Further to my post about the eating of live shrimps, comes this lovely article.
For some reason, I would have much less problem with this. OK, if I’m being honest, I may have to close my eyes as I pop them in my mouth but I’m sure I would, at least, try them.
I must go and get something to eat now ……………..
I’m glad I’m busy ……….. really.
It’s when he’s not here that it becomes a problem although, this time, it’s been less since I’ve had less time. It’s in the quiet moments that it hits. A feeling of panic, of insecurity, of fear. Not of anything in particular – just a feeling for no real reason.
Not about us, for certain. About us, of that I am sure. It’s the rest of the world that makes me fearful and unsure. It will be better on Saturday evening, when he’s back. Then, from the moment he is there, I shall be fine and all these fears and worries will slip away as if they have never even existed – which is also annoying because I really would like to try and explain but, when he’s with me, they seem as smoke, drifting in the wind and becoming nothing within seconds.
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I don’t condone violence and never have, especially since I was about 13. However, the student protests are, if not condonable, at least understandable.
When I left school for further education it was a) free and b) I got a grant for my living expenses. I came out of it all with an overdraft of about £1000.
Over the years, the support for those in higher education has fallen and most students over the last few years have faced the debt of a ‘student loan’, which they pay off for years afterwards. Now, with tuition fees of £9000 per year (or maybe it’s per term?), it means that, forget about living expenses, just the cost of the education will be £27,000!
I can understand that they would be a bit angry. I can understand why they would want to march against this. And, to be honest, with a future where you need a degree to earn a pittance in McDonalds, with little hope of paying off the debt in anything other than a lifetime, I can understand why they feel that the only way they will be truly heard is to attack some building. I can empathise with their aims since I am grateful that I never had this additional ‘worry’ when I was in higher education.
And, to be honest, with the exception of Ghandi, most change has come about as a result of violence, so it wouldn’t be the first time. After all, The UK and the USA changed Iraq by violence and are trying to do the same with Afghanistan. They shouldn’t hold double standards on this.
And, as I read this morning, had it been a peaceful march, it would have caused no debate and no one would have taken any real notice. Now, people are talking about it – it is being discussed and criticised or lauded. Now the debate will continue.
At the end, it may not result in anything (much like the French protests against the pension reforms) but I don’t think it will end there. There is time yet.
Any government holds power only because of the consent of the majority of people it governs. If, however, the majority of people don’t want it or want some change, then it seems that violence is the only thing that will actually ensure the change is made.
I predict we are in for some troubling times in the next few years. I predict more violence and more unrest. It’s a shame really. The government of the time (in the UK) had the opportunity, a few years ago, to make some real change to an economic system that cannot continue in the way it is. They chose (or were bullied or were too scared) to prop up the existing system and, so, this is the result. It is times like this where there needs to be a bit of realism and someone who has charisma to explain to ‘the people’ what really needs to happen – to permit the change. To make a bright new world. To step off the edge of the cliff into the void with a parachute which has not been tried and tested is a scary thing. But, sooner or later, this will have to be done. Until then, I expect to see much more of this.
The first time I try to grab the ……… it twists and turns so much that it jumps out through my fingers. The second time I pinch a bit harder and quickly dip the translucent ………. in the accompanying emulsion of brown butter. When it lands on my tongue it does a little hop, skip and a jump before I decapitate it with my teeth and swallow the wonderful blend of crunchy shells, soft tail meat and creamy sweet butter.
I pride myself on the fact that I have never actually refused to eat anything put in front of me. I think, I could, almost eat anything, including grubs and insects (given the right circumstances – I am not, right at this moment hunting for a nice, big, juicy spider, for example. I’ve just had lunch!). There are things I might ‘struggle’ with like slugs (if they are even edible) or, in particular, dog (it’s OK, Korea is not high on the list of places I simply must visit).
However, after reading this piece, I’m almost certain I can now add ‘live things’ to the list of the unlikely things!
And you? Would you? (Italians are excluded form this as they’re almost certain to dislike the idea ;-). Sorry Lola, Pietro, etc.)
“I think I’ve had this before”, he says, adding “and I don’t like it”.
It was very difficult to keep the disappointment out of my voice …. but I tried.
“Well”, I said, “try a little and, if you don’t like it, it’s OK, you don’t have to eat it”.
I had whipped up the cream. The cream was really for me rather than him. “You don’t like cream”, I realised this as I got it out of the fridge. Damn! I should have done custard. Ah, well, I thought, if he doesn’t like it anyway then it’s better I did cream.
I put a couple of spoonfuls of the sweet in the dish and added a little cream after he indicated it was OK to do so.
He tried it. It wasn’t the same as he had had before. He said he liked it. Then got some more from the dish. And some more cream. He asked about the topping. I explained that it was pastry, like for Lemon Meringue Pie but more butter and more sugar and without water so that it was crumbs rather than pastry as such. I tried not to be annoyed by the fact that he says he doesn’t like something before he has tried it first but I don’t say anything about that anyway. It took me a few years to train V away from that. I have time. I can train F, possibly, probably, hopefully. I am hoping, much like I did with V, that I can introduce things gradually and get him to trust that what I make is all right and worth trying. I’m not sure I have the patience for this but we’ll give it a go.
I said you can make it with any fruit.
He really did like it, it seems. I told him that he must tell me the truth because, if he says he likes something, I will do it again. He said he will.
I told him it was, to my memory, the first time I had made it. Although, to be honest, even if I can’t remember it, I am sure I must have made it in the past. Maybe Rhubarb Crumble and not Blackberry and Blueberry Crumble.
The next day, he texts me to ask what it was called because he doesn’t remember. Later that night I asked him why he had needed to know. Apparently, there was a guy there from the office in London and he wanted to tell him.
I see, in his fridge, there is a jar of Lemon Curd in the door.
“You can make Lemon Curd Tart”, I said, meaning I could make Lemon Curd Tart, of course. Later, he says I can take it home together with the Banana Curd he bought at the same time, when we were in Hay-on-Wye.
“You can make that cake with it” (meaning Crumble”), he says. I say yes, even if he has, clearly, not understood how Crumble works and that a Banana Curd Crumble just would not be right at all. Ah, well.
“I want a new baby”, he says. He is slightly drunk. I love him when he’s drunk. He’s more affectionate and also quite funny.
“You mean a puppy?”, I ask.
It seems ‘yes’. “We shall have to talk about the training first”, I state.
Of course, I don’t mean the puppy training. The puppy training is not a problem. I mean the ‘F training’. Of course, I don’t actually specify that. He thinks it’s the puppy training. There will also have to be less of the ‘can you take them out tonight’ or ‘do you mind if I don’t come’ lines. However, one thing at a time. And, anyway, it’s not happening before Rufus goes. Three, as I found out one time, are just so much more work.
We had been out with the ex-parents-in-law to al Grigliaro, a predominately fish restaurant, not far from our flats. F knew it because, when they are busy with the showroom sales and working till late in the evening, they sometimes go there as a group.
And, the staff know F, which is always a good thing as we get a much better service and, usually, a discount off the bill.
I asked him, as we were walking down to it, why he had changed his mind about me coming, since it was a complete about-turn and I was interested as to why the change of mind.
“I rang S”, he says, adding “and he said ‘of course you should take Andy'”. And, so, here we were walking down to another restaurant I hadn’t tried before.
It is another Sardinian restaurant but nothing like the same as Baia Chia. For one thing, this is not as ‘rustic’ as Baia Chia. There is more room and many more tables. It is also more expensive. We wait outside for M and S. They are from the Manchester area. I have my expectations of what they will look like and what they will be like. They are, of course, not really anything like I expected.
They are very nice, middle-class, people from the North. They know, of course, that we are not just ‘friends’ as F had said. But, then, S is their son and, no doubt told them that F had a new boyfriend. But, later, when F and I went out for a cigarette after the main course, I learnt of actually ‘why’ F was a little concerned.
They had met some time after S & F split up. They went out for a dinner. Apparently M (S’s mother) started crying and asking if S & F would get back together. He was worried about the same thing happening; or her being disappointed with him being with someone other than S; or something like that, I guess.
In typical Italian style, the restaurant was very brightly lit. The tables and chairs were OK but nothing special. The food however, was really lovely and the service very, very good. S didn’t eat shellfish (and was a bit of a finicky eater anyway). F asked the waiter (owner’s son) to bring us a selection of antipasto, mainly hot but also a little of the cold antipasto.
Plate after plate came. Some poached salmon, anchovies with a celery and ginger sauce; octopus with tiny courgette-type vegetables, squid with a rich, creamy, tomato sauce and polenta, prawns with artichoke, etc. For cold it was rather large prawns (that blue colour that looks as if it was someone who spent a little too long outside in freezing conditions), clams and, my favourite, oysters.
We chatted about many things and I asked appropriate questions, as one does. They were very nice people. And they were obviously pleased to see F had someone, probably, particularly, as they will have already met S’s new American boyfriend.
By the time we had finished the antipasto, none of us were really hungry. We decided to have three portions of fish (one of each poached, pan-fried and grilled) and split them between the four of us. The best was the grilled branzino – as branzino is, by far, my favourite fish.
We drank two bottles of very nice white wine. We had sweets. We had mirto which they had never had before and they brought the rest of the bottle, which we finished.
It went well. We are meeting them again tonight. Also, probably, A who is over from London again, for work. Tonight we shall go to Baia Chia.
As we are going up in the lift, with him slightly drunk, leaning on me and wanting cuddles, is when he said he wanted another ‘baby’. I know it is true, even if he is not there all the time (having to travel – even more now, probably, for work).
But, as I say, there will have to be some serious ‘F training’ for it to work 
“I’m worried that it will be uncomfortable for them”, he says.
Yes, I can see that he’s worried but I wonder if the ‘uncomfortableness’ won’t really be his. It isn’t about explaining who I am since no explanation will (probably) be necessary. No, it’s the fact that I would be there.
“Do what you feel in your heart”, I say. He feels like I shouldn’t go. I tell him that that is what he really feels (for he won’t say it). He agrees. “Then I won’t go. It’s not a problem”. And it isn’t. And I understand. After all, I didn’t go and see V’s parents when we went over to the UK for almost the same reason. My thought was ‘What do I do with F’. The choices were to leave him for a few hours (but that was unfair) or take him but I felt that was unfair on both him and them and so I avoided it and didn’t go.
So, I really do understand and I really don’t mind.
So, tonight, he will be going out with them. They want to eat fish. I think he was genuinely unhappy that I wasn’t going to be there. He, at one point, said he would phone S to see what he thought. I’m sure S would have said to take me – but I know that, even then, he would have been concerned.
It makes me think that this was one of the reasons it took so long to go down and see his family. Maybe he thought it would become difficult. As it was, me being on my best behaviour and all, it was all easy. As this would be too – but he has to have the confidence in me that would permit him to take me anywhere and meet anyone. He will learn and it will all be OK in the end and, at the end of the day, however nice they may be, I don’t actually need to meet the ex-parents-in-law :-).
UPDATE: Sometime later in the afternoon.
He’s taken the ‘babies’ for a wash and brush up. He phones me to tell me that I will be angry with him for they have shaved Rufus’ head (well, his snout, actually). He is worried. I say it’s fine but I want pictures. He doesn’t want to do that.
Then I get an email of photos.
We exchange emails.
Then he says – ‘We are going to a new restaurant tonight – Al Griglia’. This is with his ex-parents-in-law. I reply saying that I’m sure it will be nice. I add; Will I see you tonight before you go or are you coming back to my place?’
He replies that he will bring the babies back home to mine about 6.30 (they are in the office with him), then go and get ready and then I can come to his and we go from there.
I am, a little, surprised. I thought we had agreed that I wouldn’t be coming. I say so. He says no, I am coming too. It’s difficult to explain that, even though this is all by email, he seems happier about it all – or maybe that’s just my projection. Or maybe it’s because I really didn’t mind and was so understanding, last night? Or he has spoken to S?
What is quite funny is that he doesn’t say or ask me directly – just puts in an email that I should come to his place at 8.30 and we would go from there! He makes me laugh and that’s one of the reasons I love him so. More exciting than anything else is the new restaurant. I’ve checked on the Internet and they do fish and meat (yay!). It seems it is a Sardinian restaurant. I will let you know.
Liu Xiaobo is, undoubtedly, an amazing man. In spite of being put in prison and suffering, he continues to ‘fight’ against a regime that he feels should be more democratic. This ‘fight’ to get basic human rights, move towards a democracy, etc., is not something new but he is the latest high-profile figure to do so.
His attempts to change the way that China treats it’s dissidents, is admirable. He does so by non-violent means in an ever-increasingly violent world and against a reportedly violent authority.
He should, indeed, be lauded and treated as a hero, as should anyone standing up for the rights and safety of ordinary citizens, especially if they do so in a non-violent way. I wish I had his courage.
And it is important that the rest of the world recognises his attempts and, one day, one hopes, his achievements.
Alfred Nobel, in his will, declared that a Nobel Peace Prize should be awarded “to the person who shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses”.
Now, although Liu Xiaobo deserves some sort of prize, to me he does not quite fit the profile of a person who should win the Nobel Peace Prize. Only the last part could be said to be fitting but the reason it was awarded to him was, apparently, “for his long and non-violent struggle for fundamental human rights in China”. Again, laudable but not really what the peace prize is for, in my opinion.
The Chinese are outraged and consider that this is a political act. Holding our hands up in horror, I read that it is not the Norwegian government that decides this but, rather, the specially formed Norwegian Nobel Committee. How can the Chinese be so confused?
Maybe they read this!
All the Committee members are or were politicians.
So, not only does it seem that they haven’t picked a person who fits the precise requirements (according to Nobel himself) but, also, they may well have done so, being ex-politicians and all, in full knowledge that this was, in fact, a political act.
A shame really.
And this was how he looked, more or less……
……
when he burnt a hole in my sofa, covered it up (or tried to), promised me money he owed me and lied about it and then did a runner owing me the money and leaving his rented room a total tip.
See the full story here.
Now it’s been up on the web for a couple of years, he’s trying to get rid of it! Well, Serge, it’s not going away! It may have gone away if you (and previously, your father) hadn’t been such a prick about it!
In the meantime, he’s started a designer label called “Book Club”. Let’s hope that he’s a little more grown-up now and a) doesn’t treat people with such disrespect and b) doesn’t expect his father to bail him out. Who knows?
BTW Serge, I wouldn’t have been posting this if you hadn’t tried to get the whole thing closed down. Prat.
It isn’t that early. Maybe 9.30 a.m. I am walking, with Rufus and Dino, through the offices. On the left are the white, plasterboard walls, behind which are offices and meeting rooms. On the right is the typical open plan office, separated from me by a half-height wall so that I can see the desks – although not so many people are in.
I get to the door at the end and open it and go through. The room is large, wood-panelled with a brownish, nondescript carpet. There are some desks and a leather sofa. I let the dogs off the lead. I notice a guy lying on the floor. Probably in his 30s, casually dressed.
“Oh!”, I exclaim, “sorry about the dogs”.
“It’s OK”, he replies.
I’m here to do a job. It’s not a permanent job but I’m being well paid. I will be assisting the Managing Director. This guy. Who is he? We sit and chat for a bit and then I get on with my job. I decide that I need to get something from the car. I have an English lesson to finish and the stuff is down there. I leave the dogs with the guy. He is lying on the floor, reading a book.
When I reach the street, the city is busy. It is London, after all. I find my car. It’s an Audi estate or maybe a Ford. I get in and find the papers I need. I realise that, maybe, I should take Dino-clone upstairs as well. For some reason I should never let Dino-clone and Dino meet. After all he is Dino’s son (I had been watching Terminator Salvation previously). But, stuff it. What harm can there possibly be?
I take him up.
As I get back into the office the guy is where I left him. Next to him one of the dogs has been sick. And there is dog shit all over the floor. I am amazed that he can just lie there and do nothing about it. I start the clean up. I clean most of the sick and then start on the shit.
The MD arrives through the door. He, too, seems not to notice the dog shit everywhere. He goes to his office which is in the corner of the room and up a couple of stairs. There are two entrances. Both doors are open.
I break off from my cleaning up of the dog shit and go to my computer which is in his room.
“Ah, good”, he says, “I need you to help me with this computer package in 10 minutes or so”.
“OK”, I reply, “no problem. Whenever you want”. But thinking to myself that, surely, he realises I have to clean up the dog shit first. I step outside his office into the big room and continue.
A visitor comes. A big guy, with a moustache, wearing a camel coat. The MD invites him into his office. The doors are not closed yet I can’t hear their conversation, which I am slightly puzzled about. Me and the guy from the floor sit at a table in the ante-room. He asks me why I’m here.
“I live in Milan, Italy”
“Oh”, he says, asking “where’s that?”
I think that he’s just an idiot. I start to explain about the dogs. I have to go back every weekend. I take the dogs with me.
There’s a puzzling thing. It’s OK taking them back to Milan but how did I get them here in the first place? I think: Will I have to leave them here? Will they have to stay in quarantine for six months? No, that can’t be right. No, I’m certain I can get them back to Milan.
Then I cannot understand how I got them here. It just doesn’t make sense.
This ‘working it out’ wakes me up. It’s 1.07 a.m.
I wonder why I’m having such strange dreams right now. That doesn’t make sense either.
He cut the eyebrows by using a comb to pull them out and then slicing them off. Oh, so that’s how it’s done, I thought. I was so close to my grandfather and his face was in profile to me. There was something about carrying bags – to the car – which had a suitcase or bag in it. I thought, briefly about taking the bags back to the ‘place’ and then going to get the bag from the car afterwards and then, as I was already halfway back to the car, decided to carry on.
V was there – somewhere. Next I knew I was in the car; he was driving; we were going down Broad Street, in Hereford, the magnificent Cathedral ahead. It was dark but not black – like it was early evening. An old couple were crossing the road, some lady with a stick or one of those walking frames, crossing slowly. V didn’t slow down. I almost curled up as we passed her at some ridiculous speed. “Oh, don’t be so stupid”, V said – or something like that.
I woke up. The dream left me with some uneasy feeling which I couldn’t (and still can’t) put my finger on. The first city wasn’t Hereford but somewhere else I know or knew or, maybe, a mix of places. It had steep streets. I realised I had slept really deeply. I checked my phone which had been lying on the bed next to me. I had missed a call – I mean, the phone had rung about half an hour before and I had not woken up. It was a deep, deep sleep.
I must have needed that, I thought. I’ll just have another 5 minutes, I thought, setting my alarm for half an hour later. But I couldn’t get back to sleep because of the dream and so got up anyway, had a cup of tea and got ready to go to A’s place.
I had only gone to lie down for 5 minutes in the first place, almost 2 hours ago.
It had been quite a busy day. It had been quite a successful day, all in all. But that was only stage 1. Stage 2 is today, with me sitting here, writing this, instead of getting on with the things I should do, procrastinating about doing some things because there are other things to be done which are less unpleasant but, still, I write this instead of doing anything. I don’t know why I do that. I wish I didn’t. Yesterday was an example.
It’s so hard to explain. There’s a fear that I have. It’s a fear of people or something. It’s a fear of situations. Situations that might be a little bit difficult; people that I don’t understand. And, yet, when I actually do the things, it usually is OK and, although I know that, it doesn’t stop me feeling this fear. It’s stupid. I tell myself it’s stupid and I know that it’s stupid but it doesn’t stop me.
Even yesterday.
I had intended to get up by 8 and walk the dogs and start doing the things I needed to do.
I got up at 8.30 and decided to have coffee before I took the dogs out. I had two coffees, doing not much except surfing the net and playing games and reading the news. I had set reminders on my phone. I reset the reminders as they came up. Just another half an hour, I thought – the real reason being that I didn’t want to go out. I’m sure that, without the dogs, who MUST be walked, I would spend most of my time like a hermit. It’s like addictive things (smoking) – I know what I’m like.
I’m sure I’m only a step away from becoming crazy.
Eventually, I set my ‘final’ deadline to leave. I must go. I have no choice but there are things that worry me about the whole day. There are four things to do for today. A chatted to me on Facebook, yesterday, meaning that there’s a fifth – but I may lie to him about that and say it wasn’t on the way. I reset my deadline. I reset it again. But, I must be at the first place before 12.30. And so, at one point I do make the effort.
It’s a bit of a drive. I know the way except, at one point, I realise that I have taken the wrong road. Damn! But my sense of direction is good and so I end up on the right road in the end. I drive to the place and park the car. I had toyed with the idea that I wouldn’t question anything – having to do it in Italian (or, rather, Italian and a mix of hand signals and miming). It would be easier to say nothing. I berate myself for thinking this. We shall see.
There’s no one in reception. I walk round to where it says ‘Office’. There’s a couple of guys there. One asks me what I want – or rather – ‘Tell me’ or ‘Speak to me’ – “Dimi”. I explain, in my really crap Italian, that I’ve brought the car in for a check and to pick up the car ownership documents. We go to the office. He tries to find someone from reception. He suggests they are having coffee and, this being Italy, I resign myself to the fact that the coffee break, being so important, I shall not see anyone for another 10 minutes. It’s OK, siamo in Italia.
The lady comes. I, kind of, explain what I want. Another guy takes my keys. I go through the explaining of the two problems. It’s a mix of Italian, English, miming and gesticulating. However, he seems to understand. The lady searches to find my documents, which she does. I ask her about the MoT Test (revisione, here). In the UK this is done when a car is three years old and then every year. She explains that, here, it is after four years and then every two years. I am quite pleased with that. It won’t be due until the end of next year.
The guy explains that the braking ‘problem’ is normal. He explains that the ‘pinking’ problem is because of some cheap fuel that contains water. I don’t believe him but say nothing. He suggests using different garages. We shall see. I never believe mechanics. But I can’t argue because I don’t really understand. It’s a bit like doctors. Still, I am quite pleased with myself. I asked about everything and got an answer on everything and I understood, which is always an achievement.
My next stop is equally ‘harrowing’. But it has to be done. And I have checked and double-checked what I am going for. I also checked the way since, to go directly from the garage would incur some stupid couple of euros in tolls and for the sake of a few kilometers, I have found an alternative route.
The alternative route takes me past the ‘fifth’ place. I decide that I will stop, after all. Looking costs nothing. I walk towards the back of the ‘store’. I know where they will be, more or less. I see ones that are done in the old style but are actually reproductions. €1000 or more – and that’s with the discount. No way! Anyway, they don’t look that good. I walk on to the second-hand stuff. There’s nothing like the one I found and that, after procrastinating for so long, missed it – it being scrapped as it had been there too long. But, wait! There is one that doesn’t look so bad. Nice size but covered with other stuff. I look underneath and can’t work out how it works although it is obviously extendible. I look at the price. I can’t work out the discount price. It looks like €200. It has four chairs around it. The chairs are not necessarily with the table but they do go with it, sort of. I wish I had someone else with me. I don’t like doing this stuff on my own.
Still, I remember the last time I was here and missing out on one which was, probably, Art Noveau and, so, I decide to bite the bullet.
I go the the front cash desk and ask the lady for help. My Italian is crap but, somehow, I manage. I amaze myself sometimes. She finds a guy for me and we walk to the table. He struggles with it but suggests that it is €200 as I suspected. I ask if I could see how the table was extended as it’s not possible to see without taking all the stuff off.
He gets someone to take the stuff off and pull it out so as to extend it. It is badly scratched in the centre – but nothing that can’t be fixed or, rather, nothing that can’t be fixed eventually. It’s a solid table. I’m not sure what period. Maybe fifties or, even, sixties but it’s solid and a good table. Not quite what I wanted but better than this bloody horrible IKEA desk that I’m sitting at now and making the lounge look so terrible (in my eyes). I think about waiting until F gets back from London and getting him to come with me and look but decide that, in doing that, I am just procrastinating and, who knows, maybe it will be gone in a week – just like the other one.
I ask about the chairs since I can’t find a price on them. The guy finds the price. They are €80. They are good, solid chairs. The seats are soft. The colour of their wood is almost that of the table. If I don’t get these then I would have to get some less comfortable ones that are new and cost €35 each. I phone A to ask if he can help me. I need a van to get them all to my place. I will have to hire one – but it will be cheaper than paying €200 for delivery by the people here (which is a crazy price and would mean taking a day off work, etc.). I explain about the €200 and the fact that it will be cheaper to hire a van for a day and do it that way. He agrees and says we can look later, when I go round for dinner. He asks if I want him to negotiate a discount. I say that I’m OK and I can do it myself (to be honest I hadn’t even thought about it). We discuss about doing it tomorrow and I ask them if they are open – which they are. We finish the conversation. I ask the guy for a discount. He says he has to go and find someone else. The first guy comes back and I suggest a price of €250 all in – making a point of the scratches on the top. He thinks about it and then goes away. He comes back and the deal is done.
So I pay the deposit and, feeling even more pleased with myself, get in the car for the next place which was, in fact, place 2. As I said before, I had selected the route to avoid the toll on the motorway. I picture the ‘map’ in my head. I go to the place. I hate this place with passion. It is full of cheap crap – but it’s cheap crap that does the job even if most of it won’t last like my new ‘old’ table. It is full of people that, I am sure, spend their whole weekend just walking around it, they are so slow and seemingly admiring the ‘set rooms’ that are there to show you how wonderful your home could be – if only you bought all your furniture from them. But they do cupboards and I want cupboards for the bathroom. I want to move towels out of the bedroom and I want my huge pack of toilet rolls to be not on show and not on the floor. Perhaps F is rubbing off on me?
I walk round the store, since I need to find the cupboards I want and note the code number and place to find them in the warehouse section. I also need to check which doors I want.
There is one saving grace about this place (other than it’s cheapness for cupboards) and that is the meatballs. Swedish meatballs with gravy and redcurrant sauce and chips. But, I am on my own and it’s another thing to fear (the mass of people, the sitting on one’s own, the having no one to talk to, the mass of people (yes, I know I mentioned it twice but I really do dislike being around all these people – these kind of people)). I find the cupboards and the doors and make notes with the conveniently supplied pencil on the conveniently supplied checklist. It’s all very convenient – except for the mass of people who, quite obviously, are here to wander and, generally, get in my way. Of course, I am much later here than I had originally intended to be – but only through my own fault.
I go, as fast as I can, dodging the fat people who, walking as fast as snails and three abreast or more, block the pathways. I am irritated but not so much as usual because I have, after all, already accomplished a lot (in my head, anyway). I reach the end of the ‘showroom’ and I see the restaurant. It is mid-day. I decide that I will treat myself to the meatballs. The queue is long. There are so many children. The man in front of me, when we reach the place to pick up the trays, is on the telephone. Obviously he has ‘gone ahead’ to get the stuff whilst his family or friends (or both) trail behind. Now he is here, having to make selections and the others are not. He is reading out what is available. The person on the other end is obviously passing it to the other people and then relaying it back to him. I find this annoying since it means he is taking too long to decide. But I cannot be angry – I am too fearful. I concentrate on anything other than him. The children are, in general, bored. I can’t say I blame them. Me too!
I decide on 15 meatballs. You have the choice of 10, 15 or 20 – all conveniently priced. 15 seems the right choice. Not greedy but enough. It seems that I don’t get my proper portion of chips but I’m not complaining. It will be enough. I grab a beer and a glass and queue up to pay. It’s less than 10 Euro so reasonable value for money. The place is bursting. People have ‘bagged’ their table by dumping coats and bags on seats. I toy with picking a table with a ‘spare’ seat, knowing that it will probably annoy them but decide not to. Who needs the hassle? I find a woman sitting on her own at a table of four. I ask if the seat diagonally opposite is free. It is. I sit and eat and enjoy my meatballs. Perhaps I shouldn’t eat them as I’m going to dinner later but, what the heck!
I go down to the warehouse part, through the kitchen stuff and the storage boxes, etc. I go to the warehouse. People now have big trolleys which they can’t steer and there’s even less consideration of others. I steer mine to the place I want. I pick up the flat-pack boxes containing the cupboards. I move on and pick up the boxes containing the doors. I worry that I haven’t picked up the right stuff so check the codes again and the colours again, marked on the edge of the shelves. It should be OK but I have no one with me to confirm – like everything today. I go to the check out. They have the ‘do-it-yourself’ ones. I’m happier with those. After all, It means speaking to less people. There is one free and the helpful assistant sees me hesitate before waving me through. I check out. It’s all the price it is supposed to be.
I load it into the car. There is someone waiting to have my place and the man has got out to safeguard the place. I unload my stuff but then have to take the trolley to one of the trolley areas. Instead of saying that he will do it for me or do it after they have parked he just stands there. I decide to make my own little protest. Having got in the car I spend a few moments organising myself and not rushing as I would have done if he had offered to take the trolley. There! That’ll show ‘em!
I drive home, more pleased with myself at having done everything I meant to (and more – now that I have the table) and it is still only about 1 o’clock. I unload everything and get it home.
But, still I haven’t finished. I have to go out again to the ‘3rd’ place. Again, not only venturing out of the flat but also having to put up with lots of people. I make myself tea. But I have to go and do this thing. Well, I don’t HAVE to but I want to. It’s for F. Of course, this has the added ‘fear’ in that, this is the first time I will do this and is it the right thing to do? I mean to say, it’s a risk. If it had been V there would be no risk but F is different and I don’t know him that well or, rather, not well enough. Still, as we walked past the shop the other night, he said that he really liked them.
I go. I have to get on the tube. Every move I make is hard. I just want to go home and do …. nothing but at least I wouldn’t be here, with all these people around. I get on the tube train. I feel self-conscious. I stare straight ahead, seeing myself in the reflection of the window. I am an old man. Do other people see that too? I am slightly shocked when I look. The wrinkles, the sagging face, the flappy neck. I don’t feel like this but know I am like this. But what do others see? It’s like the liver spots. They have appeared, on my hands and arms, in the last year or so. Mostly faint and only a few. It’s not really a problem, just a reminder. And, yet, I’m not ready for it. It’s not like I really care it’s just that, it seems to creep up on me and I can’t see myself in the way that I see others and, so, I am curious as to what others see.
I get out of the tube and walk up the road. The streets are thronged with people. Too many people. Strolling around on this Saturday afternoon. But not many bags. That’s the thing to look for. How many people have bags. There’s a crisis. The shops are full but not enough people buying; not enough consumers to pay of the debts or, rather, increase the debts to put more money in the system. I go to the shop. OK. I’ve picked the blue one. That’s the one I like most. I go in. First you have to find where they are. There are three or four floors. I go to each one. Eventually I find it – the blue one. They are on a shelf above me. I get them down. The sizes are L or XL – I want medium or small. I could ask. If only I knew, for certain, who were the assistants since, these days, people don’t wear uniforms. It’s to give everyone the feeling that we are all equal or something. It’s all casual. As if the assistants are supposed to be like your friends rather than someone there to assist you. I guess. I prefer not to speak to anyone. I decide that I won’t ask. Normally, these days, they’ll just say they only have what’s on the shelf anyway. I think I’ll go to the one on Corso Buenos Aires. I get back on the tube and go to Lima. I get out and walk up to the shop. I realise that I haven’t actually spoken to anyone in hours. Even if I am surrounded by so many people. In fact, I haven’t spoken to anyone since I did the deal with the table!
I go into the shop. They don’t have quite the same things as the other store. I wander round. I can’t see the blue one. But I find a grey one that seems similar. Grey and red. I try it on. It fits me so it should be OK. I take it and go to pay. I hand over the item. My credit card doesn’t work. The cashier explains. I ask him to try it again since I know that the card is OK – I used it in IKEA, after all. It still doesn’t work so I use the debit card. I leave. Now I worry about the purchase. What if it is too large? What if it isn’t one that he likes? I shall leave the price tags on in case he doesn’t like it. I have to try this the once, at least. If he doesn’t like it then I can always use it. It would be OK for work, if nothing else.
I realise that, as I am going to dinner tonight, I should go and get some wine from my ‘wine shop’. Now this is fine. For this I have no fear. I don’t know why this is. After all, this is another case of me having to rely on someone else. However, I quite like the guy and he always says ‘hello’ to me if I’m passing the shop and he’s outside. Also, I can trust him. I say what type of thing I want and he will tell me the different ones I can choose – and he’s never let me down yet! I tell him I want a white wine, not sparkling or fizzy and dry. He points me to some. Telling me how each one is good. I select one. I love his shop. On the counter are some bottles of beer and cider. One group is for Bulmer’s Original cider. I smile to myself. This is from home, after all and it’s funny to see that whilst being in a foreign country, there is a little bit of Herefordshire, even here. And no one knows – like it’s a secret between myself and, well, myself.
I need to go to the supermarket. I could go to Unes, round the corner, or go home, drop off these bags and then go to the local Carrefour. I don’t like Unes, really. Or, rather, I don’t like the assistants. And, more particularly, I prefer the milk from Carrefour. I walk home, down my street, which is long. I am struck (again, after all this time) how my street is like it’s own special place; it’s like a village in the centre of town. I love my street.
I get home and drop off the bags and go straight out to get the shopping I need. I have decided to get some DVDs and CDs – to copy some of the stuff I have on the computer to play in the car and stuff. The tills are almost empty. I pick the one with the woman that reminds me of the woman that used to work for my grandmother when she had the post office. She always seems so miserable though but she’s OK. I ask her about the CDs and DVDs. She says I have to get them from the desk (where the expensive or easily-stealable stuff is kept). I don’t fully understand at first and ask if I have to pay for them over there. She explains that I have to get them and then bring them to her. I do so and as I return she says “give me”. Smiling as she does so. I laugh and tell that she speaks perfect English. I say that in Italian, of course. It pleases me because I know she is another of the cashiers that I will like and will be OK in the future.
>I go home. I am so tired. I will just go and have a lie down for a bit.
I think of the day and know that making the effort was worth it. I did many things. I know that my fear isn’t right, nor logical but what can I do about it? Every step outside, on my own is such a big deal in my head. I worry that, one day, it will become too much. I worry that Best Mate and I have too much in common – have this in common and, one of these days, it will become a hurdle I can’t get over. For sure, it isn’t right, I know, but what can I do?