Tag Archives: Retrospective

Just an old woman who is dying

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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.

Could I possibly tempt you with a banana?

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“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?

More differences in the after-death

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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:

In celebration of life

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Now that I have checked (as I needed to know the answer for this post), I have been here for five and a half years, not six as I often tell people.

You’d have thought that, after all these years, there wouldn’t be that anything that would be so unusual or different. But you’d be wrong. There are still things I stumble across that I find interestingly, frustratingly or horrifyingly different.

I’ve always had some sort of fascination with death. It’s the same sort of fascination that I have with overly-large breasts. I don’t want to physically experience it and, yet, there it is, in full view, so to speak.

I thought I would be dead by the time I was 42. This was something I thought of as a kid or teenager. 42 happened to coincide with the year 2000. It was a totally irrational thought, of course, but, nevertheless, I was convinced. It didn’t worry me. It was too far away and, by then, I figured, I would have had quite enough of living.

As you get older, with death no longer creeping but approaching at something closer to the speed of light, one wishes for ‘just a bit more’. I suppose it’s like money really – the more you have the more you want it. However, I am aware that my time on this earth is more limited now than it was 30 years ago when, even if my imminent death (42, remember) was coming, it still seemed ‘a lifetime’ away.

I see Rufus and wonder at how he has lived so long. I see his frail body and picture me in that state. Well, sort of. I am pragmatic in that I have smoked for so long and so heavily that I doubt, very much, if I would get to that state. We shall see. Stranger things happen. Everyone seems to have a story of someone who smoked all their life and still lived to be 95 or something. If we are honest though, these are exceptions. If I am also honest, I always think I shall be one of those exceptions as I’m sure most people do.

So, when F told me that his cousin (or uncle – it’s quite difficult to work out the correct relationship) had dropped dead with a heart attack at the age of 58, I couldn’t help but blurt out that he was just a little older than me. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t make me worried. In some way it amazes me that I am still here.

I’m sure I would be exactly the same as Anthony Hopkins in Meet Joe Black. I would be asking Father Time or God or whoever if I couldn’t just have another few years …….. or a year …… or, if I really DO have to go soon, couldn’t it just wait another 6 months? OK then – another month will be fine.

But this wasn’t really what I wanted to talk about. The guy had died. He was close family and, so, F went to the funeral, of course. And, although I was aware of how different things are here, I still find it all quite amazing.

The British have this propensity to party, it seems. Wetting the babies head; the christening; birthday parties; engagement parties; weddings; special anniversaries and, finally, wakes. In each case it gives the opportunity for families to reunite, have some alcohol and, quite possible, do some of that ‘only at weddings’-style dancing – to some of the worst music in the world.

But, mainly, it is a sanctioned ‘getting drunk’ time.

The parties are almost more important than the event itself. Certainly, in the case of a funeral, the party afterwards, to me, is the ‘best bit’. I don’t mean to be disrespectful. Let me explain.

One assumes you go to a funeral because you knew the person. Probably (almost certainly now that they are ‘gone’) you quite liked the person. And the funeral makes you take stock of the way that the person had touched your life: the funny bits, the sad bits and the many other ‘bits in between’. The funeral is your chance to say ‘goodbye’ even if the idea of that is quite preposterous, since ‘they’ can’t hear you. The funeral is really for your sake, not theirs. We all know that and accept that this is true. The funeral is sad and everyone whispers to each other as if, by speaking at a normal level you would wake someone – even the dead.

It’s stressful, particularly if you loved the person; if it was a close relative – an uncle, cousin, parent or, worst of all, your child, however old they may be. There might be some things said at the funeral – some speech by the vicar (who, in all probability never knew the deceased but has taken instruction from the surviving relatives) and or by a relative which may make everything excruciatingly painful – one can’t help but remember the truly dreadful speech given by Lord Althorp at Diana’s funeral – it is, after all, not really the best time for name calling.

Then it’s all over and the coffin has been put in the ground or been silently slid away behind some curtain to be burnt to cinders later. Either way, it’s all over. I always think: ‘Is that it?’.

And then there’s the party. The party, I think is the most important part. There is a release now that it’s all over and done with. It’s final. It’s done. Now you can get back to the business of living – and, in the case of the party, remembering the person – remembering the good times, the funny times, learning about things you didn’t even know about.

They were loved. They were good. You will miss them but they are still there, brought to life again by the stories and the laughter and the general ‘thinking about them’. And, maybe, that’s one of the reasons that my maternal grandfather has never really left me – I didn’t have that experience, that opportunity. To be honest, for the funeral wakes that I’ve been to, you didn’t really want them to end – you didn’t want to forget the person, to let go.

Not so here, it seems. The funeral is, I guess, more or less the same but afterwards, from what I understand, everyone just leaves! For me that would be an awful thing. It’s almost as if you would miss out on understanding them better, on reliving their past through others.

No, it doesn’t matter how much I try and understand, I just don’t get it. The party is the celebration of a life. Without which it is almost disrespectful – as if that person meant nothing.

Of course, having been brought up in the UK and our way being ‘the norm’ perhaps I am being unkind. I don’t mean to be but I hate the idea that if I were to die, there wouldn’t be some sort of knees-up afterwards. I would want people who bothered to come, the chance to enjoy themselves and celebrate my life. For that’s what it is really all about. The celebration of the life of someone who did touch you.

Perhaps your experience is different? But I find that our ways of saying goodbye are fascinating in their differences. Tell me I’m wrong, tell me how it is with you, tell me what you want – even try to help me to understand. I am, really, fascinated by the differences.

Good? No, bad, bad, bad!

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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!

Stop looking for your soulmate

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For those of you who have been reading this blog over the last 2 years or so, you will know that, having thought I had found my soulmate, I found that I hadn’t, apparently. At the end of it I thought that, given my age and, having already done it all twice before, I wouldn’t even be able to find someone else to live with but then I changed my mind. I decided that I DID need to be with someone and that there had to be someone out there, somewhere, who was looking for me. I did the internet dating thing to save myself having to go to bars and clubs, seeing it, as I do, as an alternative to those social places.

I was determined. I don’t know that I ever thought I would find my soulmate or, even, if that was important. What was important was to find the ‘person for me’. I had some preconceived ideas about who that would be. The criteria narrowed after a short while. They couldn’t be too young nor too old. In the end I found someone and, to be honest, that someone was a surprise and (partially) unexpected. But I remain intrigued about how people find their soulmates and, even, if that really exists or if it is your soulmate but only for a period of time (that period being undetermined and indeterminable).

I remember my sister. She, as I told her more than once, always tried too hard. Her criteria, it seemed, was always non-existent. If they moved and were male it was enough. Now I look back on that as probably her trying to hard to be straight and conform, since she has a girlfriend now.

I was at a friend’s house on Sunday. She is setting up this internet dating lark. She is very clear. She doesn’t expect to find the perfect man on the internet – only to determine exactly what she DOES want. To be able to refine her criteria. But, I wonder, is she just saying that?

Anyway, I was interested to read this:

Relationship gurus expend enormous amounts of energy debating whether “opposites attract” or, conversely, whether “birds of a feather flock together” – largely, it seems, without stopping to reflect on whether relying on cheesy proverbs might be, more generally, a bad way to think about the complexities of human attraction. Should you look for a partner whose characteristics match yours, or complement yours? The conclusion of the Pair Project, a long-term study of married couples by the University of Texas, is, well, neither, really. “Compatibility”, whether you think of it as similarity or complementarity, just doesn’t seem to have much to do with a relationship’s failure or success, according to the project’s founder, Ted Huston: the happiness of a marriage just isn’t much correlated with how many likes, dislikes or related characteristics a couple does or doesn’t share. Compatibility does play one specific role in love, he argues: when couples start worrying about whether they’re compatible, it’s often the sign of a relationship in trouble. “We’re just not compatible” really means, “We’re not getting along.” “Compatibility” just means things are working out. It simply renames the mystery of love, rather than explaining it.

According to the US psychologist Robert Epstein, that’s because a successful relationship is almost entirely built from within. (He cites evidence from freely entered arranged marriages, arguing that they work out more frequently than the unarranged kind.) All that’s really required is two people committed to giving things a shot. Spending years looking for someone with compatible qualities may be – to evoke another cheesy proverb – a classic case of putting the cart before the horse.

For F, of course, his most ‘successful’ previous relationship was with a blue-eyed, English, Taurean. He cites this often as if to explain why he is with me. He is saying that it is ‘inevitable’ that we would be together. Conversely, of course, it could also be inevitable that we will split up!

I look for things that we like ‘together’ and find few. I worry that we don’t have enough in common, the most obvious being my love of all food whereas he is so picky. As I said to my friend (mentioned above), if F and I had met in some bar or club, I’m not sure that either of us would have given the other a second look. We met only because we had chatted for some time first.

Yes, the pictures I saw of him – he was sexy. But, mainly, he was funny – he had the ability to make me laugh and feel better. He still does and may it long continue.

As his friend R said, he was ‘ready’ when we met. So was I. We both wanted the same thing and so, together, we can get the same thing from each other.

And, I suppose, that’s why V and I split up. We no longer wanted the same things. F is not V in any way. V wasn’t M in any way. F and M are not similar either. Being compatible or not seems, as it says, to be unimportant as to whether it works or not. You (both) just have to WANT it more than anything and be prepared to step off the deep end and see how it goes.

And that, together with making those small sacrifices to make your partner happy seem to be the only requisites to have a happy and loving relationship – for however long that lasts.

For the above ‘piece of advice’ plus other tips (that can replace your New Year’s resolutions) go here and enjoy :-)

Just bloody well DO IT!

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I know it. I’m quite lazy. I avoid things if they seem too difficult.

People think that it was quite something to come here with nothing – no job, no command of the language, no friends here, etc. But it’s simply not true. It was easy. We had money. Money means you can be quite stupid and don’t really have to work at it.

And, even if, now, I don’t have ‘money’, I still, sometimes, act as if I have. This is not only laziness but stupidity. However, some things are still just far too difficult and throwing money at them solves the problem.

Take, for example, the legal requirement (probably soon) to have either snow chains or snow tyres on your car. It was supposed to be the law from about 15th November. Pietro, who is always so helpful, guided me to a place to get snow chains. These are the cheapest option of course.

I waited and waited. Not for any particular reason other than I just didn’t want to go through the hassle of getting them. Pietro texted me in the last week possible to say that the law had been ‘postponed’. I was grateful. I didn’t have to go. I didn’t have to look and not find. I didn’t have to try to ask someone who, undoubtedly, wouldn’t speak English. I didn’t have to get the wrong thing. I wouldn’t be there at 6 a.m. one morning trying to put the things on the car when it had snowed in Milan. I procrastinated.

We had snow. I learnt that my car is not fantastic in snow. Sure, I can manage. I’ve done it for 20-odd years. But it’s not pleasant.

Then the snow went. Through my mind, every time I got in the car was ‘I must do something’.  Every night, on the way back from work, at the start of my street, is the tyre place I used one time. It was always busy. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow night’, I thought. ‘I’ll go and ask and see how much they are'; ‘It will be better to have tyres’. Each time, fixing, in my head, the maximum I would be prepared to pay, knowing that the snow chains would cost only €50.

But tomorrow came and it was too cold or too much hassle or I just wasn’t in the mood. And those of you who have followed my blog long enough will know that I don’t like garages. And tyre places are the same as garages, for me.

I had a cheque from the UK yesterday. I had to pay it in. Banks here are just so weird. There’s a new branch of my bank in Porta Venezia. My branch is near where I work. I know, from past experience, that although they are the same ‘bank’, because they are two different branches, they might as well be completely different banks. But I also know that I CAN pay the cheque in at this branch. They, of course, will not ‘pay the cheque in’ but, rather, send it to my branch who will pay it in. This means an additional couple of days for the post. However, since I am not back at work until the 10th, it makes sense to use this service. There’s no point in driving all the way to work to pay in a cheque.

So, I go. I pass by the tyre place. I note that it is closed until 2.30. It is lunchtime. They close for two hours. Siamo in Italia, after all.

I pay in the cheque. She explains that she has to send it too the branch. She phones the branch. She will fax over the details – but, still, she will have to send it – and then my branch can pay it in. Here it seems we are stuck somewhere in the twentieth century. Still she is nice and it is done now. It will still be quicker than waiting until the 10th.

I decide to take a walk up Corso Buenos Aires. I am going to look in Zara. I might get a jumper similar to the one I bought F for Christmas – when the sales start, of course. And a hat. And some gloves. On the way I spot some nice watches. They are Moschino. Plain and simple, just as I like. One white and one black. They are about €140. I CAN afford it but why would I want to. Still ……..

I get to Zara and see some nice coats that are not so expensive. And a hat that is cheap. But I will wait for the sales when, undoubtedly, nothing I want will be reduced and, again, I won’t buy anything. We shall see. The sales, according to F, start on 6th January.

I walk down and decide to go to the Carrefour in Via Modena – near F’s place. On the way I pass Esselunga. I should go there but I have a fidelity card for Carrefour (actually it is F’s) and it’s a nice day, the sun is shining, it is cold but bearable. I walk on. I finish shopping in Carrefour getting everything I need except lentils – because they had none. It’s the tradition here for New Year. Cotecchino or zampone with lentils – the lentils signifying money. The cotecchino I buy anyway. It’s better not to know what’s inside. It would never catch on in the UK. Cotecchino is a kind of very large sausage which is boiled and zampone is a stuffed pigs trotter which is done in the same way. For both, I expect, the filling is more or less the same. Some herbs and spices and meat from the pig that they can’t sell you as slices of meat. But the taste is good and I do really like it to eat. F will have only one slice as he doesn’t really like it – he just does it for tradition.

It’s now gone 2 p.m. I will walk back to the tyre place after all – even if it is out of my way. I approach the place (which is round the corner) and note that I will still have 10 minutes to wait before they re-open. Hmm. I toy with the idea of doing it another day but decide I will wait. After all, I can just ask. Maybe.

As I turn the corner, I see they are open. I go in. The guy and I ‘communicate’. I want to know how much they will cost. He doesn’t have the tyres here and wants to make a phone call. I explain that, first, I need to know how much they are. He tells me the price for one set. It’s too much. But another make is €80 cheaper. And it’s almost within my ‘set price’. Yes, OK. Thinking about putting snow chains on, I agree. He makes the phone call. They only have the expensive ones. I thank him and say goodbye. As I am leaving he calls me back. They have the cheaper ones after all. They will store my current ones for €25. I say OK. We agree I will go back tomorrow afternoon.

So, tomorrow, at 4 p.m., I will have snow tyres. I hope we have some bloody snow now, this winter. But, if we do then, at least, I won’t be struggling to put chains on at some stupid hour in the morning. We’ll see if they really make a difference.

At least, finally, I’ve done something about it, even if I took the lazy way out.

Clear and concise thinking come with a hangover from hell

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For those of you who don’t drink alcohol, I guess you’ve never had this.  That moment when you wake up, your brain seemingly turned to some sort of half mush and having grown so that it is attempting to expand your skull.  The woolliness of thought and motion as you try to grapple with even the simplest of tasks, including rising from the bed in the first place.

Ah yes, the painful joy of knowing that last night was a ‘great night, wasn’t it?’  Maybe the mixing of drinks didn’t help?

And, inevitably, there is the ‘Oh my God!  What did I say/do that for?’  An embarrassment that surely, next time, will make you stop just one glass of wine or can of beer earlier.  That ‘never again’ feeling.

Except that, on Thursday morning, at around 4 a.m., when I woke up with all these symptoms, the thoughts of guilt and shame did not stem from the night before when I did not say or do anything untoward.  No these horrors that I foisted on the rest of my associates/friends/relatives happened around 30 years ago!  Worse still, I wasn’t drunk.  at least not from alcohol.  From youth and lack of knowledge, perhaps.

And, as can only happen during the mother of all hangovers, this was particularly clear and concise thinking that led me to understand what a hopeless bastard I was at that time and that the things I did then (for this particular ‘problem’) were really juvenile to the extreme.  And it made me wonder that, if I had approached and reacted to the situation differently, would it have made any difference to my life, to the path that my life has taken?

Probably not.  And, even if I should have behaved so very badly, I still stand by the things I said and did – although maybe now I could have said things is a more meaningful way and done things slightly differently.  And I also realised that enormous sway that they held over me at that time, for I was young – too young and unable to handle anything with real maturity.

However, the effect on me of these thoughts was the same as if I had acted terribly the night before and woken up with my befuddled brain to be appalled with the antics I had carried out the previous night and filled with shame over whom I may have offended with such outrageous behaviour.

But not quite.  For, as it was 30 years ago, I cannot remember it so precisely.  And I forgive myself as, in any event, things are as they are.  One little incident would not have made such a huge difference either way.  But it would be interesting to see the parallel universe and see how things turned out by a change in my behaviour.

Don’t you think?

Re-living it all

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It’s been difficult – and I wasn’t expecting it.

As I explained previously, I found that, during the transfer of this blog, some rather strange characters had appeared and the photographs for certain posts no longer appeared.  So, I decided to fix them.  This meant going through all the posts from the beginning (and that’s nearly 800 posts now)!

I have learnt a number of things:
1.  I write a lot of crap.
2.  Most posts are not nearly as interesting as I must have thought they were at the time.
3.  I don’t always remember what I am talking about.  There again, some of them brought back some memories of events or situations.
4.  I know that V and I split at the end of November, almost two years ago and, yet, it took me almost a month to write anything about it.

And, I found, surprisingly, that reading through some of the posts from December onwards brought back the memories.  Rather than ‘brought them back’, it would be better to say ‘made me re-live’.  This was not so good.  They weren’t bitter memories just sad; sad memories for what should have been and wasn’t, for a future that I thought was, more or less, secure and, in fact, was like wet tissue paper – falling apart in my hands.  Even for the two years previously, there were some posts that hinted at what was to happen but the actual events, the actual posts, my fears, shock, despair – they are all tangible to me in the posts I wrote.

In a strange way, I am grateful to have them, to be able to read them.  I am also grateful that it didn’t seem to last too long as I am now up to the point where I have selected the-perfect-flat-on-the-perfect-street and I can see, through the writing, that I have come through the worst of it and I know it gets better after that (well apart from the crazy few weeks).

So, sorry not to be posting but I will be back soon, I promise!

This isn’t right, I know, but what can I do?

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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?