Category Archives: Experiences

I take a trip to the chemist (twice)

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I decide I must go the chemist after all. It’s 3 and I decide to drive, walking will take too long and I can’t use public transport.

I get in the car and start the drive. I know which chemist I am going to. The traffic is light – well, almost non-existent. That is because this is just after 3 in the bloody morning! I got home at midnight with my tooth aching as it has done, on and off, for about 2 days. I know what the problem is – it is infected (again). I had, sort of, hoped it would go away but it hasn’t and now, instead of the pain lasting for an hour or so, it has lasted for several hours and has now woken me up at this ungodly hour.

I am in so much pain (and, being a man, this is tripled or quadrupled, of course) that I cannot do anything. When I got home at midnight the pain was bad. So much so that I texted V to ask if the chemist was till open in Corso Buenos Aires (it used to be an all-night one) and what I should get as I don’t usually do pills so really have no idea.

He says that he thinks the chemist is open and that I should ask for Synflex 550.

So, at just after midnight I trot off to the chemist – to find it no longer did the overnight opening but had a sign to say that it was now open from 8 a.m. To 8 p.m. Damn! I look for the nearest one open at this time from the list they have posted. I know where the nearest one is but it’s just too far to go, I have been out and had a few drinks and I want the pain to stop now.

I phone V. Does he have something? He says that he does but it’s not very strong. I say that that is OK by me. I go to the old flat. He has the pills ready and a glass of water. I take them, gratefully.

I go home. I go to bed. I go to sleep. Then I am up again at three and this time the pain is worse. I cannot stand the dogs who think it is time to go for a walk. I dismiss them and then feel sorry for them because it is not their fault but rather the pain’s.

I leave them to take the drive to the chemist that I am almost certain will be open.

I park, across tram lines, knowing that there will be no trams at this hour. I go to the chemist door. They are not open as such but I am invited, by a sign, to ring the bell. I ring, almost jumping up and down with the pain by now. I wait. This is taking too long. I ring again.

A bleary-eyed man arrives at the door. There is a small metal cover which he can open. He asks what I want. I tell him. Normally, at the chemist, when you ask for this stuff, they question you as to what you want it for; have you ever taken it before; before grudgingly going to get the packet.

He just asks for €10. I guess that, if you’re coming out here at this time to get this you know why you want it and have used it before. I give him 20 through the metal door that he has now opened, slightly.

He goes away. He returns quite quickly. He hands me the box and the change through the metal door. I thank him. It is as much as I can do not to tear open the box there and then and take a whole load of them.

I get in the car and drive back. In the 30 minutes or so that this whole exercise has taken, my parking place has been taken. I curse Italians and Italian drivers in particular. I drive round and find one space in a residential zone. I now live out of the zone for which I have the permit. I don’t care. I need to take the pills. I park, reasoning that between now and 7.15 when I shall leave, there won’t be anyone calling the police to have my car towed away for being parked in a wrong place.

I get back to the flat and once again, cannot greet the dogs who are happy to see me as if I have just got home from work.

I take the pills. I know that they will take effect – but, obviously, not within one second.

I wait for them to take hold. At 4.30 I go back to bed. I don’t really sleep but need to so much.

At 5.45 the alarm goes off and I find that I have slept, thank goodness.

Still, I am grateful for all-night chemists and grateful, in this case, that I live somewhere where it is possible to get to the chemist without having to travel for half an hour.

I am, unsurprisingly, very tired today.

I go to my dentist at 12.30. He will give me antibiotics and everything will be fine within a day, I know. I very much hope that I will be able to sleep tonight.

Finding things and throwing some out; Am I selfish?

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I open a shoe box. It contains many other, smaller boxes. I have assumed for some years, whilst it sat at the back of my wardrobe in the old flat, that it contained, more or less, only cuff-links.

Indeed, most of the stuff there is exactly that. I am surprised and, I must say, delighted to find some boxes which contain gold rings. This was from the ‘gold’ phase. The ‘gold’ phase was before V and lasted for some years with V. Of course, for some years now we have been on the ‘silver’ phase. I look froward to the ‘gold’ phase return and, maybe, I will re-introduce that phase? After all, I have no one to tell me not to.

I also find a card, at the bottom of the box. It is a Christmas card but I cannot tell from what Christmas it was. I suspect a Christmas before Italy, since these cards are impossible to find here, Italians not being into ‘cards for every occasion’ like the English or Americans. The card professes things.

I start to read it but my eyes cannot focus on the words and, in fact, although it was only last night, I cannot remember a single word – except the word ‘love’.

I wonder, now and yesterday, if the words meant anything at the time they were written or whether it was just ‘the right thing to say’? I wonder whether anything really has any meaning from anyone? I even wonder if anything I think or say is real or ‘made-up’ in my head? Sometimes it feels real but does that mean it was or is or is it just in my head?

I throw the card with the other things that I am throwing away. Boxes that contain nothing and that aren’t even nice boxes, plastic bags, etc.

There is a moment of indecision as to whether I should retrieve it. I have kept it this long (but for how long?). But why? I haven’t read it for a number of years and, maybe, never since it was given to me, so why keep it longer?

Why bother to keep it now?

I steel my heart (for it is my heart that tells me to retrieve it and my head is telling me not to) and it gets collected up and thrown out with the rest of the trash of a past life.

‘It’s better this way,’ I tell myself.

Later…. I talk with the dogs since a) they will listen, b) they will not answer back or contradict me or argue with me and c) there is no one else to talk to. For Dino, this talking means that I want to give him attention, so I do, loving him for being there and needing me right now.

This is the fifth post I have written and, probably the only one that I will publish. Sometimes it is hard to write something that is even slightly worthwhile and even the slightly worthwhile ones are dubious. Maybe all of them? But, then, like talking to Dino and Rufus, it’s not for their benefit but mine. Does that make me selfish?

Will this make me gay?

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As a gay person I must be a bit of a disappointment to the rest of the gay community. Indeed, I have been called the straightest of gay men. Many, many years ago, at a place that I worked, we did consulting to a well-known company based in the East of London/Essex. My work colleague was rumoured to be gay by the people we worked with at our customer. He countered this by telling people how wrong they had got it and that he was married with kids (and showing them pictures to prove it) whilst I was the one that was gay! I didn’t bear any grudge but thought it quite funny that so many people had got it so wrong.

Amongst other things, this straight/gay thing means that, for instance, I don’t wear any make-up; don’t really worry about being ‘toned’ (although these days it is a young, straight thing anyway) and never, never put what I call ‘crap’, on my body. ‘Crap’ includes cream – i.e. hand cream/body cream, etc.

However, since about November of last year, when we didn’t have a working washing machine, I had to do a lot of washing by hand. This played havoc with the skin on my hands which, until that point, had been as soft as a baby’s bottom (well, almost). The thing that really frustrated me is, that, my hands never recovered and, even now, parts of them are very rough with dry skin.

So, last night, after several months of putting up with this I had to phone V to ask what handcream he used, whilst I was in the supermarket. And, for the first time, really, I have started using hand cream. I am really hoping it is a temporary measure and that within a month or so, my hands will be back to normal as I am not keen on this new normal at all.

Perhaps, I am becoming a real gay person after all?

“There are no revelations. Everything you learn, you know already”

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I sit here, with the post below, not posted; with the rain outside – knowing it’s raining because of the whoosh of the cars as they drive through the driving rain; with, as I just told Best Mate, the heater that I didn’t buy last year or the year before that, or, even, the first year that I felt the cold after they had switched the building central heating off, blowing no hot air to keep me from blowing on my fingers to try and stem the feeling that my fingers were gradually shrivelling up – when they had gone cold and shiny and slippery, in the way that they do with the cold – when they won’t work properly.

And, the reason for the post below not being posted, as this one won’t be, when I am finished, is down to wonderful Telecom Italia. I have been back with them less than a week and it already feels like I have never been away. It’s the rain, I suppose.

The difference between this time and the last time I had problems with Telecom Italia (which was just before I moved to Infostrada/Wind/whatever) was that the whole conversation was in Italian. Well, I say Italian. His bit was in Italian and my bit was in a version of Italian that, using a phrase used by one of my ex-students who is now a colleague could only be described as Kill Italian Volume 105.

Still, I made myself understood. He made himself understood to me. Everything was going swimmingly until the end when I asked how long it could possibly take to fix.

“Two days”

“TWO DAYS!” I could barely keep the shock that this information had on me out of my voice. In fact so barely was it concealed that, the reality was, it wasn’t.

He made a noise which I can only describe as a cross between a laugh and a snort. The laugh because I’m sure that’s what it was but the snort because there was a certain amount of the arrogant contempt for which all Telecom Italian employees must have special training in order that they are able to master it to perfection.

I thanked him but I have no idea what for.

Perhaps it is the rain after all. I have noticed that, in general, if anything goes wrong it is when it is raining here. The radio will go silent for minutes at a time; the electricity can be a little intermittent; the telephone lines don’t work properly.

Still, on the plus side, whilst Best Mate was listening to her iPod thing (which is not an iPod at all – just something similar), I finished the book that Peter had lent me at the Mantova festival last September! Yes, it has taken me 7 months to finish a single book. Even I am disgusted with myself. Anyway, the one line that really stood out for me was the line in the post title. I just loved it.

And the book? Kalooki Nights by Howard Jacobson – page 446 in the version Peter lent me. So there you have it.

This will be posted, exactly as it is, when I have internet access.

Still not holding my breath; Time Out Pizzeria; Having a wife!

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Apparently, after an ‘interesting’ conversation she had with her friend, as we’re walking to the pizzeria, I won’t be holding my breath until Saturday or Sunday! Hmm.

This morning, coming to work, the temperature sensor was recoding 16.5 degrees. The sun is shining and, for the first time this year, I did not wear a jumper to work! Yay! Although, obviously, I was wearing a coat.

Still, if only this would hold for the weekend and, even better, if Best Mate still comes, next week! Blue skies, no wind, and, again, last night, we were able to sit outside for our meal without jackets. Oh yes, this makes it all worthwhile.

So, back to last night. The plan was that FfI was going to make dinner at home. She bought all the stuff. She also bought a clothes drying rack; a standing lamp; a basket to hold washing and cleaning stuff; a mirror for the bathroom. She also cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom. It’s like having a wife!

The problem is that the clothes drying rack is for hanging outside on the balcony. She likes her clothes to dry outside. Given the pollution in this city and the film of dirt that is on the car every morning, I prefer to dry everything inside. Ah well, there are worse things.

The lamp, however, is really great. It is now standing in the kitchen. The Art Deco lamp that was in the kitchen is now shedding light in the hall (which was the only place without light or windows and was, therefore, very dark). It’s good. It cost €5 but looks like it should be worth about €100!

The mirror (a cheap one from one of the Chinese shops that is full of tat) is serviceable and now I can shave without having to squat down!

Instead of her making dinner, she suggested that we go for a pizza. We walk up to Via Eustachi which is a very elegant street in Milan. It is also full of restaurants and bars. We select a pizzeria that she says is part of a small chain and, supposedly, very good. It’s called Time Out, or something like that. The chain is run by Chinese, apparently. The pizzas were good, the house red wine was fizzy and cold and perfectly acceptable and the conversation flowed. The evening was warm and very pleasant. And all for €13 per head! Very good value and one I can see myself going to much more often.

It was marred only by the phone conversation she had with her friend on the way there and a subsequent one when we got there.

She had told me, before, that she had texted her friend, twice, asking what was going on and could she still come tomorrow (now today, obviously) to stay. Her friend was not responding. I knew what this meant and told her.

A few minutes after we started walking to the restaurant her friend rang her (she had just sent another text) and there followed a rather heated argument. It was embarrassing and unnecessary, in my view. After all, I knew from the day before yesterday that this ‘move’ wasn’t going to happen.

Anyway, the upshot is that her friend didn’t have room because some other friends are down from the mountains. FfI wasn’t happy. I wasn’t exactly ecstatic but had to offer that she could stay – what else could I do? So, now it will be until Saturday or Sunday or, perhaps, even Monday). An offer to go to the Friend with the Second Home on the Lake for the weekend was rejected. I understand but, still, a break would be nice (for me, really).

Here I am in my new flat and unable, really to stretch out and enjoy it; continue putting stuff away and sorting things out, etc. Hmmph! And, even with V, I need my personal ‘downtime’ or space.

I really hope that Best Mate can make it after all as that IS something to look forward to and the weather is predicted to be pretty good – plenty of sunshine and warmish weather. And I want to explore the area with her, above all others.

Not holding my breath – and for good reason; Living with someone; a new restaurant

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Remember? I’m still not holding my breath. Last night FfI mentioned that the friend, to whom she was going to move, may not be able to put her up until the weekend. I read between the lines and know what that means. Certainly, she will be there tonight. Tomorrow?

However, it changed again this morning, probably because she insists on getting up after I have taken the dogs for a walk and I don’t think she normally got up anywhere near that time in the past. At that time it’s only just getting light. She gets up for coffee with me. We have conversation. Now, I’m not really a morning person; I don’t like having conversation. I prefer to be quiet and not to do much (except drink coffee and have some cigarettes).

I really don’t mind having her stay. Except that, whereas she’s lovely, she may be considered harder work than someone, say, like Best Mate. With Best Mate I can, certainly, be totally myself and completely relaxed. With FfI, it’s not really the same at all.

But she’s trying to be sweet and I am trying to be accommodating. It’s difficult, this living with someone else, especially if you’re in a three-room flat!

Anyway, as a sort of payment for using my flat over these two (or three or four) days, she took me out last night. Please bear in mind, it’s always ladies first, ladies have a seat, ladies are treated, well, like ladies. But I have no problem when they pay for things. For me they are equal in all things but should be treated with the courtesy of being a lady. This does not mean they shouldn’t pay their way – after all, some of them I know earn so much more than I do.

She had asked me where and, since I’ve never been there but passed it the other night whilst taking the dogs out, I suggested Aladino. She had mentioned it several times in the past as a great restaurant and that we should go and now, as it’s a two minute walk from my house, it seemed the perfect time.

Aladino (not pronounced the English way – I.e. like Aladin with an ‘o’ on the end and the stress on the ‘la’ – but rather as in Allah + Dino (deenoh) with the stress on the ‘di’) is a Lebanese (and, as I look at the website, Syrian) restaurant.

As FfI had been there before, many times, and, I was on the telephone to another friend, she went and ordered for both of us.  Which was fine by me!

What we had decries description. To start with was cold ‘mesa’ (may not be spelt correctly) which was about 25 small dishes with ‘stuff’. Different sauces, vegetables done in different sauces, etc. Served with warm pitta bread.

Each dish allowed four small but adequate portions of whatever the ‘stuff’ was. This you put on pitta bread and eat. Most of it was very tasty but very different tastes for most of them which meant you felt as if you were getting a whole meal. And, to be honest, I had to check at one point, what was coming next, so as not to over-do it at the start.

Next came three different hot ‘mesa’. Again, very nice and, thankfully not so much as I was already a little full from the cold dishes.

Then came the kebabs – lamb and beef. Served with salad and rice. By now there was far too much to eat! Still, to follow, was the sweet – two types but not over-sweet and one of which was a little like blancmange (which was always one of favourite deserts). Then there was tea and, for me, a limoncello.

Very, very nice meal although not cheap at €40 per head! However, as an alternative to Chinese or Indian, very welcome.

I clean and wait

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I should be working. Both ‘real’ work and the ‘other’ work (which, in reality, is just as real and, if I actually got my ass into gear, would pay for a new laptop).

I sit here, in the office, with my coat on. It is not so cold – except in this office.

FfI arrived last night; late. She should have arrived at about 11 and instead it was about 11.45. It did make me clean the house and put some boxes in the car to take back to V; or, rather, to take back to the old place to allow me to pack some more stuff to take away and try to find a place for it in a flat with no storage.

FfI bought me an ashtray and some chocolate-covered wafers from her trip to the strange land. The ashtray is nice and also very useful, since the split means I don’t have so many of them each. The chocolate-covered wafers are, apparently, fantastic. We shall see.

It was to be for one night. Now it will be two but she ‘should be gone after that’. Another friend’s ex-husband is leaving to go back to the country house and so there will be room. I am not holding my breath

I finished the cleaning; flattened some boxes; went round to V’s place (that was our place and now is an alien place even if the furniture is still ‘our’ furniture). I collected a duvet (it being so cold at night) for FfI, some mugs (I realised I only had two) and some pans (I had none). These things, in the main, having been forgotten by me in the rush to advise each of the packers in different rooms

V and I had a glass of wine. He lent me some incense – it being essential to mask the smell of the dogs, especially in this damp or wet weather.

I went home and sat at the kitchen table in the silence of the night although, if you listened hard enough, you could detect the hum of the traffic and the clang and grinding of the trams; I opened a bottle of wine and poured myself a glass and read the book that I had been lent about 9 months ago and should have finished about 8 months ago.

I wouldn’t do that at the previous home. I expect, when I get the TV functioning, I will do less of that. But, for now, it’s such a pleasure to be able to read in the dim light of one lamp (since all the light fittings have been taken – as they do here) and a glass of wine in one hand.

Dino, of course, wants to play. I am mindful that throwing things for him too much could cause problems for the people below me – first, the thud of the toy hitting the floor and then the clippety-clipping of the toenails as he scampers to retrieve said toy and then, occasionally, the crash as he slides into something like a door or bookcase.

When I stop the playing, he comes and, almost, takes my arm off, such is the force by which he ‘nudges’ me. It makes it difficult to drink the wine – I have to sip it in between the ‘nudges’.

FfI arrives and, having just travelled for hours, is not so sleepy. I pour her wine in the other glass I got out some time before, ready, for just this moment. She wants to hear about the flat but also wants to tell me about the trip; the things that were done; the shade of brown she has become; the men she has met or re-met; the old friends that she saw.

I only half listen. Had she not been coming I would have been like a log in my bed by half past ten.

As it is, we chat for a bit. I try to concentrate on what she is saying, I do, I really do.

I help her make up the ‘bed’ in the lounge.

I crash into my bed – I can’t even be bothered to turn off the computer. It will be five hours and I will be up again. I would normally say ‘roll on the weekend’ but, again, I will have so much to do I know I will not have the lie-in that I so want.

On the plus side, when Best Mate comes next week, now that she is sleeping like a normal person, I should be able to catch up with my sleep – if that is ever really possible!

Ache = Pain = Cramps

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I’ve been a long time out of the UK. I am sure my English suffers. Certainly I don’t know, nor how to use, the new slang; the current popular words (I can’t tell you what they are as I don’t know them, obviously – but I know they will exist).

But it came to me this morning that, here, at least, I have noticed a change in my use of some words. When I was a kid, we had, as kids do from time to time, stomach ache.

After I had left home and, eventually became (or thought I became) ‘grown up’ the things changed from ache to pain. No longer would one have such a thing as ‘stomach ache’ but rather ‘stomach pain’.

Recently (and perhaps this is because I mix with Canadians, Americans and the like), the term has changed, yet again. Stomach Cramps are the thing to have.

Is this the same in the UK or has this latest change come about because of my mixing with the ‘wrong people’? :-)

On holiday in a different city.

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The street is long and straight. I pass the local café, the sun is shining and it’s quite warm. I pass the small supermarket – the same as the one I used to use a lot, but tiny. I pass a Tuscan restaurant that must be new. I stop to look at the menu. Maybe I’ll try it some time. As usual, Tuscan restaurants are more expensive than most Italian restaurants.

A store owner/manager is in the doorway of his shop, having a cigarette and comments on how pretty the dogs are. He talks to a woman that he obviously knows, about how nice they are. Of course, it is the first time they have seen them. I walk on, past the dry cleaners, the card shop (which, as usual, sells children’s toys and tat).

I look at everything with a different view. This is like a small community. It seems that many people know each other. It seems like a small town.

I am, in fact, in the street that is parallel to the street on which I used to live. I know this street (or, rather, I thought I knew this street). It is the Perfect Street. Except, I never used to stroll down here on a daily basis. And now it is different. It is The Perfect Street – but it is completely different from how it was. I am on a street that is one street away from where I lived (one block for my American readers) and, yet, it feels as if I am in a completely different city. It is all new; the people are new; no one has seen the dogs before; the shops are small and the whole thing has this “village” feel. How could I not know this before?

But, not only am I in a different city, I am also on holiday.

n the past, you would go on holiday to a small cottage or caravan. Everything would be as it was in your house, except smaller. The fridge was smaller: the cooker had two or three rings and was tiny: even the sink was cute. Of course, you couldn’t live there for long and it was always great to get back home with the “full-sized” stuff.

Well, it’s not quite like that but, compared to the last place, it is kinda small – cute, one might say – and so, with it feeling like a different city when I step out of the door and the feeling of being in some sort of holiday cottage, it does feel a bit like actually being on holiday somewhere.

My only concern is – once the holiday feeling has worn off in a few weeks, will I still like living here?

The flat is like a tardis; A strange thing about moving into a new place (in Italy).

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Of course, it’s not all over yet. I mean, it’s not like the ‘moving out’ is the final thing and today is the first day of the rest of my life (although it is, of course).

No, in the end, there were many things that I forgot, left behind, etc. Was this a subconscious decision on my part to ensure I had to keep going back? Or was this, as I suspect, just plain laziness/running out of time?

So, I took the modem/router but, with my new, not-working, Alice system, I don’t need it (the Telecom guy said that, in fact, I can’t use it! I think he’s lying). So, tonight, after a I go and pick up some shoes and other stuff, I shall be returning the modem and setting it up for V in the half-empty flat that, even as I was leaving it, felt too large for a family of four, let alone two. Or, maybe, I have become (a little) Italian?

Or, maybe, my new flat is just like a tardis? After all, empty, it seemed tiny. Before, with her stuff in it it seemed quite big. Now, with my stuff in it seems even bigger. How on earth can that be?

And there’s a strange thing about Italians and flats for rent. I have mentioned this before but it is quite common for people, on leaving a rented flat, to take the kitchen they have installed. In this case the kitchen is not all that great but, at least, it’s there. Together with (not brilliant but not bad) fridge; good, but small washing machine and adequate cooker – and sink and drainer (which most of you, outside Italy, would take for granted anyway). Certainly all the light fittings are taken – even the bulbs. This means that, until I find all my lamps (major hunt going on tonight) and then buy some light fittings (and get someone to fit them), I am walking around with one lamp and my mobile phone. The mobile phone being used instead of a torch to find the socket into which I may plug my lamp!

I did think that there were not that many light fittings available anyway. In fact, I could not remember any. However, I now find there is at least one in all rooms except the bedroom where there is none. However, none of the ‘fittings’ have anything except wire – I mean no actual light/bulb/fitting – just bare wire. This means that I need light fittings AND someone to fit them, me never being happy with messing about with electricity, especially if on my own. V always did this stuff.

And, therefore, I may take the wall lights from the lounge that we fitted and one or two other ceiling lights. V had offered. I had thought about asking him to come and fit them but I think that may be a bit much and would, but maybe only in my mind, mean he has a ‘hold’ on the place – just because he was ‘involved’ in setting it up. Crazy? Maybe, but I do want this to be my place.

So, at least for the next few days, I shall be returning to ‘collect’ some things and to ‘return’ some things that the removal men packed because I couldn’t watch them all the time.

As you see, it is not ‘over’. However, maybe things will change when he’s moved out? Or, maybe, they will be the same or similar?