Category Archives: Italy

Overall thoughts on Italy and things we do

I just want to scream!

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I love Italy. I love Italians.

In general, that is.

Well, apart from some annoying things.

And there’s one, perfectly captured by something that happened last night.

But first, a bit of background.

Before Christmas, my friend A broke his ankle. He sort of fell over and sat on it, more or less. Anyway, it was a bad thing and broke several bones. he was rushed to hospital and had to have an operation to have pins put in and stuff. He came home but, obviously, still cannot really walk far, nor stand on his foot properly.

So, instead of him popping over to me and us going to a bar or restaurant, I have been popping over to see him from time to time.

Now, I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned this before but going to his house is rather strange. His flat is on the 7th floor. You ring the bell at the entrance to the building and then take the one and only lift to floor 7.

On that floor, there are three flats.

With two exceptions (in fact, the previous two occasions I went to his place), having answered the bell at the entrance and confirming that it is, indeed, I here, at the appointed time, it takes probably about 5 minutes to call the lift and get to the 7th floor. Then, when you step out of the lift and walk the couple of paces to his door, you will, almost certainly have to ring the bell.

After some moments (or minutes), you will hear the sound of bolts being drawn and locks being unlocked. It’s as if it is a surprise that I’m going to be there!

The last two occasions only, the door was already unlocked when I arrived at the 7th floor.

Last night we were back to normal.

I knocked on the door, muttering to myself about how he’s always the effing same and who the hell does he think will get to the 7th floor other than me in the allotted time!

As he opened the door he explained that I had to be patient because he was hobbling about on crutches.

To be honest, this time, I was a bit gobsmacked. He is telling me this whilst holding the door open with one hand, the other hand on the crutches and his head a few inches away from the entry phone through which he had spoken to me and released the main door not 5 minutes before!

I asked, “but why didn’t you unlock the door when you let me in downstairs?”

It seemed a reasonable question to me but he was confused. I repeated it in a different way. He still didn’t get it. I tried to explain it again, differently.

Eventually, he got it.

“I don’t know. I never thought about it,” he said.

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, concludes my argument for the prosecution!

The problem is that, in almost all instances of Italians doing anything (and, obviously, that blanket statement doesn’t always apply and not to ALL Italians), there is no thinking ahead; no logic; no forward planning. This applies to walking along the streets, driving in cars and, it seems, unlocking doors, etc., etc. These people are just too fucking F R E A K Y!

So, I’ve concluded that, since this can’t possibly be only nurture, it must be in their genes.

A couldn’t understand what I was trying to question (i.e. why didn’t you unlock the door at the same time as you were there letting me in downstairs as it would mean only one journey on crutches and not two) because it’s not possible for him to understand it. It’s simply not possible because his brain is different to mine and there is some missing computer-style logic code in his brain. In the same way that a bunch of people can be chatting together, taking up the whole pavement, see me and the dogs coming some yards away and then be totally shocked and surprised when we are upon them trying to find a path through. And they look as if it’s MY fault!

Or when you’re driving and get stuck in a queue because no one has thought to leave a space to let someone turn across the path of the stuck traffic and the cars lining up behind the car trying to turn are, in turn, blocking the path of the cars that are blocking the path of the car wanting to turn! If you see what I mean?

Sometimes, it makes me laugh. Other times, I want to take the logic and forward planning, transform it into a large hammer and beat it into their brains until they get it.

It’s like the two bits (cause and effect) just don’t connect and the obvious future event remains unseen.

And, sometimes, it just makes me want to S C R E A M!

From Top Of The Pops to Nursery School – timetravelling backwards

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I’m what you may call a “quiet” guy.

Those of you who’ve read my blog long enough will know that, although on the surface I seem quite well-adjusted, sensible and, well, just plain ordinary, I am, underneath it all (or, rather, in my mind), quite seriously screwed most of the time.

I have conflicts and dilemmas most of my waking hours. I find it really difficult to be “close” to people.

I have friends, of course. Well, I should say, people that I quite like and that I speak to quite often. But, what I consider “real” friends – no, not many.

And a recent post from one of my links got me to thinking about relationships with people and friends, in general. More specifically, it took me back to when I was younger (much, much younger.)

When I was 12 or 13 or maybe even before that, my Nan bought me my first record (single). The reason was that one of the members of the group came from where she lived and, this being rural Herefordshire, not famous for it’s proliferation of famous rock stars, was a very big deal. From my Nan and Grandad, I learnt about Top of the Pops – because they used to watch it every week.

Apart from this making them very cool (although we didn’t use that word then – maybe “hip” or something), they got me interested in music and the radio and Top of the Pops. So, then, I used to watch it every week. And I got a radio for Christmas or my birthday which enabled me to listen to Radio Luxembourg under the bedsheets at night.

The thing about this was the charts. All these programs worked on charts. And charts I liked. I was, for some reason, fascinated with charts and the moving up and down of songs based on their popularity and sales. And I wanted my own “charts”.

Obviously, I was young and didn’t have any buying power so I came up with the idea of a chart for friends. To make it real, they were “marked” to different criteria (which I don’t remember now but possibly something like – how nice they had been to me this week, had they shared any sweets with me, did I share any sweets with them, etc.). Each would be given a mark (quite possibly out of 10). The marks would be added up and, from that, the week’s chart compiled. This would mean that I would know who was my “best friend”.

I really don’t remember how long I did this for. I had a little exercise book and dutifully recorded the “chart” every week, watching how people moved up and down. It made me feel better if someone had been horrible to me and they dropped sharply down the chart and better too if someone who had been “middling” shot up to number one because of something nice.

Obviously, reading this now, I was set to be on a psychiatrist’s couch as soon as I was old enough :-)

But, then again, I was at school. And children are quite horrible. Friendships are made and broken on a whim. “I won’t let you play with my toys. I’m not your friend anymore. I’m going to tell my Mum.” These are all the things we say and hear. We’re learning about the value of people, how to trust them, how to read them.

So, let’s bring that up to date. Today we have a new Nursery School. But this one is for adults, it seems. In broad terms it’s called social media. In the olden days, we became friends with people that we met, face-to-face, people that were physically in our own circle.

Then, with the invention of the telephone, we could become friends with people that we spoke to a lot.

In fact, I remember, as a buyer, many moons ago, I became “friends” with a guy who was employed at one of our suppliers. We used to chat a lot and, when I left that company, we arranged to meet up. Of course, we never spoke after that. Not because he was a horrible person in real life but because I think we were a bit disappointed that the guy on the phone was not really like that in real life.

Social Media is another revolution. We can become friends with people so easily. Maybe we like their photo or the things they write or the pictures they post.

On Twitter, a while back, I would follow anyone who followed me. So it was that one person followed me and I followed her back. The problem was that, in real life, given the nature of her tweets, I wouldn’t have ever spoken to her after our first meeting. She was (is), in a word, vile. Nasty, small-minded, arrogant and always making out that she was cleverer than everyone else. I decided that Twitter was the ideal platform for her and that, in all probability, she had been the most hated person at Nursery School – she had (has?) no social skills. Zero. Nada.

How grateful was I when I discovered that she had “unfollowed” me – permitting me to unfollow her! She still appears on my timeline from time to time (being retweeted by others on my timeline) and, occasionally, I visit her profile to see if she’s changed. Needless to say, she hasn’t.

There’s a guy that I follow that reported on the Grillo-Renzi meeting, for example. Now, I’ve been following him because he tweets some interesting stuff about Italian politics and the economy. When I read what he wrote about the meeting however, I realised that he was also quite stupid. But, then again, he’s not my “friend” (I don’t even know if he follows me and, to be honest, care less) and, after the tweet about the meeting, is surely never to be.

Facebook too – I have friends on there that are my friends because we used to (or I used to) play games through Facebook. Now that I don’t, I do wonder why the hell I don’t just purge them. I have other “friends” on there that I’ve never met who have become “friends” via other means (they might be friends of friends that I have at Hay Festival, for example.) Again, I sometimes query why they are there, taking up space on my timeline. But I don’t want to be the first to cut them off! Stupid, eh? But, although they aren’t really my friends, I don’t want them to feel hurt – unless they really piss me off, of course. Then there are “friends” who I’ve never met and know little about but who I have some sort of interaction with. I can class them as “real” friends in that we do interact, of course. Whether they would be real friends in real life is another matter – and I simply don’t know the answer to that – I’ve never met them and don’t know enough about them.

Of course, when V “defriended” me on Facebook a few years ago I was both surprised and a bit disappointed. But not so as you’d know. After all, we’d split up in real life and, to be honest, he was right in one way. Still, it’s a shame.

But I really can’t lose sleep over someone who defriends me nor unfollows me. it’s up to them. They have their reasons. I have a real-life friend who I follow who doesn’t follow me on Twitter. Should I get upset or be offended?

Well, no, I don’t think so. Firstly, it’s not like my tweets are so fantastic. Secondly, whether she follows me on Twitter or not doesn’t actually change the way I feel about her and doesn’t make her a horrible person. In fact, she is one of the sweetest, kindest people I have ever met in my life – and whether she follows me or no doesn’t change that.

The thing I DO know is that a “friend” on Facebook or Twitter is not really a “friend” but more of an acquaintance – like someone you know at work. I really can’t take it all too seriously.

But, people do. People get upset and rant and rave. People follow me on Twitter and then unfollow me if I don’t follow back. Well, like Facebook friends, it isn’t the quantity but the quality that counts in my book. If people have interesting timelines/profiles, I follow them. If not, well, I don’t. It’s really as simple as that.

But it is a little like a Nursery School – or it can be. People take offence at something someone says and it blows up out of all proportion. Someone defriends or unfollows someone else and that someone else feels hurt and “excluded”.

But, it’s not real. It’s over the Internet. A true “friend” relationship takes time to develop – over months and years with ups and downs along the way. Physically being in front of someone smooths those ups and downs as you can see, sometimes, the real person. On the Internet, all you have are words and words don’t show feelings and, worse, can be downright lies.

We’ve a long way to go before we are out of the Nursery School that is Social Media. We have (and it has) a lot of growing up to do – made worse by the fact that in this Nursery School, most people are adult and so have already “grown up” and have their fixed ideas on what is right and what is wrong.

So, perhaps, we’ll never grow up!

A post about moving

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Sorry for not writing a post for ages but I’ve been a bit busy. Again.

Friday was Valentine’s Day and, as usual, I got F some white tulips. We hadn’t booked anywhere to have a meal but thought we would try Porca Vacca again as, according to F, the “old” people are back there. And they were and the menu was back to something like it was before and it was great (and seemed a little less expensive than before).

Of course, it was full but after about 10 minutes wait a table was free. A lovely meal and a lovely evening.

Friday, during the day, F had been to see a house. And by this I mean a real “house” with two stories and a garden. It was next to or in the middle of an old factory. Obviously, they were converting some, or all, of it to become residential.

It was beautiful inside, judging by the pictures and F confirmed that it was fabulous. There were just two problems: a) it was right by the motorway ring that surrounds Milan – which is raised and so there would be the hum of traffic day and night and b) there really isn’t any public transport to speak of.

Then, for Saturday morning, he had arranged a viewing of a flat near mine which had a garden. The particulars suggested it was quite big. We went to see. It was beautifully done but the size was large because they had included a large “room” that was under the terrace. This “room” was, almost, a basement but could not have been used as a real room. The terrace was fantastic and there were steps down to a large garden which was excellent – walled and quite private. But, the flat itself was just too small.

Then, Sunday morning, he went off to London for the London Fashion Week show and I was quite grateful, in a way, for a chance to spend Sunday doing whatever I wanted. In fact, Dino had been a little ill overnight so there was cleaning up, cleaning him, brushing them both, doing some shopping and making some soup.

Although I did watch one and half films as well. And went out to eat with friends in the evening.

And then he came back last night. And the three of us were very pleased to see him :-)

I was going to go to bed early but a) he didn’t arrive until about 10 and b) he had something to tell me.

So, in the end we stayed for about an hour in the kitchen, talking about his news. There’s a very slight possibility that he could move to London. It was an, erm, interesting discussion. He said his English would have to be better and asked for me to help. Also to help with a letter and a CV. Of course, I would. I have to stress the “slight possibility” here. We judged that it was a “very slight” possibility but you have to consider that anything could happen.

Of course, many things were going through my mind. Not least the fact that I’m transferring my pension out of the UK and what would it mean if I went back? Well, that’s something to look at. Plus, there would be the problem of a job for me which, at my age, is not guaranteed. Plus, there’s the dogs to consider but his mind had already moved on that one to a house with a garden.

And, so, I’ve realised that most of this post has been about moving (or potential moving).

And, yet, none of this is certain.

The case of the mysterious open window.

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It’s raining.

Again.

It feels like it’s been raining since before Christmas. That’s not true, of course. It just feels like it.

So, at about 7.10 this morning I get in my car. I dump my bag and brolly on the seat beside me and start the car. I need to get out of this space so I look over to the mirror on the passenger side and notice that the passenger door is all wet.

There is no glass in the window! My first thought is that some bar steward has smashed the window.

Of course, it’s 7.10. I struggle to think in any logical way at this hour. My mind takes time to work everything out. There’s something odd.

Still, I’m annoyed that someone has smashed the window. Why? There’s nothing in here to take!

Then, I see that there’s no broken glass.

The window isn’t smashed. In fact, I wind up the window using the switch on my side.

“Strange?” I think. Why the hell was the window down? I drive and, to be honest, I’m a bit flustered. And a bit relieved. How long has the window been down? Is there something wrong with the car? How come nobody noticed? How come the alarm didn’t go off?

I keep thinking about the window and how it must have come down on it’s own, after I was parked.

I’ve heard of the “electrics” playing up on cars in the past and I’m dreading the thought that I shall have to go back to the garage. I know these things are never easy to fix and, sometimes, never get fixed.

Bugger!

The heating is on because, after all the rain overnight that got in the car, the inside has to dry out.

Double bugger!

I am about half an hour away from home when it suddenly hits me.

The window didn’t come down by itself. As it was raining last night, in order to get into the car parking space, I wound the window down so I could see through the mirror properly and then, as it was a tight space, didn’t use the mirror but turned slightly to see out of the back window.

Obviously, after parking, I completely forgot to wind the window back up! Doh!

Still, I was lucky someone else didn’t try to get into the car or try to take anything out! I am grateful that I live in a “nice” part of town.

But, at least the mystery is solved.

Barrell

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Even if the move together has lost a bit of momentum (given the fact that F will have to make a largish payout for work on the other house soon), it’s still likely to be this year.

And, now, I’m looking at things that happen and trying to determine what that will mean in the future.

Let me be clearer. F is currently (almost) living at my place as a friend of his is currently staying at his. This means that he spends a lot more time at mine – and it’s almost as if we are living together.

This has plus sides, of course. But, there are a couple of things that cause concern.

The first is, obviously, his obsession with cleaning. But, I’ve spoken about that many times so I’ll ignore that for now.

The second is food. When I was with V and we were both working (here), we both got a really good deal for lunch. Up until that point, we ate in the evenings. We would eat next to nothing all day but have a proper meal every evening. When we started work in Italy (full time), we were getting the great lunch deal and then going home and cooking our normal evening meal. Needless to say, we started to put on weight.

Obviously, we had to cut out one of the meals. Since, in my case, I get lunch for about 7 cents per day, it seemed crazy to cut that one and, so, we stopped eating in the evening.

The problem with F is that he doesn’t really eat much at lunch and he has no canteen at work so although he gets a voucher, he doesn’t get lunch for 7 cents!

Plus there’s the fact that he has had a bad back all week, so has been off work and not really eating at lunchtime.

So he’s been cooking. An example would be that he bought some cece (chick peas) the other day and made some sort of thick soup-type thing yesterday.

So, last night, we had this cece soup. I tried to get him to give me just a taste but he can’t seem to cope with this concept, so although the bowl wasn’t overflowing, it was certainly much more than I either needed or wanted. But I can hardly not eat it, can I?

I’m thinking that, amongst the other things about living together will be me putting on weight. Or rather, me putting on MORE weight. Becoming “barrel like”, I think the term is. And this is NOT good.

So, now I have to find a way around this. Of course, I could stop having lunch at work – but here I get meat every day and with F I wouldn’t. So that’s no good. Perhaps, the only real solution is to just have the main course here, at work. But then if there’s a pasta dish I like as well as a main course I like, it will be very tempting!

I have time to think this through but it’s a bit of a bugger. And “like a barrel” is really not for me.

When “hot” doesn’t mean “hot”

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I’m not talking about the weather. No. That is as cold as the tip of an Eskimo’s nose. Winter is arriving, for sure.

No, I’m talking (again) about differences between Italians and the English.

If you live here, can you remember the last time you had a really “hot” meal cooked by an Italian? I don’t mean “spicy” hot but hot hot. More like boiling hot. So hot that you had to cool it down by blowing on each forkful.

No, I didn’t think so. Meals, here, are regularly served on cold plates – the food itself hardly piping hot. The only exception to this is, sometimes, meat, served on a sizzling hot plate or, at one restaurant where they used to serve thinly sliced Branzino (Sea Bass) on such a hot plate that they had to warn you about it.

At the weekend, in partial preparation for a move, I was cooking stuff from the freezer. I found a Mincemeat and Apple Plait that I had made to use up the last of the mincemeat I had and some of the apples that we always buy at Christmas (and then leave to rot in the fruit bowl). I thought F might like it. And I made custard to go with it. Not a lot because (I thought) F doesn’t like custard.

I cooked the Plait and timed it just right so that it was ready to come out as we finished the main course.

In fact, F did want custard – and as much as I could give him – which was a bit of a bastard as it meant that I had much less and, if I had known, I would have made a full pint rather than half a pint :-(

But, he wouldn’t eat it.

He put it outside, on the windowsill, to cool down. I was quite shocked. I asked him why. He told me that he can’t eat hot deserts and had I not noticed that Italians don’t do hot deserts which, now that he had mentioned it, was true!

“But why can’t you eat it when it’s hot?”, I asked. Apparently, it’s bad to put hot things in your stomach. Who knew that, all my life I have been doing something so bad for me? And why wasn’t I ill more often?

And then, today, as I was eating my lunch in the canteen, I bemoaned (to myself, obviously) that everything is served fairly tepid on cold plates and, so, you don’t actually eat “hot” food. I was eating cauliflower which was almost cold. Partly because it was only tepid when served and then because the plates are actually cold. And that’s true (with the exceptions I’ve mentioned above) in restaurants too!

Perhaps it’s a climate thing? It’s certainly a cultural thing. And, again, we come back to the weird beliefs Italians seem to have about your health and what is good or bad for you.

In the UK, serving anything it was expected to be on hot, or at least warm, plates. And if it were piping hot, then that was better. But not here. Or, having just spoken to my colleagues, not for many people and, certainly, not for F.

Having spoken to my colleagues, I find that there are a few (but only about 3 or 4) sweets that are served hot. Unlike in the UK where, apart from during the summer, nearly all sweets are served hot.

And on warm plates so that they keep warm.

Sometimes, I miss certain things. This is one of them.

Italians are a strange bunch!

I go to buy some shoes …… again …. and again ……. and again!

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Seems simple, doesn’t it?

I need some new shoes. For work.

I had worked out (and it’s only taken me about 3 years to do this) that my “cheap and nasty” shoes that I get for work really are worth peanuts. Although I never normally spend over 30€, they are really crap. Not only do they let water in if it rains hard, they are like wearing just a pair of socks when it is very cold.

Since most of the day, I am sitting at my computer and since the MD considers anything above about 10°C too warm (and, therefore, most people in the office are really cold during the winter), my feet get exceptionally cold. And, when my feet are cold, it makes for a pretty miserable day where my only thoughts are on how to keep warm.

The other day, because I knew it was going to rain A LOT, I wore my new walking boots to work and I noticed that my feet didn’t get cold and, as a result, the rest of me felt pretty much OK. The day after, I wore my normal shoes and I really could feel the difference. I could feel the cold from the pavement seep through the shoes.

So, the solution was to spend a bit more money. I decided that normal shoes might also let the cold seep through and decided that what I needed was shoes that were designed for real walking (or treking, if you like) as these would be made with the idea of keeping the feet warm.

The only shop that I know sells walking boots (and where I recently bought my boots from) is Decathlon. Unfortunately, the only Decathlon I know that is not outside Milan, is over the other side of town. I had quite a lot to do on Saturday. The plan was that, after breakfast I would go to the supermarket, then to Decathlon, then to get some cologne for work, then do some editing, brush the dogs and, if time was left over, watch a film.

It started so well, if a bit late. Breakfast was about 10.30 and then I went to the supermarket as planned. I got the stuff I wanted and, these days, to avoid more interaction with people than is necessary, I use the self-checkout tills. It generally means that I don’t have to talk to anyone at all in the supermarket, which I much prefer.

I paid by credit card and then took my shopping and the receipt to the service desk (about 1 step away) and signed the credit card receipt for them. I went home and packed everything away.

Although I didn’t really want to leave the house again, the weather was OK and I really wanted the shoes. The question in my mind was – should I go up the road and get the cologne first or the shoes? I chose the shoes first. After all, the shoes required a metro journey (which I also dislike). So, off I went.

I arrived at Decathlon and, since I had been there for boots a few weeks before, I knew exactly where to find the shoes I wanted. I do like that – walking into a shop and just being able to go to the place you want without having to search the shop. In spite of the fact that it is sale time, there weren’t too many people in the shop, thank goodness.

I go to the walking shoe/boot area. There’s nothing exactly as I want but there are some that are near enough OK. I select these brown shoes. Well, actually they are a little like small boots – but that’s OK. They are for work.

I need size 43 or 44. Since these are walking shoes, they tend to be oversized so I try a 43 first. It fits perfectly and will be big enough even with thicker socks.

I go back to the “43 rack” and find the other one. In fact, there are only two pairs of these shoes in 43. It’s obviously the most popular size! I try on the other shoe and that also fits perfectly. I walk up and down a bit to make sure there’s no obvious problems. There aren’t, so I go to pay.

At the payment area, I have to queue a bit but it’s OK. I wait for about 5 minutes and then go to the cash desk that’s become available.

The guy checks the shoes. Inside is a little label. He checks each shoe.

“They’re different sizes,” he says. “One is 42 and the other is 43″. He hands them back to me and I thank him although, really, I am a a bit annoyed that they had a 42 on the 43 shelf.

I go back downstairs. This will only take a moment.

I check the other shoes on the 43 shelf. In fact, what I thought were another pair were, in fact, two right-foot shoes. and, in spite of them being on the 43 shelf, they are size 42. So, there is one right-foot shoe in size 43 (in my hand) and two right-foot shoes, size 42, 42 on the shelf and one left-foot shoe, size 42, in my hand. That’s it!

Bugger! I check the size 42 shelf below. Yep, they are all 42. The shelf is jam packed with pairs of shoes at size 42.

I check the shelf above – the size 44 shelf is jam packed with pairs of size 44. There is no left-foot 43 to be found!

Double bugger!

I think for a moment. Well, the size 42 actually fits and the size 44 will be too big. I decide to try a pair of 42s. I get a pair that are fixed together by a thin piece of plastic wire. After all, these should be the same size!

Still, I double-check the small label inside :-)

Yes, both 42. I try them on. They are fine. I take them up to the tills.

There is a short queue. There are only two tills open but it should be fine. Sure enough, one till becomes free almost immediately.

Unfortunately, the guy in front of me has two baskets full to the brim with stuff. He is buying things for his kids for skiing. He is going to take a (long) time at the till. I look at the other till. The couple are only buying about 4 things. Three of them are scanned by the assistant but there seems to be a problem with the fourth item. I don’t know this for sure but it seems as though the price the guy thought the product was is different from that which came up when it was scanned.

There’s a discussion and the assistant rings someone else. I am patient but I really do want to get out of here now. I’ve done with shopping.

The guy goes off (downstairs, I guess) to either get the right product or whatever and as the assistant starts putting their shopping on “suspend” so he can serve me, they open a third till.

I go there.

The assistant checks the size – but I know they are the same size and so I get my wallet out and open it up to get my credit card out.

As the guy rings up the shoes on the till, I see that my credit card is not there. I check to see if it is loose (rather than in it’s allotted slot) but, even as I do so, I already know where it is. Or, rather, where it was. It was in the payment machine at the self-checkout in the supermarket.

Fuck!

I tell the assistant that I left the credit card in the supermarket. I explain that we can try my debit card but I’m sure it won’t work. It doesn’t. I’ve maxed out my account, as I knew. I have more than enough cash but I don’t really want to use cash. He asks if I want to hold the shoes while I go and get my credit card.

I say “no” for two reasons. One is that the supermarket is the other side of town (which I explain to him). The other, of course, is that, maybe, horror of horrors, the credit card may not be at the supermarket any more!

However, I’ve got to try.

I go back towards home and straight to the supermarket, dreading the thought that it may not be there and having to stop the card, go to the police station and do a statement, fax that to the credit card company and then wait for a new one, etc., etc.

Plus, of course, here, in Italy, I’ve heard all sorts of tales about things like: even if you stop the card, until the statement is faxed, it isn’t really stopped – and you’re still liable! Plus, people don’t check the signatures here (take the supermarket which allowed me to sign without even seeing my card!!!!). Occasionally, like in Decathlon, you are asked for ID – but that isn’t guaranteed. So, more often than not, you can get away with using someone else’s credit card.

My friend, A, for example, regularly signs the slips with Mickey Mouse or something – and nobody checks!

I go to the service desk and ask about my card.

“What bank is it? What does it look like?” I am asked. Luckily, the company card is from the same bank so I show them that and say that it’s something like it.

They have a STACK of cards left behind! She searches through. She asks my name. I give it in the way it is on the card (surname first). She asks for ID.

RESULT! I have my card back. I toy with trekking back to Decathlon but decide not to as I really need to do the other things and the editing is important and I’m not sure how long that will take.

I go and get the cologne though, which is something.

My friend, FfI, texts me. Can we do coffee in the morning? I am almost certain that I can’t really as F and I shall go for breakfast in the morning and, probably, that won’t be early.

I suggest (as I MUST get these shoes for work) that she could come with me to Decathlon tomorrow. She say OK, maybe, and to call her tomorrow. At least this way I will definitely go and get some and not put it off (and then suffer all week with cold feet).

The next day dawns and we sleep through that (dawn, that is). In fact, we don’t get up until after ten. I take the dogs out while F cleans (again). I come back with the dogs and he hasn’t finished cleaning. In fact, I am pressed into doing some stuff. We go for breakfast about 11.30. After breakfast he goes across to the supermarket and, as I go home, I text FfI and suggest she comes to Decathlon with me. She arrives at my flat about 15 minutes later. We walk towards the metro stop. She keeps going on about taking the bus rather than the metro. She says she hates the metro. She says she always goes by bus and she prefers to “see” where she is going.

She also needs coffee as she hasn’t had breakfast.

I say OK to both, even though I point out that the metro is quicker. In fact, the real reason she wants to go by bus is that, going by bus she can get away without having a valid ticket. Going by metro this is not possible. She doesn’t say this directly but I’m not stupid. It’ll save her 2.60€!

As we approach the bus stops, she finds that the cafè she was hoping to go to is closed. We go to Sissi – a well-known bar here, in Milan.

She grabs something to eat and we order two coffees. She has something else to eat. I let her pay for my coffee (after all, she is making this trip to Decathlon veeeeeeery long).

We get on the bus and, after some time, arrive at Decathlon.

We go and find the shoes. I double-check the sizes and, just in case, try them on again (size 42).

I go and pay.

We go back to the bus stop. It really is a beautiful day although a little cool. The sky is a wonderful blue and so clear and, in the sun, it almost feels warm!

We get back near my house and she wants another coffee. We go up to a bar near my house. I hang the bag with the shoes on the back of the chair. We have coffee and smoke a few cigarettes and chat.

We leave to go home. Just a few steps from the cafè, I realise I don’t have my shoes. They are on the back of the chair. I go back and get them wondering if, in fact, these shoes are not really meant to be mine after all!

As I sit here, writing this, I have on the shoes. My feet are definitely much warmer so it was worth all the effort. The shoes aren’t as warm as the boots but, still, with thick socks too, I’m absolutely certain that my feet will be much warmer than last year! I bloody hope so after all the trouble I’ve had to go to to get them!

And, moving on …….

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Well, we talked.

Of course, it hasn’t really changed anything but maybe there’s some more understanding.

We went to look at the flat he really likes and I’m sure that it’s the one. I had a really good feeling about it when I walked in and could see “our stuff” in each of the rooms. Now I wait for him to make the offer and discuss the costs with the agent.

In the meantime, we are going to see another one tomorrow. It’s another that he really likes but, in this case, the position is not so good. We’ll see.

And, although everything is “sorted” – well, as much as it will ever be, I still have this slightly queasy feeling in my stomach regarding actually moving in together. And this is very strange for me and I don’t really like it (the feeling, that is).

The feeling is neither logical, sensible nor what I want.

Maybe this is as a result of doing this half-living together for so long. You know what I mean? Like – “why change something that works?”

Anyway, the next couple of weeks will see movement, I’m sure.

The race is on.

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There suddenly, since Christmas, seems to be a bit of a rush on.

As we don’t really talk, I have no idea why this is so. However, sites are checked daily and visits have been made.

OK, you may ask, why don’t you ask? Well, that’s simply not how it works. If he wants to, he’ll tell me. Maybe there is no rush and it’s just me thinking that there is but, right now he seems more determined.

I’m not in a rush which surprises even me. I would rather wait until I am certain the right one has been found. And I want certain things. A comment was made last night (to a friend and then relayed to me) that, as it’s only for 4 years, the right place is not so important. And yet, for me, it really IS important. He agrees that, if the right place is found, we shall know immediately.

And, so, the search goes on. I am now looking daily. And I absolutely KNOW that we shall find somewhere that suits both of us – that has the required size, the required age and the required situation. I just KNOW.

In the meantime, I am supportive without making a firm commitment.

We saw one place, just before Christmas and, although the flat itself was almost perfect (it lacked the required number of balconies for the dogs), the position was not “all that”. Not a terrible position, just not quite right. But it has aircon.

“It would only be switched off at night,” he says. He says that because he is Italian. When he is away, it would, most certainly, be left on all night. Imagine, in the middle of summer, sleeping without sweating, waking up without feeling like you’ve just been sleeping in an oven and showering without needing another shower within 5 minutes!

Suddenly, the place seems even more attractive. :-)

However, I am convinced we shall find the perfect flat in the perfect street/area – just as I did before.

Of course, the “rush” we seem to be in is not necessarily conducive to my belief that the perfect place is out there and we just have to find it. But I keep remembering V and his love for our flat – and how much I hated it. I don’t want to be in that position ever again. So, I guess, I’m being just a tad stubborn.

Maybe, as my friend A described to me last night, just a little bit Roman – smiling and saying yes, of course, on the one hand whilst saying no when it really matters on the other. Hmmm.

So, the race is on. I have to find the perfect place before he gets fed up and insists we go for something I’m not 100% sure about.

I have to be focused.

Slowly does it.

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Well, that’s that, then.

Just over 2 weeks of holiday and this is the first day back to “normal”. And it’s a struggle.

Still, that was the best Christmas/New Year period ever. We had many good times and great fun with lots of nice friends.

For F’s birthday evening, he took me and An and her husband to Al Garghet, a wonderful restaurant, just outside Milan. The place was lit up by Christmas lights everywhere outside and was very pretty, the food was excellent and the service was perfect. OK so it isn’t cheap but it’s OK. The only way to get there is by car (meaning someone can’t drink) or by taxi. But totally worth it.

Earlier, I had given F his present which is shown below:

Cufflinks of dogs' paws

They are, of course, imprints of the dogs’ paws, reduced in size to become cufflinks, in silver. Dino’s is on the left and Piero’s on the right.

Now, what the hell am I going to do for next year?

But now we are back at work. And I’m gearing myself up to really start work tomorrow, since today, I just can’t do it! So, slowly does it.