For Lola.
And, yes, he did look a lot like this – although the glasses were redder and the hair slightly longer.
Now you can understand!
Lola and Johnny
4
Category Archives: General Rambling
I am a bad, bad, BAD person.
I feel like Smeagol. I am a bad, bad person.
I’m going to tell you a secret and it will just be between you and I. It is too weird and complicated and freaky.
So, here goes.
I am walking towards the entrance. There, standing, waiting is a vision of loveliness. He seems quite tall; he’s wearing black jeans, slightly faded, with smart, black shoes; he sports a black shirt which immediately brings to mind the song, Camice Nere or whatever it was (I probably spelt it wrong and there was a lot of controversy about it but the song itself was wonderful and I didn’t understand the words anyway – first off I didn’t even know it wasn’t Italian and secondly I thought it was talking about a black waitress – until I was told about it (so, go on, laugh – it is quite funny, really)); the shirt open till about halfway down the chest; the chest, smooth and a deep red-brown colour that was so perfect, as if he had stepped out of an advert for clothes or perfume or something; his beard was half-grown – designer stubble as we say; his hair, brown but not too dark, maybe lightened by the sun, straight and long, parted in the centre, flowing down to his shoulders, curling very slightly at the ends, outwards; he wore red-framed spectacles but, unusually for me, they weren’t a turn-off; he gave an air of being casual, yet sporty, yet intelligent – all in all, the perfect man for me.
He could, almost, be Johnny Depp! There, you have the picture.
As I approached, I recognised him. Of course, I couldn’t be 100% certain but I was 99% certain. Maybe it was the nose, which in any event was ‘there’ and prominent. He did look younger than his 41 years even if, later, I saw traces of grey at the edge of his beard.
I became 99.9% certain it was him as I rounded the corner and found the woman sitting there, on the small wall.
I go to the buzzer and ring the bell. I am let in but ask about the guy and have confirmation that it is, indeed him. I am, already, racked with guilt even for my thoughts.
I try my best (and it is a very poor best) to confirm that I know who he is and would they like to come up.
We introduce ourselves and go up.
F is there in his underpants, as usual when he is at home. He is gorgeous and I love him. But the man on his sofa, with his shirt almost undone, now, is like the perfect version of F. I wonder if he shaves his chest and decide that he probably does. Men are so vain these days, straight or gay. The black shirt against the exposed chest and stomach make them, well, perfect.
We talk. Well, I talk little. Everyone speaks in Italian but it is well-pronounced (they are all from Tuscany) and, it seems, not talking in dialect, which would be impossible for me anyway. I wonder if they are all talking slower because of me or they normally talk like this.
R takes off his glasses. I can’t believe how stunningly beautiful he is
I say that they look alike. Apparently, no one else thinks so. But, although they are not actually exactly the same, they are alike enough for me to know they are brothers although I would not have said twins. I think it is the nose that does it.
F gets dressed and off we go. R drives with A and F in the back seats – I am in the front cos I (sort of) know where to go.
I get into the passenger seat and imagine that I reach my hand across to place it on his leg. As I think that, I know that I am only thinking that because it is a bad, very bad, thought. I catch myself glimpsing his crotch and wondering if there are any other likenesses. Again, I only do this because I know that I should not.
But they are nice people, R & A. We chat (well, they chat) and I follow almost all – occasionally F chips in with some translation for me or helps me if they ask a direct question of me.
It’s easy – not difficult. They seem very relaxed in my presence; nothing is awkward nor strained. I don’t follow the conversation completely, but I think they asked why F had not been down and he explains about the babies and they say that we can stay with them and that there is a garden and, anyway, they have two dogs (female) and one cat so it will be fine. And it would be fine, of course. I know that nothing would ever happen but, still, he is stunningly good looking and I imagine things even if, at the same time, it would almost be like incest and is too icky to even contemplate.
But knowing that and knowing how bad it is, I still can’t stop looking at him as he drives!
F and A go to take our seats whilst R & I go for the beer. We are in Italy but neither of us think about it. I ask him what he does. The language is a barrier to real conversation and it seems we have an interminable silence but it is not really so. We are nearly at the front when R realises that everyone else has a receipt – i.e. we should pay first. R rushes to the queue to pay and get the receipt. He returns at the same moment as I need to order the beers.
A talks almost as much as F does. They talk about the pets, the houses, the family, etc. As one would. I sit furthest from R. I look at him from time to time, amazed at how perfect he is and being disgusted with myself at the same time. Even with his glasses on – I am shocked that I can find someone with glasses so attractive – take away the other problem that he is, more or less, the equivalent of my brother-in-law!
At one point, during the concert, I whisper to F that I love him. Which I do. R is not a possibility and anyway, even if he were, it would not happen for I do, truly, love F. R is simply a distraction and is not F, even if they are similar.
After the concert, we walk back to the car. We learn that A is 57. F says she doesn’t look it. I echo that. But she does really. I mean, she looks like a granny – a rather hip granny – but a granny, nonetheless.
She walks more slowly and, for the walk back, whilst the two brothers walk ahead, we lag behind. She talks to me, sometimes in English but mostly in Italian, telling me all about them, their age difference, her first (and only) daughter (with her first husband when she was about 20 years old), her wish not to have more kids but if it happened then it would be fine (but I don’t think it will happen now) and her daughters wish not to have kids and the problem with the world today.
We drive back. I don’t look at him so often – on purpose for I know how wrong it is. I ask, F if his brother’s hair is naturally straight or if he straightens it. It is naturally straight. They are, it seems, nothing alike and yet ……….
They park the car and we walk them back to F’s flat. They feel bad that they are taking F’s flat but F had already explained that we live so close and we either sleep in his flat or mine. There’s no surprise with that but neither is it expanded upon. There has been no talk or questions about us. Maybe that will come later? Later, next time, I mean. After all, they are also in an unusual situation and I don’t think they can or would criticise us.
At the entrance to the flat we say our goodbyes. They ask why I haven’t been down. F tells them in Italian that I always say that ‘I haven’t been invited’! They officially and formally invite me. We laugh. We kiss cheeks. Everything is normal AFU. OK, only AFU in my head not theirs nor F’s. Our first week of the holiday may be secured – see I am a really bad, bad person.
But I really like them. They have been so nice, they are seemingly open and friendly and have been very, very nice towards me.
I look forward to meeting them again. I think the whole issue of him being so perfect will be different next time. I hope so. For certain, he is not perfect.
I am shocked at myself. I am disgusted with myself. I hate myself. I am, mentally, beating myself – and I deserve it!
I hope you do not judge me too harshly but I have to tell someone. I am frightened I will say the wrong thing to F. My mouth must stay firmly shut on this. Sometimes, damn my brain!
Some crap rambling
They are squeezed in. I am reminded of the ‘packed in like sardines’ phrase – but that only makes sense if you’ve opened a tin full of sardines. But it is like that. I am sat down. The station is not really hot but not cool either. I can’t remember now. Was it only San Babila where they had the fans and the water spray every few seconds?
I hope that, in spite of the time of day, it is not rush hour for the ones going my way.
Previously, I had taken the tube. I noticed when a new crowd got on at one station that the smell ‘changed’ from a sort of plasticine to something else. I wonder if it the station or the people that made the smell change? I seemed to be more acutely aware of my surroundings- I don’t know why.
There was the young guy in the white shirt. Asian – like Indian or something. With the sideburns so short and thin running down besides his ear as if a line of dirt. The small goatee he had, seemingly false – attached at the lip only, very small and very black and standing proud of his chin – at least from side profile. The girl, short, not pretty but not ugly either, with the young guy. She carrying all the bags and with a propensity for hunching her back as if to presage the change, in 40 or 50 years, when she really would have the widow’s hunch; he not seeing to care that the bags were all with her, and not really responding when she put her arm around his hip, withdrawing it seconds later, perhaps because of his lack of response?
There was the woman, who, ducking under the arm of a guy holding on to the rail above his head, screwed up her face as she did this, and which face told me everything I needed to know about the guy’s personal hygiene or, rather, to be fair, the heat of Milan.. As she ducked and made the grimace, he moved because, actually, he was leaving the train too.
Outside, whilst I was waiting and watching the large digital display of temperature on the building at one side of the square; as the temperature clicked from 33° to, what looked like, 39° (which, in fact, seemed much more realistic) but which was 34°, there were the group of rather loud and, probably, slightly drunk men, sitting at the café (which is not really a true café but rather a kiosk with some high tables with matching high stools – all in red – since they were sponsored by a well known cola maker) talking loudly about something which I take to be football because different countries seem to be being compared, including England and Uruguay, etc. There was a woman who, at first I thought had just been passing and had stopped to look at them but on reflection must have been a part of the group; long, slightly curly (wavy, maybe? – no more than just wavy), brown hair, tied back with one of those half pony-tails that sit on the top of your head – there only to keep the fringe or the sides of the hair away from your eyes; of large build and, if I had been in the UK, lived, undoubtedly on one of the less salubrious council housing estates – but then, what do you expect from outside a main station in Milan.
As I’m stood there waiting, two municipal policemen come out from a ‘hidden’ door just beside me, the door just beside another kiosk that seemed perfectly closed to ensure the public can’t actually get any police help, one with a cycle and one without, the room was dark (one wonders if anything was ‘going on’ in there). I note that the policeman walking with the bike has, fixed to his hip, a large plastic-looking baton – with a handle that could come from a sword, all white making it look like some children’s plaything and if it would glow and make a noise, perhaps it could be a Star Wars weapon? The policeman with the bike walks off towards the traffic in front of me, the other guy walking towards the station – behind me but round me, me noticing his gun and wondering if they all have enough special training as to its use, saying his goodbyes or have-a-good-days or whatever.
Even in the shade, which is not real shade, it is hot. I really don’t believe the 34° but prefer my version of it – 39°. My shirt sticks to my back; I feel uncomfortable. I left the tie in the car. I notice and don’t notice things. A man with a child (I don’t even look round to see them) walk past, behind me. Did she speak English?, I wonder but vaguely not actually wondering because I’m not actually caring. I’m sure she said something like ‘There’s a tram?’. Did she add ‘Daddy’ or ‘papa’? I could continue to listen for signs but I don’t. It doesn’t matter if they are English or not; if they are tourists or not; if they even exist!
I see the café where we shall go, probably. I think I might suggest going inside where there will be air-conditioning. Or, perhaps the outside bit will have fans and water spray like they do in the Brera or Navigli areas. After all, this is a place where many tourists come – both Italians and esterni. I really want the beer that I have promised to myself. My body says ‘YEAH’ and ‘WHY WAIT’ and ‘GET ONE FROM THE CAFE THAT YOU’RE STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO’. I have a cigarette, instead because, if I’m honest, I’m frightened to go to the bar – I would have to push past the people that I don’t like who are still, probably, talking about football!
Is this what it’s like to get old? To be frightened to do things because of what may happen? Mind you, to be fair, I was always frightened thus. I’m not built like a ‘brick shit house’ as the phrase goes. I remember, when I was a kid, my Nan, for some reason, used to have those Marvel comics and they used to have the ads in for ‘7 stone weaklings’ which was me! And so, I thought, one day, I would get these things and transform myself into the guy who did not have sand kicked in his face – but I never did nor, now, would care to.
And, so, I don’t get a drink. But I do have a cigarette.
And then I wonder, as I usually do, if I will recognise her. I mean, I’ve only met her once and my memory is terrible. I watch someone walking away towards the park – but it’s not her, I know that much. I pretend not to look at anyone, just in case I don’t recognise her and I curse my memory for being so bad. But I sneak a peak, every now and then. Every now and then being every second, just in case.
I text her to say I am in the shade so she will know where to look because I’m not in quite the right place. I see someone waving and know, immediately it’s her. I needn’t have worried. But I shall do the same next time.
We air kiss as one does but not in the affected way that they do in the UK. Here it’s normal and natural. We go to the bar and she suggests inside, for which I am grateful. We go inside and she asks, in Italian for a table. As we sit down the waiter comes and talks to us in English. She responds in Italian. I think to myself that she is annoyed by the fact that they are talking in English to us – but I am British with a very British accent and she is Italian who speaks English almost like a native American/Canadian. Again, I am amazed at how her accent is not Italian. How every word she speaks does not end in a vowel as is more common here. I don’t know why but I’m also amazed that her accent is American/Canadian. It’s a little like black people speaking French, to me.
We order our drinks and I talk. She talks too but I am certain I over-talk. As I talk I keep telling myself to shut up. But then I forget and talk some more. I think I’ve forgotten everything we’ve talked of in the past. I am crap really. But the talk is easy and not strained and, after all, we know so much about each other and yet so little – like we’ve been friends for ages but not really known each other. And yet we know things that others do not, so it makes it confusing.
I talk some more and some more. We are not going to be that far away from each other for our holidays. Maybe we can meet? I want her to meet F for some reason. Maybe I want validation that what I have written here is true?
She has to catch a train and we walk back to the station. Then she tells me of her news and I am really pleased for her. So much so that I suddenly realise she might be missing the train. I hope she doesn’t.
I go back to the metro station and, as I pass the other entrance to the main station I look up at the departure board. Against her train (I suppose) are the flashing lights. I try to work out the platform to see if the train has gone or not. It seems not. I hope.
I go back down to the metro. And this is when I see the train packed like sardines in a tin. One end of one carriage is without light and I think to myself that the unbearable just got worse! Even worse than that is that it is one of the older trains with no air conditioning.
I reach my station in an air conditioned train. I see a text from A wanting me to go have ice-cream. The message came through when we were at the bar but I forgot about it till now. I say yes.
>As I come out from the station into the oven that is the outside and the street I wonder if my car will be there. I reprimand myself for being so stupid as to a) park in a blue zone without paying and b) parking too close to the car next to me – but I had no choice – the space between the two cars was so tight because of the way one had parked at an angle.
Everyone wants to save the square – save it for the trees – from the huge underground car park they (the council) want to build, here called a silo (probably see-loh rather than sigh-low). The trees are old. The square is quite nice although they could do a better job with the dog-walking areas in the centre but I’ve mentioned that before. At least I will probably have a fine. But what do I care – after all it’s not my car and, hopefully, it will be given back in a few days and then it’s not my problem. But I shouldn’t have parked there, really. Or, rather, not like that.
But it’s OK. The car is hot but not as hot as when I got in it at work. Then it said 45.5° and it felt like it. I drive back home and wonder how I introduce her to F? Maybe I just don’t really do the full introduction? Ah well, let’s see what happens. We only have a week which won’t be long.
I look forward to seeing F later, little knowing what had already happened……probably. I mean, what had probably happened by the time I was driving.
Logic – not something everyone can get to grips with!
There is a cooling breeze coming through the open window. It is, in spite of my adoration of the heat here, most welcome.
For days, now, the temperature during the day has been reaching the mid-thirties (Celsius) and my body has been, as they say of ladies, glowing! But, glowing profusely. A shower offers welcome respite for all of 2 minutes. I try not to move much. Certainly, I ‘do’ as little as possible.
But, last night we had a storm. I truly love these summer storms. The cloud cover, us being in the city, is not black and gloomy but rather bright and orange. The lightening, whether sheet or forked, is a wonder. We never had these type of storms in the UK – well, rarely. With it (but this is not always so) came rain. Probably less than half an hour but refreshing, nonetheless. With it also came wind, the only problem being that I had to shut windows and/or shutters, thus depriving the house from the real cooling effect it gave. Even so, the wind was not really cold – just cooler.
We were going to go to F’s flat – but the rain meant we were delayed. I had been mindful of the fact that F has not been sleeping well. The heat (which he hates), the dogs, my snoring and, of course, not least, work – now that he is working 6 days per week. Saturday night we had stayed at mine. The heat, during the night, imperceptibly different from the day-time heat. Even a sheet on top of you is almost too much to bear – and so, usually the sheet is thrown to one side.
I wake up, during the night. F has a headache and will I get him an aspirin. I do. Then he decides to move to the bottom of the bed, lying across the bottom of the bed at 90° to me (and the normal way of sleeping) – this allows him to have his head closest to the open window, trying to catch the slightest wisp of moving air, which is rare and, in any case, is as warm as having none.
I had promised to get down the fan. And, given the night he had had, I did get it down on Sunday, whilst he was at work. I plugged it in, making sure it was working and positioned to give the maximum of benefit for when we are in bed.
But, in any event, last night he finished really late and so, as I expected, we (the dogs and I) went round to his place.
As we are lying in bed, the breeze was really fantastic. As I said, not really cold – just cooler but enough so that I got under the sheet, covering my bare shoulders.
“I got the fan down, so we can have that at my house”, I said, pleased with myself that I had, at long last, done something to make him more comfortable.
“I have a fan too”, he said, adding, “but I can’t have it on during the night, otherwise I will get a stiff neck”.
I am glad it is dark. I am glad that I don’t laugh out loud. What I want to say is:
“But you have the window open at night – including tonight, when the air is cool – how can that be different from having a fan going?”
Apparently it is different.
Sometimes, the logic defies reason.
The bulldog that changed into ……… a pig!
Maybe it was the snorting. It happened approximately every five minutes.
At first, as I was sitting there, opposite him, I thought of a bulldog. I thought about this blog and this post and thought that, yes, he was a bulldog. His hair, almost straighter than mine, which is impossible but you get my drift, thinning but there and floppy but not in a Hugh Grant way, with a fringe over his brow like a young boy – which, undoubtedly, at one time, he was! His weight problem had probably been with him since birth – but if he had made any effort to address the problem, he had failed most spectacularly; his glasses certainly did not fit nor suit his wide face; his smile was as false as the latest breast enhancement.
Bulldogs are ugly dogs, for certain. And they have a problem with breathing. They have fat, ugly faces – stocky without any beauty. The snorting was a little like them. The face was a lot like their face! And, when, at the very start, us not giving him exactly what he was there for (even though it had already been stated in advance that we were going to be doing something else), the anger in him came to the fore and there was a red face and shouting and blustering and threatening. And that’s when I thought that he reminded me of a bulldog.
We went out, our customer and I (for it was someone from the customer of the customer of our customer). I advised that, I would, really, throw the man out of the company. He made some calls.
During the rest of the meeting the bulldog rarely spoke. I was informed later that this was because ‘he had been spoken to’. It was during this time that the snorting came to the fore and, for me, dominated the meeting. I wondered if he actually had any friends. I wondered if he did have any friends, why they had not, out of the kindness of their hearts, advised him that this snorting business was not only distracting but quite horrible; and disruptive!
The snorting got me thinking of him as some sort of pig! And then, in front of my eyes he changed to this:
After the main part of the meeting, I went and got him the document he had been requesting. However, he wanted to see one filled in. OK, I said, but this would be archived. I will find the last one (from 4 years ago). When I presented him with it, he asked for an explanation. The document had been stamped by the relevant authorised person within the company.
‘How do we know who did this stamp?’. Not an unreasonable question. I went to get a print out of our Quality manual.
I presented the relevant document showing the name and the details.
In Swedish, he queried to another man that how could they know that this person actually used the stamp. Hmmm. This is a man who obviously wants to travel back in time to see this happen. I wonder if a video of the man actually doing this would have sufficed? I doubt it.
Later, when I refused to have something put in the minutes, I explained that, in spite of the evidence we had provided and the quality certifications we had obtained, some to the highest levels for our industry, this man had refused to believe the documentation – that he thought we were not telling the truth.
In the end he was looking for a way to ensure that we were not to standard – or, rather, had a single flaw that he could pounce on to show that we were not competent.
He was a bully; a rude, objectionable, bully.
And so, I wrote a letter today, after discussing it with my MD, obviously, barring him from coming here. As I explained to her this morning, if it were my company, this is what I would do – after all, it’s not fair on the people here and no one should be subjected to bullying by an ignorant, incompetent, pig!
Well, on the plus side, at least I think I know what it is.
I think I know what it is now.
I’ve been having this sick feeling in my stomach. There are too many things going on and too many decisions to make and I don’t like it. This feeling, I haven’t had much since V & I split in November, 2009. I thought it was all about the (mostly) small things that were nothing but annoying in my personal life.
I always felt much better when I got home and, in particular, when F was around – even if we were in our separate places, communicating through Facebook or something – or, not even communicating but him just being five minutes away.
And, then, it hit me as to why I feel this way. Yes, there are all those other annoying/frustrating things and, yes, when I get home and shut the door on the rest of the world, it’s better and everything seems to slide away. But the problem is actually work. Not the other work but the main work.
There’s a problem with a customer. I can’t solve it. I don’t know how. I mean, I know of one way, for certain. But I can’t do that. It’s not my decision to make. But they are upsetting everyone by their unreasonableness and their stupidity and that makes it very difficult to manage them as well as the people at work.
And, every time I look at my inbox, there’s always something. Some other request or unreasonable demand. And I really want to tell them to go and f*** themselves because they really deserve it – but it’s not my job to do that. I try to be strong and hard with them but, at the end of it all, as I said, it’s not my company and, so, not my decision.
And, even as I write this I feel that gnawing in my stomach, so I’m almost certain it is this that is the problem. And I really hate that it’s a work thing. I haven’t had this since England really (last November was for different reasons) and I thought that, working for someone else, I would not have this – so it’s doubly annoying.
And I can’t see the situation changing much before the end of July, at least. Damn them!
Losing control
I don’t.
Well, there was that one time, back in May last year. You know, Karl Spark and all that.
Then there was the time about 22 years ago.
It’s not that I am so controlled it’s just that I try to make sure it seems that I’m in control, whatever mixed-up, messed-up, emotional crap I may be having a battle with inside.
For example. Anger. Sure, I get angry but, generally, you’d never know it. And if I get angry, I always wait a little for the anger to subside before doing anything. I can seem angry at the drop of a hat and do this sometimes. It has the right effect. But, actually angry and showing it – not if I can avoid it.
I find it difficult when others around me show too much emotion. Crying for example. I don’t know what to do. Do I hug them? Do I place a hand on them? Do I tell them not to worry; that everything will be OK? Do I tell them to get a grip?
No, emotions I don’t do well. Better, by far, to avoid (theirs and mine).
Which is why the current situation is so difficult. Hmmmm.
I am frightened of going and losing control; of becoming caught up in the emotional thing; one might say – ‘of being human’. No, I don’t like that idea at all.
True Lies
Of course, one always has to read between the lines. The truth is out there but is not said.
In addition, I feel that, maybe, there’s something wrong with me. Or, maybe, it’s just circumstances. I feel nothing. Well, that’s not entirely true but I don’t feel as I feel I should feel. I wonder if that is because of the walls I have built, the ones that permit me to be safe but, from the outside, may make me seem cold and uncaring. Or should that be ‘unfeeling’? I can put on a show but it’s inside that really counts.
“They’ve asked if we want a priest”. Nothing is said between us – between her crying and me being calm with the uneasy sensation of not having any feelings. I think we know what that means. I mean to say, I think that we agree on what that really means. Of course, we say nothing.
“Yes, they said he had a good night”
“Is he awake?”
“No, not yet. I need to ask some questions this morning. His brain was starved of oxygen”
Again, we both know what that means. Or, at least, I think we do. Again, we don’t say anything, for what is there to be said? Except the truth. So we hide behind the lie that, if he has ‘had a good night’ then all is well, which, of course, it is not. I strangely find some relief in that lie. And I can feel the feelings welling up inside me – which only makes me think and question why there was none before. I know that, if I were there, I would cry. But I am half a world away (not literally) and so I do not.
“I think he’s trying to get a flight today”
“Yes, he needs to come”
Of course he does. We both know that it may not be long now. We knew it before when he wasn’t eating. I suspected he was tired of it all; tired of life. Of course, I didn’t say anything then. She was much more determined to get him to eat but I think she understood what it all meant.
This is my view. Taken from brief conversations. Looking for the real meanings. Unable to ask the real questions. Why? Well, obviously, for fear of getting the real answers, I suppose.
Not, that’s not entirely true. Part of it was for fear of having no feelings. So, if I get no real answers I can have no real feelings. Like everything else in life, I prefer the true lies to the true truths, I guess. Then it means that, whatever feelings I have are not real feelings either. After all, real feelings may break down the wall and we can’t let that happen, can we?
I think about what may happen. I discuss with F and try (very badly) to explain that I really don’t know what to do. He tells me to do what I feel – and there’s the rub. What do I feel? He suggests that I should go round but I don’t want to. To go round – I know what that means. I don’t even know the true feelings let alone the right thing to do. I bluff that I won’t go round because of the people that might be there. The people that, in some way, I blame for the split – even if the split was, in reality, because of us and not them. But if I don’t see them then they can be nameless faces. Not to I hate but to avoid. For the truth of that is that it is better than looking for the true truth of that and better to have the true lie of that.
Of course, I’m also worried that, maybe, he will get the wrong idea about me being there to comfort him. It was, sort of, mentioned by FfI when I phoned her to keep her informed. Of course, I didn’t phone her to really keep her informed but to make sure that V had someone, having tried to get hold of other friends earlier without success. I told her about the ‘priest’ thing but, of course, didn’t then follow that by the truth but rather by the true lies.
And now I write this – more to understand what is going on in my brain than to tell you anything. It’s what I use this blog for. Writing the true lies and the true truths just to get my head around it all and to discover the feelings that I do or don’t have.
Greetings; Strange thoughts; For me
I know that he did it for me. I understand that and I wish I could explain to him that I understand that and how much I appreciate it.
I had picked him up from the airport. His plane had been late. I took the babies, just as he wanted. He was very happy about that, I knew. I watched, from the corner of my eye, the people around, smiling at the excitement shown by Dino, Rufus and F at seeing each other again. Dino had already had plenty of attention from people as I sat outside the terminal building, having a cigarette. For Dino all the people – too many people; the noise of the aircraft; the sound of the bags being wheeled around – all this was exiting and interesting. But seeing F was his biggest excitement. And he wasn’t sick in the car – well not until I was parking the car when we got back, anyway!
I had dropped F off at his flat. He would unpack and come round. He was very hungry. I suggested I got a pizza. He decided we should go there to eat. I waited outside the block of flats. But, he had changed his mind. It was too late, he said, which was true, really.
In the lift on the way back to my flat, we hugged and kissed. This was my time or, rather, our time for proper greetings. He felt good; he smelt good. I had missed him but also he had missed me, even if he didn’t say it. We watched the new video he had bought.
He talked about going for a session on the sunbed. I was surprised – but he’s quite vain, really – always more than I would have expected; than I do expect. He will shave his chest again, for the summer. I wish he wouldn’t but he will and, as he says, it will grow again.
I am so happy that he is back. I feel so comfortable with him. And then, at one point, a rather strange thing happened or, rather, a rather strange thing crossed my mind. Just for a fleeting moment. “What if I fall out of love with him?. Then he would just be a man.” This happened as he walked to the bathroom. I don’t know why I thought this. I mentally shook my head as if to dislodge this unwelcome thought. It didn’t come back but it made me feel strange.
And later he made me feel so good and I know that he did it for me. He doesn’t say that he loves me but I know that he does.
Jealousy………no thanks.
It’s all changed. It’s all different, somehow but I’m not entirely sure why. There’s nothing that I can really explain but F seems much more relaxed and, when he’s relaxed, he is even more wonderful.
Last night I arranged to go out with A for a drink to celebrate my birthday. F agreed to come but there was none of the usual ‘difficulty’ in getting him to come. There’s not a real difficulty but, until yesterday, he was less inclined to go out. This time it was no problem. Maybe because he had good news about the test too and, maybe, because, as a result of that he knows he can trust me more? I don’t know.
And A is going through a bit of a tough time as he and Fr have split (again) and he feels he’s getting older. And he knows that he has, shall we say, a more difficult personality – sometimes (although not for me) he comes across as a bit arrogant. I just find it a funny personality trait and it really doesn’t worry me but I think that was why V never really liked him. Best Mate, on the other hand, when she was over said that he was really nice and, underneath it all, as I have explained before, he has a heart of gold and is a really good friend.
He bought me a card. And what he wrote in it was really nice and I was touched. He has really deep feelings (which he keeps well hidden) but they are really genuine. I think F likes him too.
We talked a lot about relationships. F said so many things that I agreed with. And it reminded me of the first night and how the things he said, with such conviction, were the things that I thought too – and how that is the reason that we’re together – because, as he said, we were both looking for the same thing – and we found it in each other. And, so, there may be many things where we differ (mainly food) but with regards to the basic things, the intangibles, we are the same. I think that makes for a good base.
He also said that I was not like S. And he knows I am not. We may both be English, both Taurus, both with blue eyes – but that’s where the similarity ends.
And so when a guy texted me (one I met before I met F), I was torn between not telling F and just going; not going but rather than tell the guy just make excuses; and telling F.
Last night we were talking about jealousy. A is always jealous. Fr stopped A from seeing his old friends (girls) because she was insanely jealous. F said that he used to be jealous. I was shocked and told him so. He always seemed the most unjealous person I’ve met! He said that he was really jealous, especially with S but then he had reason to be. With me he doesn’t feel like that because I have given him no cause for this. I don’t keep saying that I can’t come because I’m meeting so-and-so; I don’t stare (or hardly look, to be honest) at other guys when I’m with him – when I’m with him I am with him and only him.
And so I told him this guy had texted and wants to meet for coffee. I asked if it was OK for him and he said yes. And so, shortly I go to meet him. I hope it will be nice and I hope he doesn’t expect anything else. I will give no cause for F to be jealous now.
And, I may have mentioned it before or maybe not, but I have been a little jealous of F. He spends a lot of time with Si, his colleague at work. For a while I did think that, perhaps, there was something more but I was determined that I must not think that. I know that we both come into this with a past and with past boyfriends. They won’t disappear. I won’t (in spite of some hurdles) cut myself off from V. We spent 20 years together. Nor am I jealous of F talking to S or, for that matter, any old boyfriends. after all, if they had been that good and compatible, he would still be with them and not with me.
And, really, I should find a way to get in touch with M. After all, we were together for 10 years and he was my first in so many ways.
But A doesn’t really get that. And I tried to explain that I understood as with M it was different and, maybe, it’s because I am older and I cannot ignore the years leading up to this – this now – this being with F and that all those years before were to get to here and I am very happy with being here and, of course, all the years that F had before led to here and I am happy he is here with me.
And so all is right and I cannot be jealous.