Monthly Archives: March 2012

Restless

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Things just happen.

It’s just that sometimes, they need a helping hand. In fact, you’ve got to put yourself in the right position for the happening to happen.

And I’m feeling a little restless.

I feel that I need some more challenge (and it would be nice to earn more money, too!).

So, I’m doing something about it.

Not a lot, you understand, after all this feeling may pass (and I am inherently lazy when it comes to myself), but doing something is better than nothing.

I need to do other things as well, to ‘set things up’. Which I will probably do in the next couple of weeks.

Who knows what will happen – but something might? One must be prepared.

Let’s see :-)

Does my English look good in this?

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“What sort of English do you want?”

I should ask this, really.

In any case, I wouldn’t get the right answer.

But I do try to explain. If I were to say “Me to go cinema this night”, I’m sure you would understand that I am going to the cinema this evening. Is it good English? Well, no, of course not if, by good English you mean to say ‘like a native’.

But even that is not quite correct. Take, for example, “If I was to come to urs ….” Written by a native speaker or some ‘useless’ foreigner? Of course, it would be made by normal English speakers in the UK. Therefore ‘like a native’ is a bit misleading, is it not, since it should read “If I were to come to your house …”?

So, exactly what is ‘good’ English? And, to live or converse with people in the UK, how good does it have to be?

This article, then, seeks to define how ‘good’ good should be and advises that ‘not very good’ is, in fact, good enough.

And I agree. And, anyway, it’s only by use, by reading, by listening (and, maybe, by having a good teacher/copy editor – ahem!) to good English that we can hope to improve our own.

In any event, English evolves simply because native English speakers adjust the language and grammar to suit themselves. I wonder, indeed, how long it will take for your and you’re to just become ur or their, there and they’re to become a singly-spelt word, maybe ther? Already ur is used, not only in texting but also in emails and, I guess, any time the word is written.

After all, with just the two lettas, its quicka, init?

Walking through the city that I love.

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I must admit, it didn’t seem quite right. Of course, it had crossed my mind earlier, before I set out. And, so, I should have checked, I suppose. Still, I had mentioned ‘showroom’ and nothing was said to make me think otherwise.

In fact, when I had asked, earlier, if he would like to come with us for a walk, I had assumed he would be going that way anyway. He had said ‘no’ since he had many things to do. In a way, that was a shame, in that I would have found out that he wasn’t going to the showroom after all!

Unfortunately, I was a little late setting out. And there wasn’t a bus coming. But I knew that, if I walked, I could be there by about 7.30, so that was only half an hour after it started and that was OK. I walked. Eventually, at one of the stops I saw that the bus was coming and waited. Three stops later and I was off.

I don’t particularly like that part of town. It always seems so dark, so dead. I got to the gates – painted especially mimicking something that a graffiti artist would do, thereby making graffiti pointless. It works. Also it is quite stylish.

The gates were closed. I rang the bell. As I rang the bell, I thought that, quite obviously, I was at the wrong place. For certain, with something this important, the gate would be open and I would hear sounds of partying or, at least, sounds of people, etc.

I text him, asking if it was at the shop but not really expecting an answer since it would be unlikely he would have his phone on or with him. Still, if it were to be at the shop, then I would be very late and, maybe, he would check his phone and see where I was. Or where I had been.

I ring the bell a second time. There seem to be lights on, from what I can make out over the hight wall and gates – but, still, I am sure I am at the wrong place.

Now this is nowhere near the shop. The shop will take a while to get to. I think about a taxi but decide I can’t really justify the expense. If it had not been for him, at this point I would have just gone home. But I can’t let him down and I know he wanted me there.

Luckily, I have a general map of Milan in my head, including most public transport. I can get to the Duomo (cathedral), I think and from there I can walk – it’s not so far.

But first I need to walk back the way that I came – the other side of the park that Dino and I had been playing in a few hours before.

At first I was going to walk straight up the road then I realised it would be quicker to go diagonally, through the park. Well, when I say quicker, easier to catch a tram. I thought I would take a number 12 or 27 as I was sure they were the ones. They didn’t take me to the centre but it would do. It would have to do. It wasn’t so far to walk to the centre. Then I remembered that I could change and take a tram number 23 which would take me to a delightful little square just behind the Duomo. The park that I’m walking through is quite nice in the darkness (although there is no real darkness since we are in the city. So it is more shadows of darkness, some darker than others). There are few people about. A couple of couples, intertwined as young lovers often are in Italy – after all, they seem to have nowhere else to go! A few people walking their dogs. A group of three young lads one of whom is holding the lead to a rather small white fluffy dog which takes away from their swagger as it’s more of a lap dog. I smile. To myself, obviously.

But it’s beautiful in the park with its shades of darkness. It makes me think of Twilight (even if I’ve never seen the thing). It makes me think of summer (even if it’s not as warm so as to be wearing just a T-shirt). It’s that kind of smoky darkness you get at twilight in the summer. It’s why it’s also called dusk, I guess. Dusky.

I got to the stop. Earlier, when Dino and I were coming back from the park, there had been an accident. A tram had run into a car. I had heard the bang from the park and thought it must have been an accident. It doesn’t happen that often and still amazes me when it does. I don’t believe that the tram ran into the stationary car but that the car had tried to turn left, crossing in front of the tram, thinking that he could ‘get away with’ the manoeuvre – except he didn’t. Stupid.

Now there was no sign of the accident. I get to the tram stop and walk a little further down to check on the trams or buses that stop here. I am in luck! A number 73 bus, from Linate airport also stops here. I had forgotten about that option. This takes me right to San Babila and so is a much better choice.

And even more lucky! The bus is nearly here. The bus is packed as it always is, coming from the airport. I can’t believe it has taken them so long to make a metro from Linate. Well, it’s still not finished but at least now it’s under construction!

As we near San Babila, I look out of the window of the bus and see, above the buildings, the Duomo, there, in all it’s glory, floodlit and beautiful (well, if you take the plastic wrapping off the tower that holds the larger-than-life, golden Madonna). I catch my breath. It can still do that to me!

I get off the bus and walk over the square in San Babila. I think about V and how much we loved this city and realise that I still do. It fills me with an excitement that is impossible to describe. It has a beauty and a liveliness that I have found only in one other city, Istanbul (even San Babila with its modern buildings all around – its shops). There are people with bags – bags from designer shops, there are people making their way to dinner, or the cinema, or the theatre, or home, of course. The city is alive and I like it a lot.

I walk down Via Montenapoleone (one of the main designer shopping streets in Milan). I notice windows more now, given that it’s F’s job. I like the window in Louis Vuitton. They have large arrows as if on a target, in a circle, around a bag. The fletches are the same colour for each window, but a different colour between windows. I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean, as such, but it’s pretty and inspiring at the same time. Like a work of art.

I notice that some of the other shops are no longer impressive to me, with their window displays. I am affected (or should that be infected) by F and what he does. I am less interested in the actual clothes or bags than I am in the displays! I pause in front of Iceberg. They were my favourite designers. I quite like a jacket there. Sometimes, I wish I had the money to shop there like I used to but that’s just a fleeting thought. Clothes, after all, are not that important, it’s how you wear them that’s the key.

The street is not full but the people there are mostly tourists. Maybe they’re too frightened to come there during the day? Frightened they will be made to purchase something that’s too expensive or that they will look out of place walking down there when the shops are open?

Still, I enjoy walking down the street. I want to tell them that I live here, that this place is my home. I am happy to live here. No, even proud! I imagine their envy, even if it’s not for everyone (even for most Italians). Still, it’s a city that I love and I like to be reminded that I love it – and not just because I’m with F. And it does feel like home (which it is) even if I would happily live in the country again. But I may only have this short time here, in this city, so I have to savour every moment.

At the end of the street, I turn right and reach the shop. Even if F has not replied to my text, it is obviously right. Whilst all the shops are now closed, there are people outside this one, having a fag, talking, etc.

It’s a special thing to launch a range of spectacle and sunglasses frames. Of course, I know a lot of people there. Well, the people that work for the company. They are all, of course, very nice to me. F is pleased to see me and I explain what happened.

It’s like an upmarket cocktail party. There are drinks (prosecco and wine) and nibbles, being served around the shop by waiters. Finger food, aperitivo food. When I try some, eventually, it’s nice. As I would expect, really.

I wander about a bit, not wanting to be in F’s way as he is, or should be, working. Saying hello and chatting with clients many of whom he knows, of course.

Someone comments on the jumper he’s wearing. It’s a simple grey v-neck. He tells them it’s from Zara and that I had bought it for Christmas. This is true but I only recognise it now, when he’s said it. He did seem particularly pleased with it and, obviously, he really is. That makes me happy. Also, I am happy that, even if I’m not in this business, I can do something so right.

He finds me a little later. He puts frames on me. He favours one that is a pale grey. I prefer one that is a dark blue. He says that the lighter one suits me. This time, I think, I shall listen to advice since I am always better pleased later.

But since I like the darker frames, later still, with a group of colleagues around me, we have the frames put on me again and people nodding their heads or shaking it giving their sage advice as to what looks best.

Apart from me and one other person, they side with F. I guess my next pair will be light grey frames then?

The party finishes and most people leave. F had told me that he has to re-do the shop for tomorrow. It has to be done now because tomorrow (today as I write this) he is in Germany for a week. I thought it was going to take a long time but before 10 he is finished and we go home.

As soon as I got home, I took off my shoes since my feet were killing me. I had done a lot of walking in shoes that I don’t wear so much now. Still, the walk both through the park and the city itself were worth it, reaffirming as it did, my feeling for this city. And I’m not even a city person!

Very spoilt

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I laughed as I walked into the flat.

Balloons filled the ceiling in the lounge and the hallway.

A “Happy Birthday” banner stretched across the hallway.

A “Dog” balloon hung from the window in the kitchen.

On the dining room table were the presents.

I added my solitary one to the pile.

The next evening was the ‘party’.

He had bought minced meat that morning. Not the crap stuff – the minced steak.

He moulded it into a round and carefully placed small dog biscuits round the side. There were three colours so they had to be arranged one colour after another. On top went a candle in the shape of a four.

The presents were opened and included a special activity toy where you hide treats and get the dog to do things to get the treat. Like an activity toy for babies. But, to him, he is a baby. He’s his baby. And, of course, like any parent, his baby is very intelligent. The picture on the box shows a Border Collie, of course, not a Bearded Collie.

The cake went down very well although he could hardly wait until the candle was blown out to eat it. He eats ‘nicely’ but still managed to wolf it down in a few moments.

He is a very spoilt dog, as I often say.

Er, Happy birthday, I suppose.

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Saturday sees a very important birthday.

Apparently.

I am told.

There will be presents. There will be cake.

Apparently.

He is more excited about this birthday than about his own.

For it is the birthday of Dino.

Apparently, even if he has more toys than are needed for a hundred dogs, there must be more toys.

So, he said to me the other evening, “We shall eat at home on Saturday night, so as to spend more time with the bambino”

Since then, I have been thinking about what to do. As you know, cooking for F is not easy as he won’t eat meat (unless it is minced).

Last night he told me that he has bought everything for us to eat on Saturday night.

“Why did you do that?”, I asked.

“Because you always cook”, came the reply.

Except I don’t – as I told him. In fact, I almost never cook these days.

Anyway, I looked on the internet (one must get into the spirit of these things – at least a little bit) for a recipe for a ‘dog’s cake’ and, perhaps unsurprisingly, I found one. It contains bananas. I never knew that bananas were OK for dogs. You learn something every day.

I will also have to buy something – but I know exactly what I shall buy – if I can find it.

And so, Saturday we shall be celebrating a birthday like no other before now.

Apparently.

They’re all quite mad, you know?

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It makes me wonder what they’re scared of.

V wanted to get married. He had plans to have some big ‘do’ in Eastnor Castle or somewhere similar. He decided we would wed in white suits and he had chosen who was going to ‘give him away’. It was fantasy, of course. By the time there was the ability to have a civil ceremony, I was already certain that I wouldn’t marry him.

Personally, other than for the benefits it gives your partner (in terms of when you die, etc.), I don’t see the point. It doesn’t seem to be able to keep people together much more than normal couples (with the divorce rates rising year on year); and if it is meant to be significant – in what way is it? Other than to tell the rest of the world that you have a partner (for the moment). It seems a strange, outmoded thing and, I suppose, that is why some people are frightened of it becoming available to all. They WANT to keep it elitist – a club where not everyone can get in. That would, in their minds, make it more precious.

Would I marry F (should the law here change, however unlikely)? Yes, if he wanted it. I am ambivalent about it. It wouldn’t change how I feel about him. It wouldn’t really make any difference to me, inside. I don’t really need the presents or the party. We have our ‘anniversary’ and that’s good enough for me. I don’t really keep our relationship a secret and I’m sure that most people at work know. Our relationship is our business and we don’t need to have anyone else’s acceptance to make it more real than it is. I suppose I might change my mind if something happens where I feel discriminated against. But for now it’s OK as it is.

That’s not to say that I don’t want other people, currently denied the opportunity to marry, to be allowed to marry. If they want it, it’s fine by me.

But what I don’t understand is the hatred (from both sides) and the stupid arguments made for and against.

So, this person, a leader of an organisation that has harboured paedophiles for years, probably centuries, thinks that making marriage legal for homosexual people “madness” and a “grotesque subversion of a universally accepted human right”.

Excuse me? What ‘accepted human right’ is he talking about*? And why is it ‘madness’?

No it doesn’t make any sense at all. Was this the same church that, for years, opposed inter-racial marriage? The same religion that assisted Hitler and Mussolini with the deportation and gassing of Jews? The same church that actively kept paedophiles safe from the police and courts?

How is anyone from that religion permitted to offer their thoughts on anything at all?

Now that, to me, is where the madness lies and that is a grotesque subversion of human decency and morals.

And, if you want to read more from crazy people, see the comments below this article, in the Independant.

* In fact he is talking about Article 16 of the Universal Declaration on Human Rights, where marriage is defined as a relationship between men and women.
In fact, the UDHR, article 16 is defined as:

Article 16.

(1) Men and women of full age, without any limitation due to race, nationality or religion, have the right to marry and to found a family. They are entitled to equal rights as to marriage, during marriage and at its dissolution.
(2) Marriage shall be entered into only with the free and full consent of the intending spouses.
(3) The family is the natural and fundamental group unit of society and is entitled to protection by society and the State.

This is disingenuous on his part since he totally twisted the wording. Article 16 gives the right for men and women to get married – nowhere here does it define marriage as specifically restricted to between a man and a woman. As with most religious nut-cases, he takes something and applies it in the way that he wants rather than fully comprehending its meaning. Stupid man, Keith O’Brian

Never going back (unfortunately).

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Walk down any High Street in the UK and, more or less, you could be walking down any High Street in any UK city.

What’s wrong with that?

Positively, it means that, wherever you go in the UK, you can be sure there will be the same shops. It means that, if you buy something in, say, Nottingham, it’s more than likely you can buy the same thing in Exeter. This is a good thing, right?

Well, yes, of course. And also no.

The High Street is filled with the same shops everywhere. Individual shops, local to a town or small region have all but disappeared. It means that economies of scale can apply – the big shops buy larger amounts so can get better prices which, hopefully, they pass on to the consumer.

I remember when we first came here. I was shocked but delighted to see shops that weren’t the same in every town. How refreshing it was to find a small, independent jewellers, a stationary shop that had something different or unusual, etc? It was a little like when we went to live in North West Herefordshire and went shopping in Kington.

It’s a treasure that one should guard lovingly. Of course, in every major town there are streets full of High Street names, but mixed with them and in many side streets off them are the small shops. Let’s take cake shops as an example. Go to the UK and there’s Greggs. Probably there are some others but Greggs comes to mind. Greggs is in every town. Everything is ‘freshly made’. Everything is ‘the same’. You go to Greggs because you know what you’re going to get.

Here it’s not like that. Each cake shop (maybe with a café as well) produces their own stuff. Cakes are different. Some cakes you won’t get anywhere else. There’s a risk, of course, that you won’t like what they’ve made. There’s also the risk that it will be a unique experience and will be the most divine thing you’ve ever tasted – like my local cake shop does zeppole. However, I am informed (by F) that these are not quite the same as normal zeppole. They are not deep fried (as is common) but baked. They have ones filled with custard and ones filled with cream. If we choose them, we usually have one of each.

The UK used to be more like this but then it all changed. Competition was everything and, gradually, for convenience and, originally, price, we chose to use the big supermarkets and the national bakers, etc. And, so, the result is a High Street that is homogeneous and, to be frank, boring as hell.

And now Italy is going down the same road. People here don’t realise what it will mean. It means that the small shops will close. It means that all towns will look the same. We will have to buy what everyone else buys because there will, in the end, be less choice – well, less real choice.

Of course, it’s being sold as ‘opening up the markets’ and the arguments are made that everyone will benefit. But, in reality it will mean that big business gets to own the market and the benefit will be, in a word, ‘grey’ – i.e., the same things sold everywhere.

I find that I can’t put into words what this change really means. But I’m not sure that the free market is actually worth the loss of what Italy has now (and what the UK HAD about 30 or more years ago).

Sure, it would be nice to buy aspirin and stuff at the supermarket. It would be nice that shops were always open. But that ‘nice’ is tempered by the fact that, as a result of allowing this to happen, we shall lose something that is most precious.

It’s not that I don’t want change or that change is bad. It’s not that I even like the rules and regulations here. It’s more that I don’t want to see, here, what happened to the UK. Nothing is perfect but I am fearful that Italy’s ‘localisation’ will be lost forever and it’s something I would not like to see.

After all, once the small places are gone, they are gone forever – there’s no going back.

Joni sang all that needs to be said:


(Joni Mitchell – Big Yellow Taxi)