As you may remember I’m not very picky about food and am willing to try anything once.
Ice-cream I like, especially Italian ice-cream but this I could not eat under any circumstances.
I’m sorry but there it is. The very thought of it makes me want to retch. There’s one thing when it’s your own mother and you’re, say, 2 months old, another thing entirely when you’re an adult and it’s your mother or not! How can people eat this stuff? How can people sell it??
There’s a disturbing thing about polls. The results will depend on the question asked.
There’s also a disturbing thing about the media. The headline will not necessarily reflect the actual truth. After all, it is a headline and they want you to read it.
There’s another disturbing thing about the media. Or is it about people, in general? It seems that the media, far from reflecting public (or even popular opinion), seem to have taken on a role that was, at one time, the role of the church. They ‘encourage’ certain thinking in their readers.
Take the Daily Mail. Sometimes called the Daily Hate Mail. If you can stay above the overall hatred that is not reserved for anyone in particular but is directed at all people at some time or another, it makes for an interesting read. They hate ‘benefit scroungers’, ‘gay people’, non-white people, white people, Christians, non-Christians. In fact, they hate everyone at some time or another. However, apart from those people who ‘cost the taxpayer’ they seem to hate Muslims most of all.
So, it would be fair to suppose that most of their readers (I say most as I am one of their readers – who disagrees with most, if not all, of their ‘reports’) also hate Muslims.
And so, their article about the latest ‘poll’ has a headline that is quite astounding. Half of people would support a right-wing party if it gave up violence. Except, if you actually read the article and look at the question posed, the headline should read ‘The majority of people don’t want an English parliament, don’t want more controls on immigration and don’t want to challenge Islamic extremism’. Of course, that wouldn’t make you read the article, would it? The reality is that 48% of people said they would support a right-wing, fascist party that didn’t use violence. But, history has shown that they do use violence, since that is part of the fascist make-up. And so, the result is that MOST people wouldn’t support the normal fascist party.
And, anyway, it’s the Daily Hate Mail that is always banging on about how it’s terrible how English people are treated in England; how there is never enough controls on immigration; how Islamic extremism is in every British city whereas, in fact, none of these things is true for the MAJORITY of people. In the same way that MOST people who clam benefits are not low-life, work-shy, scroungers – but every day they have an article about someone that they have found who is like this and readers would think that EVERYONE on benefits is like this.
It disturbs me that so many people can believe the headlines without thinking about the reality.
So, move along now. Nothing to see here.
Warning: None of the following may be true, real or ever have happened. If you are incensed, angered or just slightly annoyed by it then STOP READING.
He had mentioned that he would like to go and see it. The problem, for me, was that I too wanted to see it but I didn’t want to spoil my enjoyment of it by watching it in Italian and understand little, to have to watch it again, in English.
So, someone gave me a copy ….. in English. I watched it over a few nights. Now, here, I should give you some background.
I don’t really like them. They are German, after all (with apologies to the Germans at least one of whom is a friend). I think it’s more that they are German and think they run the UK which they don’t, quite obviously. I mean, they even had to change their surname from Saxe-Coberg and Gotha so that people wouldn’t confuse them with Germans (which they were). This was the First World War.
By the second one, they were quite happy to court Hitler. ‘He seemed to have the right idea’!
When the old father died the succession passed to Edward. But Edward was having a not-so-secret affair with a married American woman. He loved her so much he gave up on ‘his duties’ and so his younger brother became George VI. His wife, so it is said, hated both Edward and ‘that woman’, Wallis. Not because they were horrible (although they might have been) but because they were the cause of her husband being put in an impossible position and, eventually, dying rather younger than he might have, ordinarily.
After George’s death, his eldest daughter was next. There was a small snag, however. His daughter would be Queen. His mother, still alive, was the Queen Mother (Mary, wife of George V). So what would the title of George VI’s wife be? You couldn’t really have two Queen Mothers, now could you? OK so officially she died of ‘gastric problems’, being an euphemism for lung cancer. Or, of course, given the scheming of Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, she could have had the old Queen Mary, the Queen Mother, done away with?
I plump for the last option.
So, I go to watch the film with a preconceived idea of QE, the Queen Mother (being played by Helena Bonham-Carter) as a rather wicked old witch who ruled her husband and, when he became King, the household, with quite an iron fist. Of her husband being a bit of a wimp. Of the politicians of the time being rather stupid, etc., etc.
But, this is a film. It is made ‘nice’. Actually, I found it quite heart-warming. HBC was wonderful as the Queen as was Colin Firth as Bertie. For me, Geoffrey Rush as Logue was the best of them all. Actually, it made me almost cry at the end (because I am such a softie and just love happy endings in films).
So now I have told F that I will be very happy to go and see the Italian-dubbed version of The King’s Speech (Il Discorso del Re) at the cinema. In fact, I said we just HAVE to go. The only thing that ‘worries’ me is that I like it so much because it is also a story of Britain (and a Britain we like to think of as ‘Great’) and a man overcoming all odds and a woman who loves him – and will an Italian think of it like this also or will missing the Great out of Britain mean that it is much less of a good story?
And, F replies that we should go this weekend. I am happy.
I don’t really know why I did it.
I suppose it was mild curiosity as to where she was now. I mean to say, she must have moved on. It started when I ‘liked’ or commented on her friend’s, H, status or something. It made me think about her and where she might be. And, so I looked.
Her ‘wall’ gave regular updates. We are in so-and-so. We are sailing to so-and-so. I didn’t recognise the names anyway. Is she still in Australia? There was a mention of Fiji (is that near Australia?). I can’t look these things up. Too much like stalking. To weird.
There’s a ‘conversation’ between her and her niece. Is she (the niece) looking forward to going to stay with her nan, to look after her?
Of course, I have to find out which nan. I have to know what had happened. If she’s the one I suspect, she’ll be about 74 now, I guess, if my memory serves correctly.
I find out. There’s another conversation with other people. There’s been a fall. Something to do with an operation, a hip, a replacement, perhaps? So it IS her. The niece has to look after her for a while after she comes out of hospital. For sure, it means her husband is already dead. I was right. That doesn’t make me happy but, then, it doesn’t make me unhappy either. It just IS.
In doing all this, reading all this, I feel a sort of thrill. I can’t explain it. I don’t feel any real emotion but it’s like I’m spying and so I get this kind of thrill.
It crosses my mind that she might do the same thing. Through her friend (as otherwise nothing shows up – not that I put that much on there anyway – a few photos but nothing of any real interest – my security settings are tight and limit most people as to what they can see – except friends, of course). But her friend could see some things, I suppose. The photos, if nothing else. It gives an indication, I suppose.
I wonder how she is – after the fall and the operation and the new hip – but not in a connected way. It’s all detached. It’s like a reality show. A reality show in slow motion. No television, no pictures, just a few words from time to time.
Of course, it got me to thinking. What happens when she’s close to death? Maybe she already is? Will she ask her daughter to find me? Not if what her husband once said was true. She didn’t want to know ….. apparently. But, if she dies, will her daughter try to contact me anyway? Or is that door now closed. Will I feature in the will? I doubt it and, anyway, if I did, it wouldn’t be so much. I’m not that important – not after all this time.
I go through the steps that will happen. Her daughter makes a friend request. Or her friend, H, contacts me.
Do I accept? Well, why not?
Then, when we are ‘friends’ she send me a message: Mum wants to see you. I reply: Why? or Why now?
It goes blurred at that point. Do I go or do I stay? I want to be nasty but, also, in my head, I should be nice. After all, she’s nearly gone. She’s already nearly gone in my head whether this be true in ‘real life’ or not.
The meeting, should there be one, is not clear. Only one line from me.
“But, you’re just an old woman – an old woman that I don’t know who is dying”.
But since all of this is in my head none of this will happen. Anyway, she might live like the Queen Mother did – for years yet. But the fact that, probably, no certainly, none of this will happen is a relief, to be honest.
After all, this is just some old woman that I don’t know who is dying.
Well, that was all rather lovely.
But first I must thank all of you for kindly answering my call after I shamelessly prostituted myself for comments. I no longer feel quite so gay knowing that straight men like Mars bars too :-D.
On to last night. B was up in Milan and so we went to Sento as I predicted and wanted. It has been so long since I had sushi and it was divine. Even now I can picture the boat of bright red, pale pink and white fish laid on that particularly nice bit of sushi rice.
And I had the grilled beef. The wine was lovely – dry, crisp, white wine. Sake to finish. Sparkling water and sparkling company. B did seem so well and I was so happy to see her. We even made tentative plans to all go up to Pallanza for the weekend of Easter. Yay! Since last night I have checked with F who is also keen on this idea as long as it includes the bambini, of course and the opportunity to play cards.
Of course, as last night was all Japanese food, none of it is fattening in any way and so I already feel slimmer 
We talked and talked. Actually, as is usual with B, it felt that I did most of the talking …… again. She also came up, beforehand, to see the dogs, especially Rufus who has always been her favourite.
We also talked a little about V and I explained about the defriending on Facebook and so on. I explained that I was disappointed, which is true ……… now. I admitted to being a bit angry at first. After so long together, how DARE he just cut me off! But now I am just very disappointed.
And she talked about how she searched for her old boyfriends again – after all, if you were with someone for however long, they meant something, they had something that was attractive and one should never let that just disappear. And I’m with her on that. Perhaps I should make a little more of an effort to get in touch with M?
So, I just broke off to do just that!
And, for reasons that escape me (although it may have been seeing B last night or knowing that we’re going away this weekend or the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day on Monday), I feel incredibly happy. Which is in direct contrast to last week!
And so, I wish you all a very good weekend too. I hope you’re doing something special too 
“Have a banana”. Actually, it was almost a question.
“No thanks, Bampa”, I would reply. Well, normally.
It was a thing he always said. It was after a meal and it was always a banana. I wonder if that’s why I like bananas?
I was reminded of this talking to Al, a colleague.
He said that his parents were at his house doing cleaning and stuff. They hadn’t told him they were going to get there early to do this stuff because he would have said no. And so it led on to the fact that often, when we say no, we mean yes but are just being polite.
Except that when my grandfather said it, I was usually full and could not have eaten a banana. I even wonder why it was always a banana?
They’ve been on the streets, protesting. The police have been using tactics that are, at the least, undesirable. People have been in hospital as a result. They are protesting about the increase in tuition fees, the cuts in grant money, the large organisations that are avoiding paying too much tax. The government doesn’t like it; the police don’t like it.
Oh, hang on, our Deputy Prime Minister has something to say:
“It is incredibly exciting what is going on, it reminds me so much of the time when the Berlin Wall fell, the power of the people out on the streets, in a regime which ……… everybody thought was one of the most stable regimes in the region,” he told ITV Daybreak.
Ah but no. He isn’t talking about the protests in Britain, of course, but those in Egypt.
You see it’s perfectly OK for ‘the people’ protesting against the government ………. as long as it’s those foreigners doing it in their own foreign country, of course.
In my last post, I forgot something else that I have just found out!
It seems that, after a certain period of time, the cemeteries dig up the remains of a person and re-bury the bones (or whatever is left) with other members of the family! This saves space, obviously.
I’m almost certain that this does not happen in the UK although I’m hoping someone will tell me if it does.
I am aware that, sometimes, some very old graves, no longer tended and, maybe over 100 years old are, sometimes, ‘recycled’ and the ground used for new graves but not digging up remains of close relatives of people still living!
It is a strange place, Italy
But it led me to think about my Nan. She was very involved in the local life. She was, for quite a while, a councillor on the local council, she was in the WI, she was one of the people, on a rota, for doing the flowers at the church.
The church, a medieval structure, sits on a hill top overlooking the beautiful Herefordshire countryside. To get to it, you used to have to drive through a farmyard (although now there is a ‘ring road’ of sorts to get to it). In the past, the farm was the only building near it although now, possibly because of the ‘ring road’, there are some cottages nearby.
If we were staying with her, we would go to the church on the Saturday with her. She would do the flowers. Whilst she was there, she would also tend three or four graves. The graves were special. Two were for her parents. Her parents died in their early sixties. She was about twenty-one. They both died not long before her marriage – to my grandfather. She didn’t get married in white as a result but, rather, in a red flapper dress with sequins. It wasn’t the ‘done thing’ to marry in white if you were still in mourning for your parents.
One of the other graves was a small grave nearby. It was for a sister that she never knew. From what I understand, this sister was born before her and was either a stillbirth or died within a short time. In any event, her mother was very old (even now it is considered old – in 1908 it must have been very unusual to have a child in your forties) at the time of both births.
My grandparents are both buried in the churchyard although, as is customary these days, they were cremated so are in a small ‘garden’ dedicated to this purpose. When F and I went over last year, I dragged him to the church and showed him the graves of them all – finding the ones of my Nan’s sister and parents was not difficult, having been to them so often in the past.
Of course, they are all overgrown and uncared for now (those old graves), difficult to read. No flowers at them like there used to be when my Nan put fresh flowers every couple of weeks.
Eventually, I suppose, the land will be ‘reclaimed’ for new graves and the stones will be gone. And, anyway, maybe I am the last person to know where they are and any story that is behind them?
I attach a picture of the church (the photograph having been taken, more or less, in the position of the graves I mentioned):
And one that looks similar to (but is not) the area where the graves are located:
“So”, the voice queries, “how rich are you?”
It is, for sure, the most stupid fucking question to ask.
Worse still that I should ask it.
Even worser (yes, I know it’s not good English – it’s a joke) that the question is in my head.
And the worst is that this is inside my head – me asking this question of myself but as if I were someone else asking – not me at all.
Normal. My normal.
This morning was nothing different. On the way to work. And then I thought:
“Actually, I am a trillionaire.”
No, I don’t have loads of money. Instead I have my life, my perfect flat in the perfect street, my dogs, F, health, enough money to live on comfortably, a full-time job, I live in Italy and more specifically, Milan, I have good friends.
Yes, for sure, I am a trillionaire.
And, then I go and read this:
September 14
Was a complicated day – tried to get my phone to get bars so
Zach could talk to Julie. Finally got bars – one.Zach called her ‘mom’ He sounded like he had prepared all
his words for days – honest – thoughtful. Calling her ‘mom’
when he could not hear her.Julie raised her head the most she had all day. Using all her
strength that kept her living to talk with her son. Repeating her
words… she trembled – touched her face. She tried so hard to
be there in the last moments for Zach.Zach said, ‘Thank you for having me…’
He told her that his favorite time with her was when she kissed
him on his head – he wants to be with her and never wanted to
leave – he loved her…
About a mother, dying of aids, speaking by phone to the one of her children, this child having been taken away from her when it was born and then put up for adoption and then found by the photographer who recorded, by photographs, the last 18 years of the mother’s life.
Read/view it (and you should ……no you must) here.
It makes you want to cry. How can we call ourselves civilised? Someone made a point in the newspaper that the USA should get a proper healthcare system. But, actually, they’re wrong. I’m sure you could do a similar photograph-documentary in the UK or, for that matter, anywhere in the Western world. And, anyway, it’s not just the healthcare that isn’t up to the job. It’s the state and the relatives and the people involved. It’s everything and everyone, even the person themselves.
And so, it reinforced my thought this morning. I am a trillionaire.
And truly grateful.
I put my hand up. I probably shouted ‘Me! Me! Me!’ It was my first (and only?) time at the ‘top table’. We had our lunch first, before others were served. The headmistress was an old dragon but I got my chance. I would get a second serving of the baked potato.
There was a problem, of course. I was 5 or 6. My stomach could not take 2 baked potatoes. And I struggled to eat it. In front of everyone I was told that as I had asked for it, I must eat it. I was in tears trying to stuff potato into a mouth that certainly did not want it.
It was a lesson, for certain. To me it seemed cruel. I don’t think I ever sat on the top table again. I’m pretty sure I never asked for seconds again.
But, nearly 50 years later I had forgotten that lesson and that incident …………. until yesterday.
In the canteen, at work, there were chicken slices in a tarragon cream sauce. In addition, left over from yesterday (because less people had come into the canteen than was planned for), were some meatballs in a tomato sauce. The meatballs had been rather nice. I asked Gina for a meatball too.
“Can you eat two?”, she asked.
“Yes, sure”, I replied and then, as I was taking my tray to the table, I remembered the first incident like this. And, as I ate the first and then second meatball, I remembered the whole horror of it. But now I am older and I had to finish it as Gina was also clearing the plates so would know it was me. It was delicious but I simply must be more careful in future
Actually, thinking about that school, where I was for a couple of years only, I can remember nothing good. Only two bad things. The lunch I’ve just mentioned. Then there was the time when the whole school (it was only small) was playing rounders one afternoon. We were in two teams and our team was batting. I got a little caught up in the whole match. One of our girls (much older than me) hit a ball and started to make a run for it. Meanwhile, the fielders were trying to get the ball back to get her out. It got very exciting, everyone was shouting and cheering and encouraging their side and then, as our girl was almost at the last post, the fielders managed to stump the post and she was out.
I had obviously completely forgotten that I was on the batting side and was cheering along with our opposition. I don’t remember anything that was said but I do remember the stern look from the headmistress and I know that I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. It seemed that everyone had stopped cheering and I was left as the last person still cheering.
Actually, I can remember almost nothing good about any of my schooldays. I hated school – not for the lessons but for all the other bad shit that happened. Whoever said that your schooldays were the best days of your life was either completely off their head or didn’t go to any of my schools!