Category Archives: Friends and Inimies

Don’t have enemies. It’s not good for you. So, that’ll be just friends, then.

Food; Alarm or Not; I get the keys to the flat!

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The phone makes its beeping sound.  ‘Go on, baby, get up’, he says.  I get up, thinking how much I hate this getting up at this time in his place knowing I’ve got that 20-minute walk back home to take the boys out.  For some reason, getting up in my flat doesn’t seem so bad!

I put my clothes in the lounge so that I wouldn’t wake him too much.  I start getting dressed and, for some reason, look at my phone.  Why hasn’t the phone shown the snooze option, I wonder?  I look at the time.  It’s 5.30.  The beeping was for an email that came through.  But 5.30 means only a quarter of an hour until the alarm anyway, and I’m half dressed and, so, by the time I got back to bed there would only be 10 minutes and, therefore, I wouldn’t sleep anyway.  And it would annoy him if I went back.  And it means I can take the dogs out on the full walk, rather than the short walk that I do when I stay at his place.  Still, I am annoyed with myself for not setting the phone to silent as I usually do, for this very reason.

So, in spite of the fact that I really want to go back and sleep, I continue to dress.

I go back and kiss him goodbye.  ‘Ciao, baby’ he calls, as I go down the stairs and make my way home.

I had just checked with him before I got out of the bed that he had a good night.  He had.  He asked if I had too.  I had.  We (well, at least, I) had only woken up once that night, when he turned over to me and cuddled me.  But I noticed that my pillow had ‘moved’ over to his side during the night.  It makes me feel ‘needy’ and I don’t really want that.  When you’re asleep you can’t really control what you do.  We had agreed that we would not sleep so close because we both get so hot and that may have been the reason for not sleeping well the night before.  Either we were both waking up or one of us was waking and, therefore, waking the other.  We thought it may be the heat.  The flat was very hot on Saturday as the heating had been on all day and he hadn’t been feeling so well and didn’t go out all day.

Last night he cooked me a meal.  A huge meal.  Gnocchi with salmon in a cream sauce, fish with roast potatoes and some chocolate mouse.  It was really wonderful but made us feel so full, even if we did eat early (for Italians), eating at around 8.  I wondered, as we were lying in bed, watching The Sound of Music on the telly, and complaining about how full we felt, if he had done it in response to the Facebook chat he had had with FfI.

On Saturday morning, FfI had been rather persistent about us coming for dinner that evening.  F wasn’t sure as he was feeling bad.  But we agreed to say ‘yes’ and he would decide later.  I assumed he would come.  He didn’t.  FfI obviously decided that I had lost weight.  And it’s true, I have.  But not because I am eating less or drinking less.  In fact, I am probably eating more and certainly having more beer, these days, which should be making my weight increase.  However, the three or four trips to his place and back, usually walking, every week, mean that I am losing weight.  And, nicely, it’s going from my waistline, which is good.

She said, on the chat, ‘We need to make sure Andy is eating enough”.  He didn’t say anything.  We were together and I’m surprised FfI didn’t realise that.  But maybe that was why, that evening, yesterday evening, he decided to do such a big meal.

And to go to the dinner on Saturday night, I took the keys to his flat, at his insistence.  And, that’s when I learnt he has another set.  However, the keys are back with him now.  I wonder what will happen with the new flat?

The thoughts count

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Of course, I find some things most endearing.

Yesterday afternoon/evening, he asked if I was coming over to his place.  I replied that I would like to, if that was OK for him, to which he replied ‘yes’.  Before that (or, rather, during that exchange of messages) I was chatting to Best Friend, really to sound off about the problem and ask for her advice.  She told me what I knew already, as all good advice should be.

And, so, I went round.  This time, instead of coffee, I had a beer.  I needed some courage to talk to him as I knew I must.  We looked online whilst he was trying out different combinations of bookshelves/CD racks for his new flat, CDs being one of the most important collections for him.  We laughed and chatted and talked about the options and it was during this that he said, as usual, the two phrases that make me smile.  I hate and I like.  The problem is that he misses the final word – this/that/it/him/her/them, etc.

Of course, I should tell him.  But there’s just something about it that I like.  Is it wrong of me to put off telling him for a bit longer?  He now uses switch/turn off the light rather than turn down and I know he wants his English to be perfect but I just really like it when referring to something (for example, Farmville, which, to be honest, given all their problems I wouldn’t pay good money for (and they’ve taken away my Christmas Tree, the bar stewards)), when something goes wrong he will say I hate rather than I hate it.

Later, we go to bed and watch telly for a bit.  There’s some dreadful documentary about Princess Diana.  Some dreadful and ugly woman who is, probably, nobody, is being interviewed about how she was receiving phone calls from Diana all the time during the days before her death.  I dozed off.  The program ended and I woke up – he was asleep next to me.  I kissed him and he woke up and we switched the television off.

As he turned over and I snuggled up to him to try and get him warm (he was really cold last night), I said that I had to tell him something.  I said that the thing was about what he had said and that, whilst not a problem now, I knew it would be a problem sometime in the future.  He said we would talk about it tomorrow as he was so tired and so sleepy.  We shall see.  But at least I’ve told him, so I already feel better.  What he chooses to do with this information is up to him.

During our conversation last night, Best Mate said that he obviously feels the same as I do and, even if he may say other things, his actions say a lot.  Which they do, I know.  But it’s also the thoughts that count.

Aching

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It’s a long weekend here.  And it’s been a great weekend for me.  Well, for me and F, really.  We’ve spent time with friends but also a lot of time together.  In fact, as you can tell by my lack of posting, most of our time has been together.  Only today we both need to catch up on things and, so, this morning, after breakfast, he went back to his house and I should, now, be cleaning and washing and sorting out my clothes and taking the dogs for a walk……all before he comes back later for us to spend some more time together.

And still,  nearly two months later, I can’t get enough of him.  Even this point, although it allows me to get some stuff done (including this post), I wish he were here.

And even the stuff that we have done this weekend, I cannot remember.  I remember that Saturday I wanted to post some stuff about some funny things that happened on Friday, but that I have now forgotten.  It has all merged into a blur that is both long and short, as good times are supposed to be.  But, perhaps, if I go backwards, I will remember more……

Last night we went to Al&R’s place for dinner.  There were 8 of us in total.  After dinner we played parlour games – well charades based on films.  They gave me two ‘easy’ ones to do as, obviously, all the films were in Italian and some were Italian or other foreign films that I would not know.  One was Gli Abbracci Spezzati – Broken Embraces, more of which later.  To be honest they were very kind as it was easy and we had already talked about it over dinner.

And, then, we had to do a turn – singing, dancing or acting.  This kind of stuff has always scared the shit out of me.  I have acted on stage quite a few times and, from what people have said over the years, I have a great voice for doing monologues and the like, but, as always in these situations, I remember nothing; can think of nothing to do.

In the end I sang to a version of Anyone Who had A Heart – and, whether through kindness or not (but probably kindness), came joint first (everyone having given points out of 10 for the performance).  I think F was proud of me.  He seems to treat me as if I am something very special sometimes, especially with his friends.  And for that, amongst many other reasons, I love him.

Before that we had been to order furniture for him and a wardrobe for me.  The problem was that some of the furniture for him won’t be delivered until late January, when he is in his busy period for work, working 14-hour days with, maybe, only one day off per week.  Still, I have offered to take time off work and be there for the delivery and assembly of said furniture.

Even if I would much rather we were going to be looking at something together, to live together, the new place is only 5 minutes from my place and, so, is a great improvement on the existing situation.  But now it seems likely that he won’t be able to move there before Christmas and S returns early in the New Year.  Obviously he knows that he can stay with me and it may yet happen and for me that would absolutely perfect – even if it is only for a few weeks.  A trial period of living together would be just what we needed I think.  Let’s see what happens.

Sunday was a quiet day of doing nothing.  Saturday night was at his place and so Sunday was breakfast at the bakery/café as normal.  Then doing very little, except I did take the dogs out for a long walk – although had no time for anything else.  And then we went to see Gli Abbracci Spezzati.  A Spanish film from Pedro Almadòvar.  One that F wanted to see, particularly.  He had avoided seeing it because of me and he worries that I won’t understand which is sweet and thoughtful.  I keep telling him not to worry and that he should just go ahead and I will be fine.  Which I was.  F2 (A’s girlfriend) came with us and we met up with A afterwards and went for a pizza.  It was a lovely evening and what followed that was passionate and intense and truly wonderful.

And, Saturday, was just at home all day and into the evening.  A day of being together.  And he made some sort of courgette quiche thing for me and I made trifle for him.  And we had wine and sat and talked and just ‘were’.

And Friday night, too, after work.  And that’s when some funny things happened and were said that I was going to blog about but now I have forgotten.

And we have talked.  We talked about a friend of mine who cannot trust the man she loved – which led on to the talk about trust in general and he said that you shouldn’t (couldn’t?) trust anyone.  And later yesterday I told him that, whether it was right or wrong, I trusted him, completely because that is the way I am and because I can’t have a relationship where I don’t trust the man I’m with and he laughed and said that when he had said that you shouldn’t trust anyone, that didn’t include him.  And I knew that anyway.

And we talked about sex.  And how it all changed for him last summer and it became something less important and, almost, boring.  And I understood although I explained that he makes me more like some sort of animal and that I can’t get enough of him, in any way, including sex and I explained why I got out of bed at 6.30 a.m. on Monday morning – because I knew that I would be unable to leave him alone and that it would annoy him and I got out and had a cigarette and played some games on my phone.

And he turns me on in ways that I cannot explain because there are some things that turn me on and yet I had always thought they wouldn’t.

Now, I write this as I clean the flat for he decided to come back here tonight.  His decision completely.  I had assumed (and had said so) that I would be at his place, tomorrow being work and everything.  But he decided he would come here.  And so, with the place nearly as clean as I can get it and with some clothes to sort out, I look forward to seeing him again.

>No, I ache to see him again, even if it was only a few hours since I last saw him.

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.

Just being together

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Sometimes, these things just don’t work out.

The rain was constant, from last night, about half past 10 until now.  Constant and persistent.  The dogs don’t really like it, hugging the walls of the buildings in order to stay out of it as much as possible.  This was about 10.30 last night.  It is much colder too although above freezing.

I took the dogs back and, as we had agreed earlier, made my way to the shop to collect the keys to his flat.  The plan being, that when he finished his work, he would come home, telephone me and I would let him in at the gate.  I looked forward to it.  Both being in his home (which is a little warmer than mine) and the idea of him coming later, me, probably asleep by then, but warm and someone that he could snuggle up to.

I was later than I had intended and not having had the couple of hours sleep I had intended either.  N had Skyped me to tell me off for not telling her about V and then L had asked about some court case, which I couldn’t remember anything about, so I rang V and we were on the phone for a bit.  And so I was late.  But, at least, I was going and we would be together, even if asleep, for some time; some time being better than no time.

To get to the shop, though, from my place is not straight forward.  There’s no easy way which doesn’t involve quite a bit of walking or waiting for connecting trams or metros.  The easiest involves a good walk from my place to the metro at Porta Venezia and then one stop down, walking from Palestro to the shop.  And, it being a miserable night, it was not so pleasant, that tempered by the fact that I would see him again and that I would be there when he got home.

I collect the keys.  He stops work for a cigarette with me.  I am happy to see him and happier that I will be in his flat when he gets home.

I walk back to Palestro station and catch the metro up to his place.  I let myself in.  He had left the heating on and the place is warm and lovely.  I do all the things as if he was there.  I make myself coffee, sit and do some Facebook and Farmville stuff and then go to bed.  But, by now it’s gone midnight.  Not quite as early as I had planned.

And I can’t sleep.  Not because I’m uncomfortable but merely in anticipation of his arrival.  As I’ve said before, I really hate the fact that I have to sleep at all, missing precious moments with him.  At one point I look at the clock on my phone which says it is nearly one.  Damn.

______________________________________________________________________________

The alarm goes off.  I realise that he isn’t home.  I feel gutted for him as he looked tired when I saw him but now he has had no sleep.  I get up and start putting my clothes on.  He calls.  He is sorry for me that, in the end, I had to spend the night alone. We are sorry for each other.

I need to get his keys back to him.  I think how much better it would have been for me to have stayed at my home.  But, if he had have come back during the night, it would have been so worth it.

I clean the place up and try to make it as if I have never been there.  Well, I try, anyway.

I go home.  Walking the familiar streets, still everything wet and more wet being laid on the first lot of wet.  I get home.  I take out the dogs.  I sit and have coffee for a few minutes and then shower.  I had hoped to have left before 7.  As it is, it’s a quarter past – the time I should be leaving for work.  I briefly think about taking the car – but I don’t know the one-way system there so well and, then, I would have to find somewhere to park.

I take the metro.  This is going to take more than half an hour which means I shall be at least half an hour late for work.  Plus, I am tired.  It is still raining.

The workmen have arrived to remove the scaffolding and to put up the tree.  F tells me that he still has some things to do once the workmen have gone.  After that he will go home and bed.  I wish I could be there when he gets home, even if he is so tired he would just be going to sleep.  At least he would be going to sleep in my arms!

And, even if he has been up all night, he looks so good and I look at him and love him more.  I give him the keys and we kiss on the cheeks, the closest we can do to the real thing.  Ah, well, there’s always tonight, after the concert.

I tell him that it all looks beautiful.  I mean him, of course, too but can’t say that; I don’t know who speaks English there, it not really being a secret language here.

I leave, saying I would only ring/text him if he rings/texts me, as then I will know he’s awake.  He says that, if he hasn’t called me or texted by 6, I should ring him to wake him anyway.

I leave for the metro and the car, parked back near home.  I am late for work.  Or, rather, later than I would like to be.  And tired.  I have the concert to look forward to tonight but, even better than that, is being with F and then spending tonight together and waking up tomorrow and having breakfast, maybe and just being together!

Misunderstanding or Shit-Stirring, that is the question.

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It has been simmering for ages now.  Finally, this morning, I had an email from a friend (we’ll say, F1) which was slightly strange.  Basically, it asked if it was OK to tell this friend of mine (we’ll say F2) to go f%&k themselves.  I’m not really sure why I was asked but I said that F1 should do as they wished.

Within an hour or so F2 was in chat with me and said that they had spoken to F1 who asked about whether F2 had read my blog.  F2 asked why and what did it say.  I said it said nothing that I could remember (which is true since I forget a lot of what I have written).  F2 asked if I had mentioned F and I explained that I had almost every day (which Best Mate has also pointed out) for the last month and a half or so.  F2 then asked if I had ever mentioned them.  To which I replied yes and that I had talked about restaurants, eating at F2’s place, etc. etc.

Then, via Facebook, I get an email from F3.  F3 wanted to explain that they were not a miserable secretive person, in spite of what F2 may have said.  And that they had not invited F2 (nor anyone else) to their new flat because they were treating it as a haven from everyone and no one was being invited.  I replied that F3 should not worry about what F2 said and that I liked F3 (and F2) as they were.

And, so, I put up a new page on the left …… About this blog……

I have always said that I write this blog for me.  It does get very personal but, unless you actually know the people in real life (and only a handful do know each other) you could never say who individuals are much less have enough details to know them well or be able to pick out who they are from the snippets I write.

But, this sudden panicking by F1, F2 and F3 to tell me stuff or ask me stuff is slightly worrying.  I mean why?  And why now?

Of course, there is a single thing linking them.  F2!  I’m wondering if it’s some kind of shit-stirring.  I hope not as these things nearly always back-fire and would, certainly, in this case, if it continues.  Alternatively, it could be all a misunderstanding on mine or someone else’s part.

The Moment

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We were outside for a cigarette.  R asked me, again, how it was going with F.  I said it was going very well and that he makes me very happy and that my feelings for him are growing stronger and that when I’m not with him I miss him a lot.  I added that we were still going slowly because that is what F wanted.

‘But you see each other every day!’, he exclaimed.  I grinned and affirmed this and said that I didn’t push but, mostly, most nights, we were together.  Unless he was away, of course.

R said that this was what F had been looking for for the last five years and I told him that I had been looking for it too.

Then, when we were back at the table, he and Al, his partner, started to give F a bit of a hard time about how he hadn’t declared to the world that I was his boyfriend, etc.  F did the pursing of the lips, the ‘Paddington Bear’ stare and stuff but he wasn’t really annoyed.

They spoke a lot more in English.  It’s for me, I know, to make me feel included as part of their friendship with F.  They seem to want it to work out between us.  I guess I have the ‘seal of approval’, which is nice.

And, later, I could tell that their words had had some effect.  He was more loving, even, than normal.  I said that I felt very lucky to have found him.  He hugged me and kissed me harder.  I think we are a little bit closer to ‘The Moment’.  I don’t need it to be, to be honest, but it would be nice.  But I’m not looking for it.  It is better that The Moment comes when he is ready, for then I will know for certain.

He kissed me and said nothing, since nothing needed to be said.

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“You’re in love”, she said, although with the element of surprise it was, almost, a question.

I couldn’t see his face since he was sitting next to me.  Although, looking at his profile, I could almost see the look in his eyes, the pursed mouth; the withering look he gave her that said that she shouldn’t have asked it.

‘You are, I can see, you’re in love’.  OK, so this was more of a statement.

She looked over at me.  I felt it necessary to help him out; to answer for him.  Some seconds had passed.  He hadn’t denied it.  If he had wanted to deny it then it would have been immediate.  My heart jumped a little at this understated, undeclared but obvious ‘truth’.  Yes, he was in love, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

‘No, he’s not’ I replied, smiling as I did so.  He added ‘We’re taking it slowly’.  It’s a slow, slow road to the admission, that’s for sure.  But I know the truth and so did she.  And so does he.

The only nights we are apart, now, are those that are inevitable or occasionally, when we feel it necessary in order to keep up the pretence of keeping it ‘slow’.  No, maybe that’s unfair.  I do understand that it’s difficult for him.  I think he would like it to be slow but it just ain’t really happening that way.

And, afterwards, I told him that I liked the fact that he hadn’t answered straight away.  And he kissed me and said nothing, since nothing needed to be said.

Making an effort too, even if it’s really no effort.

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OK, so, if there’s one thing that we are completely different about, it’s food.  So far, it’s not been that big of a problem.  Although he will eat everything, more or less, if he’s confronted with not much of a choice.  He even had red wine on Saturday night.  I think it was his way to say ‘thank you’ for picking him up from the airport – not that it was necessary of course.  In fact, he’s always considering me with regards to the restaurants chosen.  He’s always looking for a restaurant that serves meat, even if I keep pointing out that it’s not that important.  It’s his way, I think.  Of course, this only becomes clear to me in the morning (like now) and not at the time.

Yeah, my head works better in the morning.

Also, he got milk for me at his home, so that when we had coffee, I could have some milk.  And, the fact that he comes to my house even if it means waking up so much earlier……..and he’s not good in the mornings………he’s like porcelain, you may remember?  I have a spare key so that he could leave later but he wouldn’t take it.  Perhaps tonight I can persuade him to take it?

And I do things too that I wouldn’t normally do.

Last night we slept in our own, respective flats.  For reasons of this morning (I have clients for two days and, so, probably won’t be posting much).  And I left his place later than I had intended last night.  He wanted me to stay.  I wanted to stay.  He wanted to be at my place.  I wanted him at my place.  But this is the problem when you don’t live together.  There’s time (and, yet, no time).  I was strong, even if I really did want to stay so much.  There was no way I wanted to be late to work today and I had to wear a suit and stuff.

Sunday was brunch with FfI and friends at Indiana Post, in the Navigli.  It was nice and got us out of the house.  He is good in these situations but has explained to me that it is a ‘show’ where he is an actor.  And I get it.  He seems even better than V at this stuff.

And I asked him more about his job on Saturday night.  I had been getting the impression that he was more than he let on.  And I was right.  And he takes it seriously and that is good.  And, on many things we think alike, including work, even his is a field I don’t really understand.  But, even if it is a different field, it is all the same.  There are customers and there are the producers and the same shit happens.

And, he told me again he was worried with so much stuff to do, so many things going on in his head.  And I said, again, I would help with anything I can, even if it is a little the same for me (well, certainly for work).

And tonight we go out with some friends who are from the place he lived as a kid.  Then he comes to mine.  Again, not a huge thing but enough to say that he is making an effort too even if, if he’s like me, it’s really no effort..

For V

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People ask how it feels to live the kind of life others dream about
I tell them everybody gotta face their highs and their lows
And in my life there’s a love I put aside
‘Cos I was busy loving something else
So for every little thing you hold on to
You’ve got to let something else go

How I wish I, wish I’d done a little bit more
Now shoulda woulda coulda means I’m out of time
‘Cos shoulda woulda coulda can’t change your mind
And I wonder, wonder, wonder what I’m gonna do
Shoulda woulda coulda are the last words of a fool

I hope he does the right thing, if he can and it’s not too late.

Anyway a great song by a great singer for everyone to enjoy.