it out. She continues. I scream. She then blows a little, faint stream of cold air into the area. She asks if it hurts and yes, it bloody well does.  I mean, I know I’m a bloke and we’re not so good with pain, but never, never can I remember so much pain.  She might as well have been sticking a needle into an area of my body that was the most sensitive!

They decide that, maybe, there is some small infection. I have a prescription to get some antibiotics.

I go back on Tuesday. The man dentist says it’s OK to take Synflex whilst taking the antibiotics.

This is a good thing as, on the drive back to work, the pain comes back like it was at 3 this morning. I have taken two more tablets. Almost 2 hours later I find the pain is now almost bearable.

I never did like dentists that much. I like S’s husband – but he is not a dentist, only the owner/dental technician. He made my new teeth and on which he did a fantastic job. I still don’t like actual dentists that much.