This made me laugh:
If you’re flattered by people saying how wonderful the dress looks in your wedding photos, just ask yourself whether, if you cooked a meal, you’d be flattered by everyone commenting on the wonderful plate it was served on.
From The Daily Mash which really should be your daily read 
They disliked or maybe, even, despised jewellery on a man. I wonder, then, what they would have thought of the old man at the umbrella before me, wearing his log gold chain with a square of gold dangling from the middle. Hardly a medalion but, then, he’s hardly a medalion man – being, as he is, about mid-70s, where everything is already on its way South and his small breasts in need of some support. I wonder if it all heads South as that is where the ground is and where he will lie sometime (soon?) – almost as if it points the way to his destination?
And then I thought about my parents disliking jewellery on a man and thought that, perhaps, they disliked me as much as I did them. I disliked them for their values – and mine are opposite, to the extreme. Did I get my ‘opposite values’ because I disliked them and theirs or did I get mine first and disliked them (my parents) because their values were not mine.
All this is lost in time. Never to be known. Such is life.
(A weekend or two ago)
I can’t remember why it came up. But the end was something like this:
“It’s lucky that you have a boyfriend who loves your dogs so much.”
“Yes, this is true, but I would like to be loved too.” Now that I write it down, it sounds so whiney. But it wasn’t like that. It was almost a throw-away line. A kind of joke.
It is true, of course. I do feel like that but I know that he does love me. Sometimes though, I’d quite like to be told.
“If I didn’t love you”, he replies, “you wouldn’t be here.”
And I know that to be true also.
When you’re a kid you’re always told not to wish your life away.
I thought this would have stopped by now.
It seems not.
The seconds drag like minutes and the minutes like hours. It’s like you’re stretching your fingers out as far as you can and only another inch would be enough.
F is at home and is ready. He waits only for me. Me and then me and the dogs. I wish I was, at least, on my way. It’s the sitting around thing that gets to me.
Ah well, there’s another minute closer ………..
I suppose I should be thinking about it now. Or even trying to write something. You know? Something more profound than the usual drivel.
Some bloke has just written a post celebrating his 100th post. So, I guess for your 1000th you should do something, shouldn’t you? That’s in 42 posts. Well, 41 after this has been posted.
I was going to keep it a secret. At least, keep it a secret until it actually happened. But the celebration of the 100th posts has got me a bit worried. For post 1000 it should be more special. Maybe. Perhaps.
It could, perhaps, also coincide with the 6th anniversary of time that I moved here? Or, if I don’t write enough posts in time, then, perhaps with the 6th anniversary of the start of the blog? The reality is that it will, probably, fall somewhere in between these two dates. A sort of no-man’s-land of a date.
Of course, I could ask you to give me a subject? I’ve never done that before. It could be a useful experiment, if not a daunting one. After all, I’m not really a ‘writer’. Just someone who writes a blog.
Anyway, I’ll give it some thought. Perhaps you could too?
I’m not entirely sure why people are either surprised or, even, angry.
It’s the thing about the Internet. It’s impossible to say if it’s real or not. And so, the Syrian lesbian blogger who turned out to be some American guy living in Scotland and the lesbian blogger who also turned out to be a man are being hounded and made a lot of people angry. But why?
Karl, posing as (or should that be ‘was posing as’?) a very ugly man wrote a blog for 2 years before finally revealing he was, in fact, nothing of the sort. People got angry. People get angry, I think, because they feel they’ve been duped. But they only have themselves to blame. With the ‘Syrian’ blogger, there’s even a woman (in Canada, I think), who thought she was having a relationship with him/her, even if they’d never actually spoken (obviously)!
In a way, I have to admire these people. To create (and, in some cases, go to great lengths to give credibility to) a persona that’s not only not you, but isn’t even your sex and doesn’t have your sexual orientation takes some skill and creativity. They need to be good writers, one would think. But is it any different than, say. JK Rowling creating a whole host of characters for her Harry Potter series?
One could argue, of course, that JK Rowling doesn’t pretend that the characters are real. And yet, in her head, at least whilst she’s writing them, they do have a sort of reality. When they become films, they take on a more substantial reality. OK, so pretending you’re someone in the real world and carrying it on is different – but only slightly. You didn’t have to believe it. In fact, why should you believe anything you read on the Internet?
There are some people who read my blog who I know and have met. Lola, for example, Pietro, a colleague, Karl, the once ugly man or Stef, a good mate are people who know I am a real person. Stef and Pietro knew me ‘before the blog’, Lola and Karl, afterwards. Then there are those (Gail, The Store Manager, Man of Roma and Ruth, the friend of a friend) who don’t actually know me at all. Well, Ruth knows I’m real, I guess. Yet, I have a friendship with these people. I don’t actually know them either. Does that invalidate the friendship? Not really. If, for example, MoR turned out to be a woman living in the USA, would that make our discussions irrelevant? No, not at all. And I trust that these people, when they blog, are telling me the truth. Would it matter if they weren’t? Again, no not really.
There is a woman with whom I am a ‘friend’ on Facebook. Solely for a game that I used to play. She has all sorts of ‘problems’ but I don’t know that it’s all real. Perhaps she is just making it up? She certainly craves attention both in the game and on Facebook. I don’t know if it’s all real or whether it’s just being said for the attention. And I don’t really mind either way. I take the Internet for what it is. I believe the people that I read about but I’m not really emotionally involved, I suppose. How can I be? I don’t know them. I can read about things that they do, empathise with them over problems that they may have but deeper than that it’s impossible for me to go.
And, anyway, it’s not like real life didn’t throw up the odd con-man (or woman) or two? The Internet just makes it easier and, certainly, makes changing sex very easy too (not that that hasn’t been done in real life).
So, whereas I’m not especially impressed by what the two guys have done I’m not really shocked and I’m not outraged. It’s what you should expect unless you have proof otherwise.
“I’m not racist!”
I’ve heard this often. It goes with the “I’m not a bigot”, “I’m not sexist”, “I’m not something bad”. But it’s not really true for we are all, even if it is only a tiny bit, every one of those things.
Of course, the problem is that we like to pigeon-hole people. We put them into categories in the same way that we put everything into categories. Food we like – food we don’t like; people we like – people we don’t like; books we like – books we don’t like. If I read a bad book, it goes into a category. If it is bad because I didn’t like the story (that’s one category) or bad because the writing was dismal or even atrocious (that would be the Honeymoon-by-Amy-Jenkins category).
What makes us a bad person is that we take some action on the categories or we expect that our version of the items or people in that category is the right and only view. Honeymoon was a terrible book – in my opinion. It may be that some people think it’s great. I wouldn’t buy a book by Amy Jenkins ever again. That doesn’t mean that, since Honeymoon, she hasn’t written some great books. I’ll just never know.
It’s the same with people. I see someone wearing a dirty jacket with layers of other dirty clothes and dragging an over-laden shopping trolley behind him, sporting a thick and out-of-control white beard – I assume he is one of the homeless people wandering around Milan. I could be wrong, of course. Maybe he’s the CEO of one of the fashion businesses here?
I see a lady waiting on the street corner, short (but I mean short, short) mini skirt, fishnet stockings, high heels, tight white top, checking every car as it goes past, occasionally speaking to the driver through the window when one of the cars stops, most probably the driver only asking for directions somewhere – in my head I immediately put her in a category. I know, it’s wrong.
There’s the old woman. Always waiting at the same bus stop. I used to pass her every evening when I used to go to F’s place. She was old. Sixty plus. She had a honey-blonde wig, had her face plastered with make-up, always wore this big fur coat and underneath (‘cos I saw once or twice) a short skirt, skimpy top, etc. It didn’t matter what time I went past, she was always there. Early evening, late evening. It didn’t matter when. Always the same fur coat. Always the same make-up. Always the same bus stop. Always not getting on the bus if the bus happened to be stopping. She went in the same category too. Perhaps she was a cleaning lady? Or maybe a care worker?
I remember when we first came here, years ago. We didn’t understand, coming from the UK, that the shop assistants dressed the same as ordinary people entering the shop – i.e. the customers. In the UK, most shops had the shop assistants wearing the same clothes as each other. Often an actual uniform. It was easy to spot them. To categorise them as ‘someone that can help me should I be in need of help’. Coming here, it was harder. Some woman, once, came up to me as I was waiting for V in a shop, asking me if ‘we had this in a different size or a different colour’ or something. I remember it pleased me at the time, being mistaken for an Italian.
However, just because I do categorise everything doesn’t mean I do anything about it. I even try to be just as nice (and smile at the lady at the bus stop) as I would with anyone else. Why not?
However, some people, I guess don’t think like me. Or don’t try to think like me. Or can’t think like me. If they put people into a category (which we all do) they seem to think that these people ARE in that category. Telling them that they are wrong, just won’t fix the problem in their heads. This article says all of the above but in a much more eloquent way, I think. And, no, I don’t condone rape as I don’t condone anything that hurts someone else. However, telling an assassin not to murder people for money doesn’t stop them doing it, does it?
“It’s much better now”
He adds, “You can clean more easily”. In my head I say: “No, I won’t be cleaning but you and my cleaners can clean more easily”. I actually say, “Yes, it is much better”.
The reality is that, for me, it makes no real difference but I know that, for him, it is a significant improvement. There are some ‘bits and pieces’ to finish, of course.
Later he says, “You can go through the boxes to sort them out, one by one, maybe one each evening”. Yes, I suppose I could and there’s part of me that does want to do this but the actual reality is that I doubt it will ever get done. And I do mean ‘ever’. Ah well.
He’s right though. There are certainly things that can, now, be safely thrown away. Stuff from one of the companies I closed before I came here. I don’t need to keep that paperwork now.
Earlier he had told me that An (the Milanese friend who has, recently, returned to Milan) had come round. It was whilst I was in the UK. He said she wanted to come and see it. I smiled. Of course she did. “That’ll be because you cleaned and tidied everything – so now you’re happy for people [and by ‘people’ read ‘his friends’] to come.” “Yes”, he replied, smiling too.
Apparently she was enthusing about me doing a Sunday Lunch (with Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding). He was all for it. Apparently. Even if he won’t eat the meat.
It wasn’t a surprise but, as my blog has been offline for so long, you wouldn’t have had the build-up.
He had told me that he would ‘sort out’ the bedroom (the last room in the flat to be sorted – by him) if I bought the boxes. I went to Ikea and bought 20 of them. I have a lot of stuff.
And so, when I was away he did what he has wanted to do from the beginning. Make my place more like his place – or, rather, as close to his place as possible. And to do this, everything must be put away. Preferably in cupboards or wardrobes but, at least, in boxes.
He had said he would leave the things under the bed. He didn’t.
A bed is a useful thing. It has legs. there is a great deal of space beneath it. the space can be used for storage. He has nothing under his bed, of course. In his flat everything is away – in cupboards or boxes.
However, during the ‘tidy up’, almost everything got moved from under the bed and put into boxes that are now on top of the wardrobes.
It’s all very neat. It’s all very clean. He’s now, quite obviously, much, much happier about it all. Especially if he feels it’s OK to invite his friend round 
Now, sometime this weekend, he goes down to his house to do the same there. Also, on that front, we are, apparently, going to be ‘renting a place on the beach’ for the summer. It’s quite expensive but I said we should go for it. If we don’t use it enough this year then we don’t have to renew it next year!
So now, most weekends will probably be on the beach and (hopefully) under the Tuscan sun
Of course, it’s much better now that he’s back from Spain. We haven’t seen each other for a whole week. Even if he’s going away again for another week. At least I know he’s here tonight. Yes, it’s much better now.
This post was written whilst my blog was ‘off-line’. Probably around the 10th May.
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As you may have noticed, if you are a regular reader and not away in some God-forsaken hole in the middle of nowhere, my blog has been ‘offline’. This is supposed to be because my ISP are migrating to new servers. A message saying so would be nice. As I write this I don’t know if this post will be on a new server, a new ISP, if all the blog posts will be back, if I will have to recreate everything, etc., etc. Later, I find some details on another website. It says all accounts, blogs, everything will be deleted and please do a backup. The backup I find here is from January. I hope I find one from the last couple of weeks – otherwise months will be missing!
I’m actually quite grateful for this delay in being able to post this entry. What I would have posted yesterday (as I write this) is very, very different to what I am posting now. And, sometimes, having time to think things through is much better. And so, on with the post.
One wonders why people continue to base their ideas of ‘success’ on the material wealth and assets of others.
Worse still, success is measured on the ‘appearance’ of these assets or wealth. When, sometime after they are hailed as successful, it all comes crashing down by the slip of an infidelity or by manipulation of figures or the collapse of their business or, even, bad luck, these same people seem to take some joy in that collapse.
It’s a shame really. For those people.
But what is success? How do we measure it? Is it a large house in the country? A nice car, perhaps? A business that seems to be making a lot of money? The number of employees?
Well, I guess that success is measured in different ways by different people.
My maternal Grandfather, in hindsight, seems the only one of my family who had any real sense. To him, happiness and success were to be measured by one’s level of contentment. He advised me the same. I am grateful for that advice.
I ran a company for 20 years or more. Well, two, actually. People, in hindsight, seemed to think I was successful. To be frank, they are quite stupid. That wasn’t success. Yes, I had a nice house, a big car, etc. The outward appearance was one of success. The reality was that it was a success – but not at the time. It was a success because of what it led to.
In retrospect, I should have taken more money from the business. I should have been greedier. But, that’s not a very bright thing to say, really, for if I had done that, I would, in fact, not be me but would have been a different person.
I don’t envy those people that have a lot of money. If it makes them happy then I’m happy for them. If you want to go sailing round the world with your lesbian lover, it’s OK. I wish you the very best. I wouldn’t do it but it’s your choice.
If it gives you some pleasure that, by what I would consider your very warped and shallow thinking, I once was ‘something’ and now I am ‘nothing’, then nothing I can say will change your mind and nor is what you think very important – except to you, of course.
Although I have to say, that I have reached that level of overall contentment that Bampa told me was the secret of life.
And he was right. So, so right. I hope you all reach (or have reached) the same level.
Yes, it seems I am as back as I can be.
Lots of things to tidy up, of course. Lots learnt in the process of trying to get it back. Lots of help from Stef, so many thanks to him.
Lost posts coming back soon. Lost links likewise. Recreation of mods made to blog as well.
Lots to do.
But I am so happy to be back