Category Archives: Friends and Inimies

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

Perk yourself up!

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I remember, probably some 10 or 11 years ago (Gillie, if you’re still “popping” by, you’ll remember it too), going down to a friend’s house for her birthday party (mid-July).

The plan was to have a barbecue “party” in her newly done garden.

Sounds good, right?

Well, yes, except this was in England. We travelled down for the weekend. It was going to be great. A summer barbecue, no driving so plenty of drinking and relaxing in the warmth of summer.

But, as I said, this was England. Summer can be lovely but you never know exactly when that “summer” will show its face. And when it does, it’s not always for long. A couple of weeks is pretty good. More than that is strange/climate change/immigrants/European directives or something.

Anyway, we travelled down on the Friday night. And it was cold. and by cold, I mean something like 12°C.

Obviously, the barbecue was modified and the food was cooked in the house.

The reason I mention this is because of last night. But let’s go back to a couple of nights ago, when F and I were heading off to our usual bar. I remarked to F that it was “more like September.” You know, the days can be as hot as hell but the evenings can be a bit chilly and the mornings more so.

He agreed. “It’s not normal,” was his reply.

Today, after the chilly start this morning, just after lunch, I went out for a cigarette and, standing in the sun, it was almost too hot. I say almost – but not really for me. Probably less than 30°. But, last night. Last night was a different thing. In the middle of the night, F awoke saying he was cold. Indeed, I was cold too and struggling to sleep. He put on layers of clothes and I got up and, out of the wardrobe, got the thin duvet/bed cover. Yes, it was THAT cold.

According to “my” weather forecast, it may have got down to about 16°. In any event, I’ve really had enough of it. One day hot and beautiful sunshine, the next cold and cloudy or long showers. Just the other day, a river in Milan burst its banks and flooded some Northern part of the city!

As I say to all the people who will listen, I didn’t come here to be subjected to an English summer – for that is how it feels.

On the other hand, it’s ideal weather for packing and sorting and moving.

But, on 1st August, we go to Carrara for our holiday. It’d better be perking itself up real soon and at least by the end of July!

I thought the sausages were good – then they brought me meatballs!

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I went out with A last night.

We normally go to a restaurant because he wants (needs?) to eat. Sometimes I eat and sometimes not. Last night he suggested trying Il Trullo, a restaurant specialising in cuisine from Puglia (the heel of Italy) and, as we were going there, my mouth was already salivating. This restaurant does some of the best sausages that I’ve ever tasted.

It’s not a big restaurant and the tables are very close together – but it is always very busy and, probably, about 50% of the time we go there, we can’t get in!

It’s not really a romantic restaurant in any way, apart from the tables being so close, the lights are bright and it looks more like someone’s big kitchen. Last night, however, there was one table free.

They give us the menus but I already know I’m taking the sausages. However, when the guy comes to take the order, he informs me that they don’t have the sausages tonight. Instead, they have polpette (meat balls). It’s still cavallo though and so I choose that.

And, to be honest, they were even better than the sausages! Filled with herbs and spices, they came with a simple tomato sauce and red and yellow peppers strips. The taste is absolutely amazing!

Sadly, last night, the service wasn’t “wow!” In fact, it was rather poor. The usual two girls weren’t there.

But the meatballs! Just so stunningly good that, even as I write this, I can taste them and now I really want to go back there again tonight!

One of these days I’m going to try some other things but, you know, when I get there, the sausages (and now meatballs) are just so damned good, I can’t see anything past them.

We also had a litre of wine, two small bottles of water, some mussel thing that A had and he also had a sweet (Forest Fruit tart – which I tasted and it was rather lovely – definitely home-made) and the total cost was about €45 – which was really quite good.

Obviously, we are in Italy, so cavallo is fine (and I really like the meat as it’s quite strong tasting). For those of you who don’t eat meat (Lola) or want your meat to be in plastic trays covered with plastic film, don’t go looking up what cavallo is.

Still, I’ve been meaning to write about Il Trullo before. They do lots of fish stuff as well. And cheeses cooked with vegetables and I really should try this other stuff. But, right now, I just can’t – the cavallo stuff is just too, too good.

What makes it perfect is also the fact that it’s a couple of minutes from my flat and only a couple of minutes more from the new flat (it’s between the two). Which, by the way, we shall be moving into on 24th July – kitchen ready or not! Eeek!

Trip To The Post Office – why Italy can still shock me.

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It’s kind of nice – in a “OMG! I Can’t believe it!” way.

That, after all these years here, Italy is still able to shock me.

One could call it stupid, of course, but that would be unkind. One could call it jobsworth, which it certainly is. In so many ways, Italy is so flexible – you can smoke in some restaurants/bars, even if it’s illegal; if you want something done, you CAN get it done, somehow. But, in certain situations, no amount of stonewalling really works (unless you have several hours to spare, which I didn’t) and so I gave up on it. Or, rather, gave in. But, let me tell you the story of my …… Trip To The Post Office!

I arrive in the car park. I see there were few cars so I was hopeful that there would also be a small queue. I entered the Post Office and saw there was NO queue. I think this is possibly the first time ever that there has been no queue. In any post office in Italy!

However, all the counter staff were occupied.

The postal section (I was sending a parcel) only had one position open. The customer who was there, after a few minutes, was called over to another counter. I could see that the “assistant” (although it should be “notassistant”) was obviously busy doing some general paperwork.

So I waited.

Eventually, some assistant from the other end of the counters, called “next!” I showed I was sending a package (by holding the package up) and she wagged her finger at me and shook her head to say “no” and signaled for the woman behind me to come.

I’m a patient guy. I wait. Surely, I think, the notassistant who is actually sitting on the postal counter will stop what she is doing and serve me? But no. The lady finishes at the other end again, she calls “next!” Again, it was still “no” for me.

I was, by now, a little frustrated. I vowed that, the next time a counter was free, I would go up anyway. And not move until they served me.

A counter a couple up became free. This time I was accepted. In my bad Italian, I explain that I want to send the small package to England and I want it to get there in a couple of days and, preferably get a signature. She goes to ask the miserable notassistant. After a few minutes, she calls me down to the notassistant. I know her (I go to this post office quite a lot and there are two of them that do the post; both older ladies, one of them loves me and the other, this one, I think hates everyone and the whole world, probably for even existing!) and everything is just so much trouble.

“It’ll cost €30,” she says, expecting me to change my mind about sending it.

“That’s OK,” I say. She regards me, much as I assume Paddington Bear would regard me if I told him something he didn’t like. There was an unsaid, “Are you sure?”

But I was sure.

She next looked at the address. She read it out loud, as best she could.

“There’s no number,” she states, “There has to be a number.”

It takes me a moment to understand what she is saying. She’s right! There is no number. There’s the house name, the road name, the village name, the county name, the post code and the country. There just isn’t a number for the house. Here, in Italy, every house has a number, even if, sometimes, there is no name of the road. This is in addition to the post code. In the UK, of course, whereas there is often a number, in the small villages or if your house is really big and important, there isn’t always a number. In this case, there is no number. I try to explain.

“There is no number.” I’m not really sure what else I can say.

“It has to have a number otherwise we can’t send it.”

“But, there is no number for this house,” I add. “In England, the post office know that it has no number. It’s a small village and some houses don’t have a number.”

“Well, it has to have a number.” She is adamant. She goes to give me back the parcel.

At a different time, in a different place, I would have argued the toss. I would have stood my ground. I would have insisted. I was, quite frankly, shocked at the stupidity of her.

I was also a little angry. Not really angry as much as frustrated. How does this bloody country work? I mean how is it possible to get anything done? I want to kill her. This, in particular, is the most downright, shockingly stupid thing I’ve ever come across. I do realise that if I was sending it within Italy, I would need a number. But I am sending this to the UK. “Don’t you get it?”

I want to say that. But, of course, I don’t.

“But,” I add, “how can I give it a number if there is no number?”

The woman to whom I had first gone, pipes up, “It’s not the post office in England,” she explains, “It’s the post office here. If there is no number, they will return it.” This is helpful. Although, quite honestly, it is simply wrong.

I want to say, “At Christmas time, I sent these people a Christmas Card, using this same address, and my friends got it OK. So you are wrong.” However, siamo in Italia (we are in Italy) and I know that arguing with these people does not work whether they are right or wrong. These are the people who can “decide” whether something happens or not. If I don’t accept what they say, they just won’t do it. And there’s no one I can go to to fix this. I have to either go to another post office (and hope for the best) or send it another way. Or, I have to, somehow, solve this problem so that they will send it.

“OK,” I say, a little exasperated but trying hard not to show it in case they decide that accepting it at all is too much trouble. “If I write “1”, is that OK?”

I get several minutes of explanation of why they need a number which, to be honest, I don’t listen to. I repeat, “I’ll put a one.”

“It won’t go until tomorrow,” I am told. Whilst this is not the first time I’ve heard these attempts to dissuade me from using the postal service, they seem to be being persistent today!

“It’s OK,” I reply.

“Where is the telephone number?” Oh for fucks sake! I don’t know if I have it. My phone battery has nearly died. Can I get a number, assuming I have one, before it dies? If I don’t have their number, can I send a Facebook message AND get an answer before my phone dies?

“We must have a telephone number,” she adds, “because they will phone before delivery.”

I almost despair. I know (and, maybe they know), that no one will phone. They will try and deliver and, if no one is home, they’ll either leave it at a neighbour’s or take it back to the depot and make my friends collect it. In this case, if I can’t get the number (if I have it) from my phone, I’ll just put something down. After all, they won’t know if it’s right or not.

My phone lives. My contacts also list a phone number! I am in luck.

I fill in the slip of paper. It has my address, my phone number, their address (with a “1” against the street name), their phone number and two of my signatures.

“What’s inside?” she asks.

“A box,” I reply. She looks at me as if I am stupid. I smile. No, that’s not true. I grin. Yes, it seems stupid to have a box within a box – but it has the distinct advantage of being the truth. Inside the inner box is some foam. Rather special foam, I admit, but foam nonetheless. It’s like having a rather largish box for a watch, with the blocks of foam that you have inside ring/jewellery boxes. It’s true! Although I can see, as you read this, you, too, think it sounds stupid. I can’t tell you more just in case my friends read this. It’s a surprise, you see.

I try to explain. I think they get it. She says, “You write it in English, in this space.” I do.

She then “processes” the slip. This takes some time. Eventually, she tells me it’s €30.50 which, in fact, is only €1.50 less than the cost of the present! Still, it will be worth it for, I think, it is a most unusual present.

I can, I am told, track it on the Internet. I already know this, but allow her her moment of satisfaction at my special surprised expression.

I pay the money and take away my copy of the receipt.

My trip to the post office is done. I thank her (even if I think she really doesn’t deserve it) and thank the first woman on the way out.

And I’m out.

“Breathe!” I tell myself. “Just breathe, and remember that this is SO worth the effort.”

Now we shall see if that is true. In a few days or whenever the last delivery is made :-)

In the meantime, I have survived the Trip To The Post Office!

Update: the present was a box which contained a foam-like substance. the idea was to imprint your baby’s foot into the foam and it would remain forever (so you had to be careful doing it). I don’t actually know if they did do it but the idea was the thing any way!

Enough already.

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The sudden flurry of activity was shocking.

I wrote a couple of posts that will, undoubtedly, stay in draft. One a letter to someone who commented who I haven’t seen for a long, long time and one to the commenter who, apparently, doesn’t care what I think and, yet, reads the blog.

However, enough is enough. The proof of duplicity stands as it is. Previous actions indeed speak so much louder than words. I have no wish to further engage with such a person.

However, the blog is what it is – my blog full of my personal thoughts and feelings. So I will continue to write what I want, when I want and, I’m sure, from time to time, that person will look. Oh well, this is the Internet and the 21st century and this is the way it is.

I still wonder why? There was obviously one or more conversations – probably both before and after. But I wonder why on earth they would bother with that? Occasionally, I write snippets from my past, not to discuss my family but more to help to explain me and why I’m the way I am. Why I’m so pro some things and anti other things. I don’t honestly know if they give any insights to anyone else. Possibly not as you get the results of my musings rather than the thought processes.

So, I still wonder why? I have no connection to the UK aside from my friends there. There is no real reason to go back. Nor do I particularly desire it. I have, more or less, managed to exclude my family from my daily life, only occasionally turning to the Internet to learn something when something happens that makes me think of them.

Of course, I always wondered if, at some time in the future, someone not directly connected to my time there would try and “discover” me. But, in my view, that was unlikely.

Whilst the second commenter made me laugh with her standard double-standard thinking, I don’t feel the need to continue the dialogue with her. My own stupidity was to trust her in the first place. Ah, well, you live and learn, as they say. I don’t want or need such negativity or duplicity in my life, thanks all the same.

So, now, after that little “episode”, enough already.

Tomorrow – will the Daily Hate Mail have won?

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I do my best but it’s difficult.

After years of crisis and depletion in spending power and savings, someone HAS to be to blame.

The popular newspapers have done their very best to pin the blame on a number of people which include those who are not working (the difference between not wanting to work and being unable to work is rarely made – and, anyway, the point is that “these people are taking your money for doing nothing”), people who are stealing from the system (often rolled into the previous group – at least by implication) and immigrants (illegal or legal).

In particular, they’ve being doing this, more or less, since 2008. That’s six years of propaganda. And six years of constantly pounding people with the same stuff has an effect.

Then, along comes the UKIP. Now, I’m unsure if the media want the UKIP or not. Certainly, they’ve being helping the three main parties to sling as much mud at them as possible. They have been effectively dubbed the “Loony party.”

However, there’s a major problem. In spite of the media and other parties attempts to discredit them, they ARE, in fact, repeating a lot of what those popular newspapers have been saying for all these years. This includes stopping immigration, removing the EU red-tape and making sure everyone pays his/her way. They repeat, for the most part, the headlines of the last six years and, because people have been reading about it for so long, it all makes perfect sense.

After World War I, The Germans went for similar rhetoric. Instead of blaming the huge debts that Germany was having to repay on both the other nations that were enforcing it and the government and its policies, they took the easy option of blaming the Jews. And we all know how that ended up.

And yet, it seems that the “how” of that happening has been lost and forgotten. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not drawing a direct comparison between the UKIP and the Nazis – the UKIP haven’t yet been talking about a “final solution”. But, there are similarities, don’t you think?

Even here, talking with colleagues and friends, there is a feeling that “immigrants” are to blame, especially the illegal immigrants. I point out that, without these immigrants, there would be no badante (private carers) to look after the increasingly aged population, since Italians don’t want to this type of work. But you can see I don’t make any real impact.

And, to be honest, it scares me. the problem is that I DO understand to some extent. The illegal immigrants that try to sell you a rose or some trinket or novelty lighter – sometimes one every five minutes – when you’re having a drink with friends outside a bar. It’s more than annoying. I point out that the problem is that “people” buy the roses. F, for instance, will, occasionally buy a novelty lighter. And so they continue to ply their wares. If you don’t want them here, annoying the hell out of you, DON’T buy anything from them and don’t give them money!

As I’ve always said, just like “charity begins at home”, look at your and your friends’ actions – THAT’S often the reason these people are here, still; still trying to sell you stuff you don’t need nor want.

And, since I’m an immigrant here, remember, when you say you agree with sending the immigrants home, that would include me! And I want to stay here, if you don’t mind.

So, we shall see what will happen tomorrow for the UKIP. I hope they don’t get the huge support that is being suggested. I fear, unfortunately, that they will. Their simple messages coinciding with the messages that have been fed to the populace over the last few years.

Bloody frightening.

On [the] edge

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I don’t really understand. Why DO I feel like this? On every previous occasion there’s been so much excitement that any doubts I may have, have been so hidden as to not be relevant. And yet, in this case, the feeling of nervousness is so strong.

There IS excitement. There is a vision of how much better everything will be; a knowledge that things will be more comfortable, more enjoyable, more settled. Everyone will be so much happier, after all.

Well, that is, everyone but me. It’s not that I won’t be happy. I’m sure I will, I tell myself. But, there’s the rub. I have to keep telling myself. And, that in itself is worrying.

But we’ve reached the point of no return. The brink. The edge. The no-going-back place.

So, on Friday evening, F told me that he’d found someone to rent his flat. From the first of June.

I cannot correctly describe the panic that swept over me at that news.

So, this is REALLY it. From the first of June, he HAS to move. The new place won’t even be ready, of course.

I thought, “but what will he do? Where will he live?”

Of course, we shall carry on as normal, except that most of his stuff will be in the new flat, I guess. Or being moved there slowly, bit by bit. And he’ll sleep at my place – so it will be almost as normal, then.

Except, not quite. Not quite because it’s really happening, this move. It’s no longer just talk, it’s for real.

So, why this feeling? It doesn’t make sense to me really. There’s no really good excuse for it. As people keep pointing out, we virtually live together anyway. So, almost nothing will change – again, as pointed out. And, whereas that’s all perfectly correct and, logically, i know it to be true, somehow it IS different in ways that I am unable to convincingly explain.

Saturday, we went off to see the sofa place to look at fabric for new covers. Luckily, I really like the colour that he loves and, even if it will be more difficult to match with other things, it is the right choice. Today he will be doing sketches of different things we can do (so that it won’t be too samey) – don’t you just LOVE having a partner who can do this type of thing?

I also found my way to the second-hand shop where I bought my dining table to look at doors – but it was closed. Maybe we’ll try again next Saturday or, even, Sunday.

So here we are, on the edge. And me, on edge!

Update and Easter

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Well, obviously, it’s not all cut and dried …. yet!

It seems that the building expenses weren’t quite right and, in fact, are higher. What I still fail to understand is why they weren’t right from day 1 as the people involved MUST have known the correct figure!

So, last night we went through the options and I suggested offering something with the option to go a little bit higher, if necessary.

F decided to make the offer as suggested and not go higher. And, he’s kind of right. So, we’ll see what happens.

I’m still hopeful though.

Apparently, the agency phoned him yesterday (they’d given us the correct figures just before Easter and were closed on Saturday and, of course, Monday) – so they’re obviously keen to let it to us.

If it doesn’t work out then it isn’t meant to be, so I am calm and relaxed about it. And, anyway, I’ve got the work visit to another country (where I dislike both the country and the people), so the flat, at the moment, is not at the forefront of my mind.

In the meantime, the weather at Easter was fairly crap – apart from Easter Sunday which was nice and when we went out for a meal with friends to a little place called Il Fontanone. It’s basically a small fishing lake with a wooden hut. The wooden hut is like a slightly bigger version of a garden shed and probably seats about 30 people and they serve a set menu. The lunch is served at 12.30 sharp! The food isn’t “wow” but it’s good and wholesome (one might say “rustic”). We had an antipasto, some pasta (and three of us had second helpings), some grilled and roasted meat (including lamb chops – there is a tradition of eating lamb here for Easter) and roasted potatoes, a colombo (a type of cake they have at Easter) with cream and coffee. We also had about 4 bottles of wine and coffees. The total cost was €20 per head! Which, given the amount of food and wine we had was a real bargain.

The day itself was quite warm and sunny. We sat outside for a bit, walked around the lake and, generally had a lovely time.

On the other hand, it was raining nearly all day on Saturday and the same on the Monday, when we were on holiday. Also, Monday was bloody cold.

Now, of course, when we’re back at work, it’s beautiful and warm outside. Typical!

Still, this week is a short week (Friday being a public holiday) and the following week we have the Thursday and Friday off. And, in between this work visit, the only bonus of which is the thought of the Tapas restaurant we went to last time we were there!

Plastic People

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I am way, way over my head here.

And how different this was from the previous night!

I am introduced to various people, only one of whom I will remember – and that’s because we’re going to his wife’s shop (or, rather ex-shop) soon.

Eventually Si and I go to get a glass of prosecco and I manage to grab a small chocolate sweet from one of the waiters passing by who, until now have passed close to me but not close enough for me to grab anything and, anyway, seem to be moving through the room at something close to the speed of light. Most of the time, the ones that get close enough are carrying empty plates back.

The people around me speak mostly Italian and far too fast for me to understand. The men are dressed in suits with ties (no jeans) and the women have on their finest designer outfits and are all “beautiful” and “thin”.

This may be Design Week but one could be excused for confusing this with Fashion Week.

Si had only texted me when she had arrived at the shop (or, as we should now call them, Flagship Store.) Initially, I thought I’d say “no”. I was already tired from the night before but then I thought that I never really do these things and that I really should. What’s the point in living here if I don’t experience the “high life” once in a while. So I had rushed to change and to get there and I was now hot and bothered. She is dressed with a pink theme but doesn’t look out of place. I feel out of place since I have jeans, a casual white shirt (a little unusual – as is my wont) and a “suit-type” jacket.

After a little while we go to our next place. Si’s colleague, M’s wife used to own one of the most famous jewellers in Milan (apparently since I had never heard of them). We walk to the shop. On the way, in Via Montenapoleone (one of the main fashion streets in Milan), we pass their other shop. M goes over to say hello to someone there and then beckons us over. Apparently we should be going to this shop and not the other one. This shop, though, is not their historical main store but, rather, one that is exclusively for Rolex watches. In fact, I learn, this was the very first Rolex Flagship store in the world.

The party is in full swing. As for most places, there are people on the door checking if you are “on the list”. If you’re not “on the list” or know someone inside, you won’t get in. Of course, we are with the husband of the ex-owner (her cousin now owns it but she goes because it’s expected as she can meet and greet some of the long-term clients that will be there), so we get in.

Si seems very pleased with all this. She works in Marketing for a Luxury Brand (but not fashion) so there could be a tie-in.

Here the clientèle at the party are richer than the previous party. The men are not all in suites but, then, the crowd is older. I say older and that’s not entirely true. The men are older, some of the women are older but some are there because they’re not. However, there is so much plastic in the room – most women seem to have been under the knife, some with disastrous results (in my opinion.) There was fur; there were jewels; there was plastic – everywhere.

The shop is not that big but opulent would be a good word to use. The carpet thick, the wood special and lots of it and, of course, the watches. Now, personally, I really don’t like Rolex as a watch. Too much – I prefer simple watches – simple faces, preferably white or blue – even if mine are quite expensive (not as much as a Rolex though.)

The food was fantastic. They did little burgers that were so tasty (and, obviously NOT McDonald’s) and some proper Risotto Milanese. Si knew the chef (I’m not sure how she found that out) who is quite famous here, apparently and has a restaurant near Bergamo. Anyway, she mentioned something to one of the waiters and the next thing was that the chef came out to say hello to her – and me – and bearing another tray of the delightful mini burgers (just a mouthful each time – I had about 5!)

The shop had a “vertical” garden at the back, a roof terrace on the top floor and, on the same floor, a very large balcony that overlooked via Montenapoleone. Quite stunning.

It was all very nice but, to be honest, I preferred the previous night. There weren’t any real “designers” at these parties, just people who were to be “seen”.

I wasn’t way over my head because of the people so much as the fact that I don’t have the “culture” knowledge that they do. I mean, I know stuff but when people mention this designer or that artist, quite often I don’t have a clue who they are. Mostly I say I don’t know them. Sometimes, just because otherwise it gets boring, I say “Oh really?” – thank God they don’t ask too many questions.

Although, obviously, these people, especially at the Rolex shop, do move in a different world from me.

Still, it was all very nice and I’m glad I went but I did prefer the previous night where I got to meet “real” people rather than “plastic” people.

Design Week – the parties, the exhibitions, the fun of it all.

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The weather is quite nice now. Not really hot but warm and then, in the evening, pleasant – but you need a light jacket or coat.

That was certainly one reason why, when I arrived, the place was heaving. In fact, I’ve never seen it so full.

Obviously, I know a lot of people now so it took us a while to get to a place to grab a drink. At the start, S hung on my coat tails but, after a while she relaxed.

The shop looked great and F had done a really good job although people would “touch” things and move them out of place and that irritates F. There were four stunningly nice chairs onn hooks on the large wall they have and on one of the bottom chairs, F had placed a bird (it was a theme). Some guy who looked like he had come straight from a Harry Potter film set as one of the teachers of the school – long, slightly crazy white hair, beard and glasses – had just reached up to the bird and dislodged it. We watched him as he tried to put it back on the chair. He couldn’t. He laid it on the chair and, with F seething, we watched him look around, trying to work out if someone had noticed. He looked and, almost certainly felt, very guilty.

We eventually got a drink from a roving waiter and picked up food as it came round. S was introduce to everyone that I talked to.

F told her she looked very elegant, as he does to almost all females. So, even today, all I am hearing is F said this; F said that!

Anyway, she loved it. She felt more special, I know. I remember when I used to feel like this all those years ago (before F). Now, I’m just interested in finding really nice people that I can become friends with. Not because I’m looking for friends, you understand, just because it’s nice meeting new people who are intelligent, funny, experienced and, with any luck, have something really interesting about them. Still, all the people that S met were, so she said, very nice. Of course, F was the best and she kept on about his trousers and how I should get some the same which, of course, I won’t, since I don’t really do trousers unless they are part of a suit!

We wandered about and chatted with all these people. Colleagues of F, friends of ours who came, other people that I know that are friends of F’s or his colleagues or used-to-be colleagues. Even our (my) old neighbour came.

At 8, people were still trying to get in and soon after they stopped people because they started to clean up. Si had arrived late and she and I stood outside; waiting for F who was polishing all the glass table and cabinet tops and resetting everything that had been touched and moved, ready for today. S left as she had her daughter to collect. But you could tell that she really wanted to come with us.

Then, we walked down to Via Tortona and a street that ran parallel. There were crowds and crowds of people and, as we commented later, it’s a nicer crowd during Design Week, more relaxed than during Fashion Week. Obviously, there were the people with the strange idea about dress – a little bit quirky or downright weird. But it is more casual, in general.

We met up with F’s best colleagues and visited some places that were open (most were open) including the studio of L’s sister, B who is very, very nice.

Everyone is “wowing” about the designs she does. I’m agreeing but inwardly thinking “Well, this is OK but I wouldn’t have it in my house”. But, of course, you can’t say that.

We did meet a 50-something dancer who has a one-room flat in London, speaks very good English and has just opened a dance studio here in Milan. She might also design jewellery. She might have been quite interesting to get to know but it was late and I was tired and we were about to go to Bar §Basso. I’m sure that I’ll meet her again – if it’s meant to be.

And then a taxi to Bar Basso. Si, who is more like F’s age, seemed genuinely “excited” about the whole thing and the atmosphere at Bar Basso because it was “very International”.

Then we went home.

Also, the people who own the potential new flat are very interested in us taking the flat but want us to come closer to the asking price.

We go this evening to update our offer :-)

Staying with you -v- going out with my friends

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He doesn’t say much.

I mean he talks A LOT, but doesn’t say much in the way of “lurve”. No “I love you”s or “I miss you”s or stuff like that.

So, you have to take what you can.

Last night we were out doing some of the Design Week Fringe events and we ended up at Bar Basso with this rather lovely lady, Si. We got our drinks and were standing outside drinking and having a cigarette amongst the crowds and crowds of people, many foreigners who come for Design Week.

F likes to get the cocktails in great big glasses, which they do there and is one of their trademarks. Then there were these people from somewhere “abroad”, staring at our drinks whilst they were drinking the same drinks in very small glasses and chatting amongst themselves about the drinks, probably thinking they were some special drink and, of course, they’re in Milan so everything is exotic.

Anyway, F was saying to Si that he could go out every night with his friends, staying out with them but that he “prefer to stay with Andy”. That’s about as close as I get to an “I love you”.

Later, when we were at home, I said that it was one of the nicest things he had ever said.

He doesn’t take praise well and so the reply was “Well, it’s true”, which I guessed anyway.

Still, it was a lovely and unexpected thing.