….some Hot Cross Buns. I have the butter.
Is it time, yet?
I really, really fancy ……..
6
Tag Archives: Outside Italy
Never going back (unfortunately).
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)
The Party
I had a sudden thought, in the car, on the way to the airport.
What if V were on the plane? For some reason this possibility hadn’t even crossed my mind until that moment and for some other reason, it made me feel uncomfortable.
There were three things about this party:
1. Ay
It was her 21st. From a beautiful baby to a beautiful woman. How time flies. My meories of her are precious.
2. The Family.
They were my family for over 20 years. They still are my family. I still feel at home with them which, I thought, was strange, since I had believed it was because of V. It seems not.
3. V.
Of course, this was my biggest ‘concern’ And, so, on to the party ……..
I got to the hotel and watched some TV (see earlier post) and then decided to go down for a cigarette. There had been dire warnings about how cold it was in the UK, so I dressed up – hat, coat, scarf, gloves, etc.
In reality, it wasn’t that bad and I felt almost foolish being so well guarded against the non-existent cold.
So, I’m there, outside the hotel, having a cigarette and wishing I was home. I phone C to ask what time it will finish as I need to phone a taxi.
“Probably about 4″, she states. OK, I know it’s a family whose roots are Jamaican and, therefore, should have known – but, really, FOUR!?!
She tells me there is someone who wants to talk to me. She passes me to V. He seems quite pleasant. I tell him I will be there later.
I’ve brought a suit. I nearly changed my mind but, in the end, thought it would be better. I go up to take a bath but, whilst it is running, I see the water is yellow and full of black bits. I decide to have a shower.
It’s after the shower that I realise I didn’t bring my brush. Nor even a comb. Bugger!
I use the only thing I have which is a nail brush. It’s not good but it’s all I’ve got. Luckily the room has a hairdryer so that’s something. The result I’m not happy with but there’s nothing I can do about it.
I get ready and go. I could be a bit early but better early than late. I go to the taxi rank at the airport. I get in a taxi and we’re there about 10 minutes early.
I go to the door. Outside are some people I recognise in some way. I guess they’re V’s brother’s oldest children who are in their 20’s. They recognise me more than I them. I certainly couldn’t put names to them – well, I couldn’t at that moment.
One of them goes in to say I am here. C comes out and goes a bit wild. There’s lots of hugging and kissing and stuff. V stands in the doorway. We say ‘Hi’.
We go inside into the entrance porch. There is of course the ‘How are you?’s; the ‘You’re looking well’s, etc. V’s Mum and Dad are there. I was pleased that his Dad looked really fit and well – it meant that I could honestly be delighted to see him and shock was not obvious on my face, even if I had expected to see him thinner and ‘shrunken’, because the only shock was how well he looked.
It was wonderful to see them. Ay wasn’t there but ‘getting ready at home’. Obviously, she wanted to ‘make an entrance’.
V was going to pick her up in the car. He suggested that I come too.
V looked good. Almost like his old self and certainly much, much better than last time I saw him. He didn’t look so old either. We talked a lot. It was almost as if nothing had ever happened. He was (as he was before) fun to be with. I enjoyed our time together.
Of course, the difference was that I didn’t worry about what he said. I mean, it didn’t matter if it was bullshit or not. It isn’t like it matters to me – I mean to say, it doesn’t have any effect on my life, my day-to-day living, not like before. So he could be whomever he wanted and I didn’t know, nor need to know, anything beyond the shallow front. And that was good.
Even P, his other sister, was nice to me!
He told me that everyone had been talking about me coming. That it was really important to them. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, it was nice to think they might have been.
But I didn’t scratch too deep. I’m not good with the sight of blood and what purpose would it serve anyway?
Ay looked fabulous. And, of course, to me, not 21. She looked like a little, sweet girl. But I love her still, even if she’s only my ‘niece’ by virtue of the relationship I had with V.
And I do miss the food – rice and peas, chicken, etc. It was really lovely to have some again.
And I do miss them all, even V. They make me feel warm and comfortable and, well, like being in a family.
So, the party was fine and V was very nice and everyone was very nice and Ay looked so beautiful and I cannot express how I feel now she’s turned 21.
And I got a little drunk and got a taxi back about 2 or 2.30 but that was OK.
Out of my mind
I must have been out of my mind!
It’s the only explanation.
You may remember, when I went to the UK the last time, I was having a coffee with Best Mate and saw a croissant (brioche, here) that looked delicious.
I was thinking of the brioches that we have at our local café. What I got, of course, was the British equivalent, which is is no way equivalent except that they look similar. It was not fresh – out of the oven that morning but, rather, several days old. It was dreadful.
I had a lot to drink on Friday night. The next morning I was up early to catch the flight home. I needed coffee – even if I knew the coffee wouldn’t be that good.
After checking in, I went to find coffee. Costa Coffee in the departure lounge seemed the best bet. there was a queue – a long queue. The woman behind mentioned that she would like a bacon sandwich. Mmmmm, I thought. Yes a bacon sarnie would be just right.
I wait. The queue is NOT inching forward. Of course, there’s not a queue in an Italian bar but the staff are incredibly quick and they are, normally, very good at working out who’s next but, anyway, I’m used to it now so can usually get my coffee quite quickly.
I feel that some serious training, given by Italians to the British, would be useful. They are not slow – they are bloody useless. I look at my watch. My plane will be boarding in about 20 minutes. They finish serving the customer at the head of the queue. The queue inches forward. I count the number of people and realise that, at this speed, if I am lucky, I will get my coffee and bacon sarnie about 10 minutes after my plane has boarded.
Oh well, I think, I shall just go somewhere else.
I leave the queue.
The only somewhere else is Burger King or the pub.
I opt for Burger King. After all, I remember the burgers as quite good – well, better than McDonald’s anyway!
I look at their offerings. I wonder why we’ve always got to look up at these places.
They have a Bacon Butty. It includes egg, which I don’t really want and cheese, which I also don’t really want but, OK, I can eat it. I order cappuccino too. I pay £5 something. Normally, in our local bar, we pay €4.80 for two cappuccinos and two brioches. Ah well, who cares, I think.
I sit at the table and unwrap my Bacon Butty.
I will try to describe it.
First, it is small – no bigger than my palm. The bread is soft but not soft as in soft bread but more like hot bread that has been run under a tap. Soft in a wet sense. The egg is not, of course, a fried egg. Nor is it some scrambled egg. It is a burger made of an egg-like substance. I suppose you could say it was like scrambled egg except that it really isn’t.
The bacon is thin – but so thin it is thinner than Italians cut their meat. Wafers are thicker. It tastes of bacon.
I liberally spread tomato sauce over it all. I have to hold the bun carefully, just in case the wet bun starts to disintegrate with gravity. I am convinced that, if I squeezed the bun, I would get about a quarter of a pint of water from it.
It is vile and not really food but it is, perhaps and only perhaps, better than nothing.
The cappuccino is interesting. The froth on a cappuccino is supposed to be thick and creamy. It seems that, whoever has been learning about cappuccinos has heard the thick bit and accordingly, the froth is so thick that the plastic stirrer stands up. In fact, it is difficult to move it around. Well, at the end of it, it tastes vaguely like coffee.
I can’t forget the Bacon Butty though. The wet bun, the terrible egg, the whole experience.
But, I wonder at how the British people got to a stage where this was acceptable. Where slow service (Costa Coffee) and bad coffee and this Bacon Butty were considered to be acceptable. Indeed, where the Bacon Butty came to be considered food?
I don’t think I could go back and live in the UK, not least because of the food. I must have been out of my mind.
I am disappointed
I mean, it’s so much better, isn’t it?
The Brits, who as F rightly says, are quite arrogant, think they have the best TV in the world. They scoff at American ‘crap’ (even though we all watch it); we used to have Eurotrash, taking the piss out of those horrendous foreign TV shows – our shows are just so ‘classy’.
I don’t go for Italian TV much. Not least because I don’t understand it all and so it is not really relaxing.
So, if I’m in the UK, I can’t wait to watch a bit of decent TV.
Except ………..
I get to the hotel about 5. I remember the news is on at 6 but it’s too late to go into Birmingham (which was my original intention) and so I lie down on the bed and switch the TV on.
I flick through some channels. There’s some kid’s stuff but most of the main channels have game shows. I’ve heard of some of them. The Usual Suspects. I’ve read about that, so I linger on that. What a pile of trash it is. Then there’s Deal/No Deal with the great Noel Edmundson (that was a joke – the ‘great’ bit). I’m watching this with some disbelief since it is, in fact, an English version of some show over here. Which is also mind-numbingly dreadful – I mean I have watched it because I can understand it – and if I can understand it, it has to be of fairly low quality.
Then there’s the news. I was addicted to the news when I lived in the UK. Now, it seems too shallow, too much in the way of soundbites, too sensational ……. or quite dumb.
In the past when I’ve been back to the UK, I’ve watched it but this time I realised that every time, without fail, it just disappoints me.
Great TV? No, it’s not great TV. It’s the same as TV the world over. Shallow and pointless and, to be frank, boring. We used to sit in front of the television for hours. It was one of the reasons I never got satellite TV over here. I didn’t want to spend my whole life in front of the box. And now, after time without TV (if you see what I mean), it’s just so very disappointing.
Before the party
I admit to being a little apprehensive.
Amongst other reasons it’s the flying. I mean I love to fly – I just don’t like all the security and time-wasting crap that goes on, as I have mentioned before. It makes me anxious. Really it’s about the most horrible people doing all this. I mean to say, sometimes they are nice but often they are not nice and sometimes downright rude.
Then there is the going to the UK. I find myself disappointed, usually, these days. Disappointed with the people, the weather, the food, even the coffee. Of course, it’s not ‘home’ any more, which, for certain is part of it.
Then there is the meeting with people who I haven’t seen for at least four years – some even more than that. It’s not that being with them again is the problem it’s the different circumstances. I relied on V to remind me who all these people were. This time, I will have to rely on my own memory.
Not for all of the people, of course.
Then there is the ‘what to say’ thing.
Indeed, what to say?
I will be asked how I am. For some, it won’t be enough for me to say ‘Fine, thanks’. But, how far to go? I don’t know that they want to hear ‘Fantastic! Never been better’, or some such thing. But it will be difficult to keep it in check.
And, then, of course, there is V. Since I have no idea (well, very little) on the reality of his situation, I guess that much of what he will say will be bullshit. And, even if it weren’t to be bullshit, I would think it were so, which is a great shame.
Still, there is the slight concern that he will want to get back together again. And I don’t want to be cruel or hurtful but, quite obviously, there would be no chance of that, even if I weren’t with F now.
So, although I am looking forward to the party, I am very much looking forward to Saturday evening, when I will be back home and it will all be over and all the things that have worried me will be in the past.
Yes, I am a little anxious. But I guess it will all be OK really.
On being ruled by the media
RBS, the bank that made some rather serious mistakes and was bailed out by the UK Government (read by the UK people), are in the news almost every day. Especially in the Daily Hate Mail, who blame the bank for everything.
They’ve not lent money to a business! So the headline screams. Although, of course, if they HAD done it and the business had subsequently failed the headlines would have read “RBS throwing tax-payers money down the drain” or something similar.
For a few weeks now, they (amongst other media) have sought to have the knighthood, awarded to Fred Goodwin (for services to the crisis, I suppose), the ex-boss of RBS and the leader at the time of the disastrous investments, revoked. They asked how it was possible that he kept his knighthood when the bank had to be rescued by the British taxpayer.
The call to strip Mr Goodwin became louder (in the media, that is). And, eventually, the deed was done.
But, one has to ask, without the shrilling of the media, would it have happened?
And, what purpose does this [revoking of the honour] possibly serve?
The media have a part to play in our life but, surely, not to run the country? This is similar to the call for the ban of dangerous dogs; ‘Sarah’s Law'; and a thousand and one other laws and decisions made on the back of the ‘call from the media’. Things that often, quite frankly, are wrong or, at the very least, waste time and money on something that does not work or is irrelevant.
But, I suppose, it distracts the average Joe from looking at real issues.
To me, not only is this trial by media wrong in every case but it also highlights a weak government, one that is reactive rather than proactive; one that thinks publicity (and good publicity, in particular) is everything.
As it is being pointed out (but more quietly), surely, if Mr Goodwin’s knighthood is ‘shredded’, so too should the honours and awards given to other bankers. After all, it was their industry as a whole that got us into this mess, not the actions of a single man.
I hate the idea of the world being run by the media who are, after all, there to sell papers or subscriptions or raise market share for their advertisers. No business really does something for the public good (unless there is money to be made from it) and the media are no exception to the rule.
But they seem to be the new rulers.
Thinking is the problem.
Of course, I do know that it can be considered a ‘failing’.
V used to say that I was too nice. Some people may think that I’m a bit of a walkover.
The reality is that, until otherwise proved, I tend to take things at face value. Other people can do the convoluted, twisted thinking for me.
It’s not that I don’t think things through. No, not at all. It’s just that I prefer to live my life assuming that everyone means exactly what they say. Sure, I am met with some disappointments from time to time – but nothing really to shake my conviction that most people are inherently honest. Misguided, maybe, but honest.
So, I have mentioned to some people about the phone calls at Christmas and New Year from V’s parents (because I was so delighted to get them) and the invitation (which I may not have mentioned before) to Ay’s birthday party.
You see, she’s 21 this year. This is the girl that, almost 21 years ago, slept in my arms whilst V was up worrying about her; the baby that quite happily accepted curried goat from me at some party when she was only a few months old; the girl that used to run to me so that she could sit on my knee and read her latest school book to me; the girl that still calls me Uncle Andy.
So, quite obviously, without any thought, when C asked me if I could come because “Ay really wants you to be there”, I immediately said ‘yes’.
And, since then, I have thought about the fact that V will be there. Well, he must be there. But it’s not important for I am there for Ay and, anyway, I don’t harbour any bad feelings. A little hurt, maybe, by his decision to cut me off, but I don’t hold any grudge or anything.
Although, of course, it will be a bit strange to see him after all this time.
Of course, I didn’t put any store by the actions that, to me, were separate and isolated. The phone calls from his parents were not connected to the invitation from C, Ay’s mother and one of my favourite members of V’s family.
Why should I add any ulterior motive to all this? It is Ay’s 21st. I am honoured to be invited and, of course, I should be there. And F agrees. His only thing was ‘Please don’t ask me to come’ – but I didn’t intend to do that – that would make the thing charged with some tension, which would not be right, it being Ay’s day/night.
But people (or some people) can’t believe that this is all good. First there is the disbelief that F is OK with this. But, why not? He told me that I should go. But there’s got to be some jealousy, I get told. But why? Surely, at my time of life, I can do without jealousy? I try to explain. At my age I won’t be finding someone who has no ‘past’. It’s just not possible. More than that, the person will have had at least one, long-term, serious relationship before me. Actually, if they haven’t then I would question why? There has to be something wrong with them (or they are extremely unlucky) if they haven’t.
But, the upshot of all this is: They have a past. It makes them who they are. I cannot change it and, so, I should embrace it. If they still loved the ‘old’ lover, then they would still be with them, wouldn’t they? It’s true for me and so, in my thinking, it is true for everyone – unless or until I am proved wrong.
Not loving the ‘old’ lover doesn’t mean they don’t like them. After all, if they’ve been with them for a long time, there must have been a reason and that reason should still be there. It’s other factors that make us turn our backs on the past.
I am not jealous of F’s ongoing relationship (as friends) with his exes. It’s OK by me. I have met them and I like them. They are nice. Nor, do I think he has any problem if I want to speak to V. He understands (I think) that we broke up because we were not suited any more. That hasn’t changed. We’re still not suited. The relationship was finished and, to be honest, I have no desire to go back to the place I was three years ago. Now, I am happier and more content than ever before.
But, it seems, others are thinking that the phone calls and the invitation might be connected. As a way of pulling us back together. This is because, it seems, V is still not back with this ‘husband’. So someone has suggested that this might be an attempt to ‘get us back together’.
Of course, now that someone has mentioned it, it does cross my mind that it could be a reason – even if I think not. But you know how these niggling doubts happen. How they can get out of hand.
The thing is that it just won’t happen. V was (and is, probably) a wonderful person, in many ways. But not to live with. Not to be with, in a relationship. Now, whatever he tells me will be fine. Even if it is bullshit. For how will I know? More importantly, why should I care?
I was asked that, if they have got back together, how I would feel about seeing him with someone else? Well, to be honest, I really don’t mind. All I hope is that he is happy – whatever he’s doing and whomever he’s with. For I am happy and I want him to be too. I’m certain that all my life has led to this and this is a great point in my life. And he has played a part in this and, so, I want the same for him.
But I come back to my original thought – why shouldn’t I take all this at face value?
People are, I am sure, inherently good and honest. It’s all this thinking that does for them.
Dust is dust and ashes are, well, just that.
I read that one British woman, who lives abroad, is suing the owners of Costa Concordia for the loss of her husband’s ashes.
I’ve always wondered what the fascination is about getting back the ashes. I’ve thought it strange. I mean, the person, as a living human being can make you laugh or cry can love you or hate you – but the ashes? What are they other than a pile of, well, burnt remains.
It’s a bit like ‘things’ really. I mean, I like to have nice things but, you know, they’re just ‘things’ – a piece of wood or metal or plastic or ash. I can’t get upset over a ‘thing’.
But tonight, as a first, I may be going to collect Rufus’ ashes.
Of course, this is for F really, as you might realise. For me, I shall remember the funny way he used to jump up, later to raise his front legs as in a rearing horse and latterly barely making it off the ground, before we went for a walk. Rather than Dino’s complete turn round.
I will remember his pretty face and the way his ‘trot’ was so ‘refined’ unlike Dino’s rather big-arse, swinging gait – Rufus walked like a model.
I shall remember his gentleness when taking food, much like Dino now, before he became blind and would snatch it out of your hand (almost, sometimes, taking your hand too!)
I shall remember the time he caught a live rabbit (although it wasn’t live for long) and then, on returning to the house how he wouldn’t come in until he had eaten every single bit of it. And my worry that it might have myxomatosis, even though, quite obviously, the rabbit didn’t have that.
I shall remember, when I was preparing to drive here with our belongings, how he got in the car about 8 in the morning and wouldn’t leave the car – not for any reason, as if he was frightened he would be left behind. And the drive down with him curled up in a tiny space and stopping often for him to have a stretch.
I shall remember getting Dino and Dino and him playing in the park with a huge tree branch that had come down in a storm, each trying to pull it off the other, lots of growling but no malice in that – it was part of the game – before Rufus became too weak to be able to match Dino.
I shall remember that he was a great dog.
But, of the ashes, I’m not really sure. I have mixed feelings about wanting them in my house. It seems kind of morbid. I must have become old. I think it will just be another thing that will want cleaning. And, anyway, I don’t believe it will be the ashes of Rufus. Just some ash. Not the same thing at all really. But I won’t tell F that. I’ll let him believe what he wants. I would even confirm that it was, if he should ever ask.
Will it be in some nice jar or something terribly gaudy and trashy? After all, in my head, keeping the ashes of something is trashy – or that’s how I thought. It wasn’t done in our family. And I’m a little nervous about how F will take this – whereas, for me, the essence of Rufus remains in my memories, just like the essence of my grandfather is not in some little plot in some churchyard in rural Herefordshire. I can’t get attached to some thing. It has to have a beating heart. Without that it doesn’t bring out the same feeling.
And yet …….
I feel some trepidation at going to the vet. As if there is some real finality about it all. As if, by not getting this, I can imagine him not dead but alive somewhere. As if he might come home. Or, perhaps this waiting for the urn and the ashes is, in some strange way, keeping him more ‘alive’ in my head. Stretching out the death process by over a week.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s not a sadness in these thoughts (although maybe a slightly damp eye). It’s an unknown and strange feeling I have.
But like all the other ‘firsts’ since I’ve come to Italy, I must steel myself and go do this thing, even if I would prefer not to.
And, whilst we’re on the subject of favourite things at Christmas ……
Here is my favourite Christmas song.
Of course, given the words, it shouldn’t be a Christmas song at all – but somehow the music is just perfect and the contrast in the voices wonderful. Enjoy.
The Pogues and Kirsty McColl – Fairytale of New York