A truly English meal out.

Posted on by
2

A_truly_English_meal_out

OK then. Just one more post for now, since it is about last night.

We decided on Indian. We’ve been there before but I wasn’t so impressed last time and less so this time. But that’s not what I need to talk about at all.

We talked without really talking.

How was the flat hunting going?

How are you getting on where you’re living?

How’s work?

They were the subjects. As part of the answers there were things like, ‘a friend who lives on that street came with me’.

What friend? A colleague? No. But no explanation. An explanation is not needed – I know already or, at least, I guess but I bet I’m right since the things that I do, actually, know lead to a guess that will be, pretty much, spot on.

And, whereas it still has the power to wound, it is only a little now, like a pin prick compared to a stab with a bread knife.

The flat-hunting story continues. I ask questions, just as I am supposed to. He asks me questions just as he is supposed to.

We do the things we are supposed to with no feeling, no desire (and I don’t mean for each other but, rather, no desire to make a wave or really enquire or, be involved).

The conversation could be wrapped up in one of those typical English conversations:

Hello! How are you?
Fine, thanks, and you?
Oh can’t complain, you know.
Well, goodbye then.
Goodbye.

The end.

Of course, it went on much longer than that. But nothing was ever really said. I wanted to tell him of Ico; of the fact that Best Mate is coming over for some more time as she’s feeling much better; of my potential few days with the boys at a friend’s place in Rome.

Instead I said nothing. Partly because I now want some secrets from him, as he now has from me and as he thought he had from me but didn’t, so much, over 6 months ago and partly because I didn’t want him to tell me of things that he has done or is going to do that mean I am permanently excluded from parts of his life that I hadn’t been before – just like he is already excluded from parts of my life.

We could never get those back even if we wanted to.

He did tell me of the holiday plans that he doesn’t want to do; that he says he won’t do. I don’t enquire as to what he will do instead but stick to the simple things that I know about him such as ‘and when will you tell them that you won’t be going? The day before?’, smiling and laughing but without smiling and laughing at all because this is ritual and, after 20 years, I can do it without thinking, without feeling, without anything. Not that I expect anything amazing after 20 years. I’m not that deluded. Nor am I sad for that either. It’s the way it is and what can be expected. No surprises after all that time.

I notice he looks thinner still but that at least the moustache has gone, which is better. And I tell him so. He tells me the story of why it went and I am bored within the first couple of words since it is all irrelevant and as irrelevant as me telling him in the first place but at least mine was only a sentence.

I joke that, as his ‘mother’ and ‘father’ have phoned him during the meal, the holiday with them will make them all like a little family. He knows me too. He knows I am joking and taking the piss. We laugh as we should; as is required. We probably both know what we are doing.

We talk a little about FfI, complaining about the same things about her. United in our complaints but not really caring what the other has to go through, knowing that the other doesn’t have to go through this if they didn’t really want to.

The samosas were crap. The main course was decidedly average. The house wine expensive, as I pointed out just after he had ordered it, but we only drank half a litre in the end anyway, probably because neither of us wanted to extend out this nothingness when no possible good could come of it.

It wasn’t pretty but it could have been much worse. It did, however, feel more like we were in a Mike Leigh play (such as Abigail’s Party) and had the same ‘cringe factor’.

I didn’t go with the thought that it would be any better but I think I was prepared for most possibilities. This, though, left an empty feel.

Prices seem to have dropped for flats and it seems he will end up with a bigger flat than mine. I feel a little jealous but, at the same time, know I could have done no different and still love my flat anyway. And I do hope that he is happy with whatever he finds.

We shall see each other on Tuesday when certain things will be finalised. The Final Question still, after all this bloody time, hangs there. I can tell no one. I am alone in this, again, as always, as we all are, really.  I want to tell someone but they will only try and give me good advice – which I already know anyway and which will change nothing.

Those ties that bind are thin now and about to break. I can still see the things in him that I like and love but they are not mine now to ‘have and to hold’ – not that they ever were nor ever could be, really. To think that is so is a delusion.

And where is that bloody Knight in shining armour when you need him?

Posted on by
Reply

And_where_is_that_bloody_Knight_in_shining_armour_when_you_need_him

Everybody wants me to be
What they want me to be

Easy – The Commodores

It was playing on the radio this morning and, you know, it’s not a love song but an ‘end of love’ song which fact I didn’t realise until now.

—o—

I remember, oh, twenty+ years ago, trying to explain to M (my partner of about 8 or 9 years standing at the time) that what I wanted him to be or, what I really wanted (which may not have been the same thing) was my Knight in shining armour, riding into view on a perfect white horse and coming to save me from this situation; take me away to a quiet place where none of the people in my life nor the problems that were associated with them, could touch me. And keep me there, safe, calm, at peace, fighting off those who would seek to destroy me or have me be what they wanted me to be – which was not me at all.

And now, with the weather here about to break, from the calm stillness and stifling heat (although I prefer it, as you may know), we shall probably get violent storms and much rain and wind and ‘cold’.

Conversely, finally, the storms in me may have passed already (I hope) and a calmness may have been restored. In the end, I was wrong and I was right.

I was wrong about the Knight in shining armour – he just doesn’t exist .- and that’s because, as in the lyrics above, the ‘Everybody’ does, in fact, include myself, or, maybe, is only myself. So, that’s what I wanted, then? I wanted someone to save me from myself; to take me away from the turmoil that was, in reality, not really outside of me, but inside of me.

And, I wonder, what does that look like from the outside? Looking back over the past few days (when it all came to a head), I can see that I was, in a way, a crazed madman, desperately searching for a way out of the madness, staring eyes, wild hair, head turning this way and that, but quickly and without measure.

And just like a madman, as I reach out to grab something/someone, with those staring, wild eyes and contorted features and wild hair, wanting help, seeing in someone/something the thing that I want or, maybe, the thing that I think I have found after this search that seems to have been going on for ever, they turn away, as any sane person would or reel back in horror at the wild thing in front of them, grasping and grabbing.

And so, the time that I mentioned, with M, he wasn’t the Knight (how could he ever be?) and then, as the madness continued, I found some respite (but it was not respite at all just a continuing of the madness) in my affair with a married colleague, AA, of which I am not proud, but we were travelling away a lot, together, and it just sort of happened and went on for a while, which seemed like an eternity and the emotions were all mixed up and high and intense, between us and inside of me and, then, finally, I dropped him because I found V and I left him, probably, perplexed as to what had happened and why the sudden change and I told him:

‘I’ve found someone else’

as if that was the reason. It wasn’t the reason at all. It was a coincidence. What had happened was that I had come to a place of calm or near calm and V happened to be there at the time. Not that the madness had quite finished but it petered out, like a slowly dying thing, flapping it’s wings but weaker and weaker, gasping for breath but each breath becoming shallower until I became, again, this person who seemed in control, who was content and at peace.

_____________________________________________________________

At the top of this blog I used to have a sentence that included something like:

I came here to find the passion and, here, it is all around me and still it doesn’t touch me

Well, in these last few weeks and last few days, I certainly found some sort of passion. It touched me alright. It made me ‘touched’ as we would say. I lost my way, briefly calmed and sated by my afternoon with Ico and written about here but, by then my madness was at it’s height, and so I can only hope that the wild, raging madman didn’t scare him too much with the aftermath of the afternoon as it is a place that I would rather be and a place that I value so highly but not a place in which I can live, since living is about so much more than talking and walking and being with a friend, unfortunately. But it is somewhere I can visit (hopefully, if he permits me) to get away from the actual process of living which, is not ‘living’ at all but ‘existing’ and ‘surviving’ and, perhaps, a place, an oasis, in which I can relax and be ‘myself'; that is – my real self.

And, so, I have reached this calm this morning. It came to me because I realised that I was doing the stupid, crazy, wild thing with the grabbing and clutching, expecting someone else to pull me out of this mess that I had created and, in the process, probably, scaring them and achieving the very opposite of what I needed and desired. And the ‘passion’ was found, in a way, as I have, in fact found it before, a few times – but I just can’t handle it; it’s just too much for my mind.

And so, I shall stop writing, for a bit and recuperate some of the energy I have been using in this madness and concentrate, maybe, on some things that need to be done to do the living that is not living but surviving and being ‘normal’ (and here, I was going to write ‘whatever the hell that may be’ but I know what that is – it is the ‘not rocking the boat’, the ‘doing the right thing (at least by everybody else’s standards – ‘everybody’ being those other ‘normal’ people)’ and ‘behaving myself in a proper manner’ – proper by the standards of society, that is).

And, maybe, this time it was not the physical presence of a real lover but the dream of the other night that allowed me to rapidly move to this new calm? Since it was all so real and so perfect, without being too perfect so as to be unreal. However, if he is out there for real, now is the time to step forward and make yourself known.

I am ready, finally.

I can’t even be bothered to give this ramble a title

Posted on by
Reply

I_cant_even_be_bothered_to_give_this_ramble_a_title

I sit here, being paid for something else, not this. Of course, my ‘waiting’ thing is still going on, a little like ‘The Final Question’ – still not finalised.

I would prefer to be doing the thing I am paid for. It would stop me from thinking and would stop me from messing with my nose, which has developed a sore, at the base of one of the nostrils. It isn’t a true spot, since it is not raised nor does it have a head but it feels like an ‘inward spot’ if you know what I mean. And it is red in that point but not inflamed. It’s a lack of sleep, I know, not from last night but, rather, from the last few weeks.

The sore is just like the ‘waiting’ and ‘The Final Question’, both of which are not on any surface but mostly hidden, except from me and just like the sore in the nostril, they are annoying and irritating and sore.

And V has emailed again as we are due to meet up tonight.

He said: ‘I don’t have anywhere in Milan to stay (at the moment).’

I don’t answer straight away. I think it was the addition of ‘at the moment’. Worse was to come, I felt. I responded that I guessed he was living in the Hinterland.

I looked it up. It is even beyond the Hinterland! A long way from the centre of Milan. Anyway, we are still to meet up, it’s just that he must leave early. He adds, ‘if I stay in Milan obviously I can stay later but the apartment is still quite a way away. I’m not sure what he is asking or, even, if he is asking.

Either way, I studiously ignore it in my reply. I am good at that. At least, I say to myself, I am good at something.

Apparently he doesn’t like where he lives.

I took off the weeding ring a few days ago; the copy of his that we had specially made for our 10<th anniversary. I must remember to put it back on. He notices these things whereas I always mean to but always forget. It’s one of those things one does as a couple. Taking roles. I fleetingly wonder if I became worse at noticing these things because I could rely on him to do it for me and tell me. However, I don’t want to shut any doors as one never knows and I still do love him and want him and…. well enough of this shit.

I get called to the Purchasing office. It means a walk outside and the chance of a cigarette. It is now so hot that it is like stepping into a furnace. The only creatures brave enough to be in this heat are me and the ants – the lizards, normally sunning themselves at every opportunity are hidden away in the coolness of the permanent shade – unless they have all died or something?

And I watch the ants, from some shade that I find, whilst I finish my cigarette. I watch them move from the shade to the open sun. In the shade they move at normal pace; in the sun they move at three times the speed and more erratically as if they were chickens with their heads ripped off and running around frantically hoping that they will find their heads and, as if by magic, become whole again; then they find the shade again and immediately go back to normal speed. It is funny to watch them do this. Funnier still when you see one that, apparently didn’t learn from the last time of being in the glaring sun and goes back to the madness the extreme heat induces.

It all seems so random and I think that we are the same. When we are in the comfort of the shade we move at a moderate pace, seemingly aimlessly (and almost certainly it is aimlessly, not matter how we tell ourselves it is different) and then we hit the sun and it makes us crazy, running faster and faster, still aimlessly, still with no plan as to how to get out of this shit. I think I may be in the sun. What is it they say? ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen……’

Oh enough already. Enough of the ‘waiting’, ‘The Final question’ and the bloody sore nose thing.

And, since I wrote this piece to be posted tonight, the ‘waiting’ has stopped and I cannot tell you how relieved I am.  And, excited or, maybe, that’s just the relief.  I could jump in the car right now and speed down there just to shake his hand and buy him a beer (that being a very blokish thing to do) and give him a hug (which is not a very blokish thing to do nor very English).

Some things

Posted on by
2

Some_things

I stand in the middle of the car park, my cigarette in my left hand, my eyes closed and facing left and upwards, towards the sun. I have to do it now, at 10, before it gets too hot to be able to do it. The warmth is so nice, filling my body, making me feel happier. I could go to sleep.

Talking of which, I’m sorry that the post below is protected. You will have to email me if you want to see it because it is, ahem, not my usual style of writing and I don’t really want anyone reading it except those people who really want to, knowing the subject and style and all.

I am angry with myself for putting on the tie that, a couple of days ago, I managed to splash with tomato sauce, at lunch time and although I used the special cleaning spray-on stuff they have here, in Italy, it has left a kind of water mark (though it’s not water).

>I wonder why I still wear a tie? I conclude that it’s some sort of hang-up I have. It’s like those of extreme religious belief who do a bit of self-flagellation. I wear a tie only at work; it’s a punishment to myself by myself for being stupid enough to be in this situation of working. It doesn’t hurt me but it reminds me that, whilst I have the tie on, I must suffer the degradation of working, and for what?

I wonder if I got that particular hang-up from my parents or is it just my screwed-up brain that deigns it should be so? I think of one of my other hang-ups. I’m pretty certain I got that one from my mother. I don’t exactly blame them but I wish that I could expunge them, clear my mind of these things that are not important but are so ingrained that I care and I hate the fact that I care – and they’re really just my hang-ups.

>And, I don’t know why, but a little earlier, I thought, briefly of my childhood and I thought:
I was unhappy all the time.

And, then I thought:
But that cannot have been so.< >So I tried to think of a time when I was, really happy.

And, I could not. I mean, there were some times – but only when I was on my own.

Maybe that’s where all my hang-ups come from and why I am less sociable than I should be or why being sociable is such bloody hard work?

Perception; A picture of Michael Foot and tramp

Posted on by
Reply

Michael_Foot

I find myself re-reading the thing again.  I remember, one time (or maybe it was a few times over a few days, or a week, or a month but, in any case, it was quickly) reading as far back as I could go, being intrigued and interested and savouring it all as if I was the only person reading it; as if it was written just for me or I had found something secret that no one else knew about, like an old diary or papers full of writing, hidden away from public view.

But the re-reading is slower.  Now I have a ‘thing’ to hold on to during the imagination.  A voice.  A real, live person.  The smile.  The hands, the hair, the look.

And, strangely, because I didn’t think it would be possible, the words take on an intensity that I can hardly bear.  And that’s why it’s slow.  The intensity is almost too much but I find that it makes it even better; better but harder.

But now I think each story is different than I had thought before but that, of course, is not so true.  It may be different in my own head but the story remains the same it is only my perception of it that is different and my perception means nothing to anyone else except me.  It certainly doesn’t make the story or the protagonists different or change their view of the story in any way.

I have mentioned before how a voice can make a difference to me (take Alan Bennett as a good example) but, I suppose, and I had never noticed this before, so does the physical person.

Margaret Atwood, whose Canadian accent makes each English word a new word for me, I like not only for her voice.  She is kooky with her frizzed hair and her round face and, somehow, perfect for the books she writes.  Maya Angelou, the truly great American poetess, who still fills me with some sort of awe, just to write her name, because of her voice and the fact that she is, as one would expect, or, rather, not as one would expect but as she is, a rather large and imposing lady suiting, so perfectly, her voice and with a power that is both from her voice and her physique that made me the gibbering idiot when I wanted to say that I thought she was great and that I loved her and her power with words.

And Joan Armatrading, who, when I first met her was this rather small lady, so shy, so quiet and with her voice so deep, so powerful who has, actually, grown into her voice, if you see what I mean.

And so, the person and the voice are important and are what is now making me re-read so slowly and deliberately, trying to understand more than I did and knowing that is futile, really, since who can know anyone else by anything they do or say or write or sing.

And so I read and picture and imagine.  There are bits that, although I know I have read them before, seem new and interesting and different, like they’ve been added just now, today, for me, to make it worth the effort to re-read (even if it is no effort on its own, just effort because of that intensity I mentioned before).  And, somehow, more meaningful.  And, again, I realise that it is my perception.

And, of course, it is our perception that makes the world as it is, not the world.  The world remains constant, constantly changing of course but changing in a way that is the same.  We change, however, or, rather, our perception changes and the re-reading points this out so clearly I wonder why I hadn’t realised it before now; why anyone hadn’t realised it before now – or perhaps they did and I was just late to get here. Perhaps the joke’s on me and everyone else has realised this, almost from birth.

And now I feel quite stupid for not understanding this much better.  Not that it matters as most people who read this (few they may be) don’t know me and so, will nod sagely or laugh or whatever it is that one does when one knows the truth and reads about someone else just getting there.

And I thought I would post a picture of Michael Foot because he came up in conversation, recently, and I said that he looked like a tramp.  And it might seem that this is unimportant (and, in reality, it is) but it is important to me.  And I’m sorry that the picture didn’t come out in the same way that I had saved it but I hope you get the idea.

Finally, death!

Posted on by
4

Finally_death

And, finally, we talked about death. And it seemed fitting as it was the end of the conversation. We had talked about death before – about how he was living in the flat of a woman who had died not twelve months earlier and, whether it was true or not, how he had hoped that she may not have died in her bed – the very bed that he was now sleeping in. We came to the conclusion that it was less likely, these days, as everyone seems to go to hospital or an ‘old people’s home’ to die.

But here we were, at the end of a very pleasant afternoon, saying goodbye, in that stretched out way that one does when, in reality, one doesn’t want it to end but is unsure how one can keep it going, one of us having already said we must get back, as if that were really important, which, of course, it really wasn’t, but how one doesn’t want to ruin something that has been going so well and, in order not to ruin it or run out of conversation or say something that will annoy or upset the other person, although neither of us would have said anything, I’m sure, we cut it short but then linger over this goodbye, by adding some question, which, of course, is normal and innocent enough.

And, it didn’t start off as death at all but rather holidays and then drifted into one of those conversations; a conversation that had been going all afternoon, through life, through love (both now and past), through politics, through everything, in a flow that was not forced or stilted and rambled on, much as this post is doing because we were busy (or, rather I was busy) finding out more about a person that I liked (and here, I thought about the word a lot because, in reality, it was a person that I had fallen in love with, not in a way that I was in love with V but only for the words that we had between us because, until this point, there were only words and, like being in love, I have found, over the time, a strange yearning, like I would have for a lover but, instead of this desire being for the body and a physical thing it was the yearning for more of the words and I eat each one as if I haven’t eaten at the table of literature for many years just like the insatiableness (I don’t even know if that is a real word) one has for a lover’s body and so, in the end, love would be better than like but I didn’t want you (my dear reader) to get the wrong idea) and wanting to say things that I don’t say to others because he knew me but in a way that no one else really does, since he had a perception of me that came only from this, this here, and wanting to explain myself (as if, by explaining myself, he would quickly see the things that I may have missed or, even better, that others may have missed) and the reason I was here and not having enough time and rushing through explanations in a terrible way.

And, holidays led to one thing and another (but quickly so that it wasn’t something deliberate) to death and, in the main, other people’s deaths, or, rather, lingering deaths that, because of the health care and drugs and such-like, is now more common than, perhaps 30 or 50 or, certainly, 100 years ago (see the link above) but, as a conclusion, we decided that a quick death was preferable, like a heart attack or a stroke that was so debilitating that death was swift and, one would hope, less painful. Worst was the death of the mind, since the mind is the person and that is what counts.

And that is what counts.

And, lest you misunderstand this post, the hours we had spent talking and laughing and so on, about the important things and the trivial things was, and I hesitate to use this word as many people consider it over-used, nice but I will as it fits. Again, I thought about the word a lot. I wanted to say wonderful or fabulous and they fit too but, again, it gives the wrong impression when, in reality it was comfortable and made me feel warm and was, well, nice (although I could have added ‘really’ in front of it).

And, even though I know that he will probably read this and may be disappointed that, given all that I said during the afternoon, what I did fail to add, was that I understood (or, at least, I thought I did) the person who was convinced that they were going to die, as I have and have had the same feelings except that, in my case they haven’t yet come true and, perhaps because I don’t have anyone to tell them to, I’ve never mentioned it and, in any case, it seemed crass and presumptive of me to say anything, like someone who knows you’re gay and says things like, oh I have a friend who’s gay, as if that makes it alright and gives them a green ticket to understanding me, which, of course, it doesn’t and is what I hate people doing to me and, therefore, there was no way that I was gong to do it to him.

So, just in case you (my ‘word lover’) read this rubbish that I have written, please don’t think that I was being disingenuous or secretive or closed. It just didn’t seem right. And I didn’t want to spoil an afternoon that I had enjoyed and felt so comfortable with, in a way that I don’t often feel and for which I want to thank you and have found it so difficult to explain using words which is what, after all, we both love.

How to be needy for something impossible

Posted on by
2

V asks me if I am well ‘or at least, better than me, which is no great feat, to be honest’.

We haven’t spoken or emailed for almost a week, now. Having left the flat (though there is still some finishing off to do), there has been no real need and also, me; because it would feel far too needy and him because of (my imagined) him having a good time.

And so am I to believe what he wrote?

I know him so well. I know that, even if he were to be having a good time, he would tell me how dreadful it was. Conversely, if he were having a terrible time, he would tell me how good everything was going. Or, maybe, I’ve got that the wrong way round? And, how would I know?

So here I am, in this limbo world not knowing the truth and in a position where I will never know the truth and, therefore, I can never trust anything he says even if it were to be the truth.

Of course, I must reply. I shall say I am sorry that he is not having such a good time and that I’m sure it will improve. I will say that, in spite of part of me hoping that it won’t, the same part that is glad that he’s suffering and still, even though I know I should not, hoping that, eventually he will realise what he has lost. The same part that is wanting his suffering to be worse than mine because then it’s ‘all right’. God forbid that my suffering should be worse than his.

Even if there would be no suffering on either side, this part of me hopes that my ‘not suffering’ will still be better than his ‘not suffering’. Is this the competition thing or just jealousy?

And to think, recently, over the last two days, I had convinced myself (nearly) that he was already living with someone else; someone who could fulfil his every need in a way that I cannot, right now.  I had prepared myself for the inevitable.  Maybe it’s not happened?  In a strange way, that’s almost worse.

Of course, I could have emailed over the last few days and had thought to but, again, I don’t want to seem too needy or, in fact, needy at all – even though the reality is that I am needy, needy of him for his life, his vitality and his undying love….and that’s where it all starts to fall apart again, crumbling into ashes before my eyes.

I am needy for something that I believed was but that is not and may not have been for some time, if ever. So, I am needy for nothing possible.

I’ve been thinking that I don’t really like Telecom Italia very much

Posted on by
Reply

Ive_been_thinking_that_I_dont_really_like_Telecom_Italia_very_much

The engineer phones me (about a day late). As my Italian is abysmal, he does try some English. We, more or less, make each other understood.

He thinks it may be necessary to come to the house. To be honest, they should have phoned me yesterday. However, he is very pleasant and tries to be helpful. Apparently they will make an appointment.

I wonder how, in the main, the engineers can be so nice and the call centre people can be so bloody crap. I guess, if they were engineers and had to actually see the people they deal with they would be nicer.

And so, once again, I am without ADSL and, so, no email or internet connection at home.

It all started Sunday night and although it had been working fine about half an hour earlier, when the break came, it was just too late. And I keep forgetting that Telecom Italia are not Infostrada and it will not ‘fix itself’ within an hour.

The next morning the same problem and I thought that if I don’t phone them now it will just continue not to work.

>I phone. It is just after 6 a.m. I have problems conversing in English at that time in the morning, even with the dogs, so Italian was, well, shall we say ‘interesting’. However, I made myself understood and the guy on the line said some stuff of which I probably caught about half. Basically, my understanding was that it was going to be fixed within four hours.

I put the phone down after I thanked him.

Then I reprocessed what he had said and had this horrible feeling that they were going to send an ‘tecnico’ round to the house within four hours! And, forgetting what day it was and that I HAD to be in work today, I toyed with the idea of not going in at all.

And then I remembered there was a reason why I had to wear a suit. We had a visitor and it was important that I was there, even if my presence was, in fact, not strictly necessary since I would sit and do nothing – except, maybe, make pleasantries with this guy, talking about his flight over; the hotel; the weather; and considering that he was someone that I didn’t much like, it all seemed so bloody pointless and not really important after all.

So, I phoned TI again. Again, Italian; again, difficult but possible. Certainly, as it was about 20 minutes later, it was a bit better. I explained that I wasn’t sure if I had understood what the guy had said to me and were they going to send this ‘tecnico’ round to my house because I had to go to work? She assured me that they weren’t. So, that’s OK then.

The annoying thing was that I had written a post and had emailed it to myself at work – it being better to re-read it before posting and do it during the day when I am, probably (hopefully) more cognisant. And, now I couldn’t. Damn.

Ah well, I thought, I could put it onto my USB key and take it to work that way. I recently got a new one as a gift (my old one being small and only working intermittently). But I couldn’t find it. Where the hell is it, I thought? Ah, I remember taking it to work.

I had no time to check at work, really, just a quick scout round my (very) messy desk. Not there. Later I even did a quick search of my desk drawers. It must be at home, somewhere.

I get home. I am excitedly expecting the internet to be obtainable. I am, of course, sadly misguided, this being Italy and the company being Telecom Italia and all. I phone again.

The automatic message says (I think) that the problem will be fixed on or before Wednesday! I’m not sure and I don’t want to believe it anyway. I wait. I get to an operator. She tells me it will be fixed tomorrow but at the very latest by Wednesday. I am incredulous. I want to be able to say that the four-hour promise was obviously pie-in-the-sky and, since they had my mobile number (I had given it to them in call 2, someone could have phoned me and add that it is totally ridiculous that, having come back to them as their customer (albeit without a choice in this) that they had, once again proved that I had been right to move to Infostrada and that, at the earliest opportunity I would return to Infostrada. I wanted to – but my Italian language skills restrict this to :- two more days? (said with the appropriate incredulous tone).

She is sorry (but doesn’t mean it, you can tell) but it is something to do with the central something or other and it is more complicated. And I know, in my heart, that, even when they say they have fixed it, it will not work in my home and they will have to come round and look and then, probably, do something at home or, after five minutes checking, something somewhere else.

I search for my USB memory stick. I remember the box it was in (I have not used it yet). It was quite large and silver in colour. It is nowhere to be found. I am frustrated.

A calls and I agree to go for a quick pasta dish at his house (F is not there because the call was unusual – it being Monday but without F he is looking for company and I am, after all, very obliging and there is only ironing that I must do but, damn it, I can’t pass up food just for that).

After the engineer phones (me knowing that I probably won’t have Internet access much before the weekend, if I am lucky) I check my desk for the umpteenth time for the USB stick. I find a small, not large, box that is more white than silver, under some papers. It is the key! I feel a little happier about the situation.

I still, very much, hate Telecom Italia.

I just can’t quite figure it out.

Posted on by
Reply

album_journey_of_a_gemini

Conservative leader condemns equipment for troops in Afghanistan as poll reveals public backs conflict

So reads the subtext below the headline on the front page of the Guardian on-line.

For me this is stunning news. The public ‘back’ the conflict. This reads as if most people (and I define ‘most’ as being the largest group) agree with the war in Afghanistan. Well, don’t you?

But, then, when you get to the article, this part appears:

>Opposition to the war, at 47%, is just ahead of support, at 46%, according to the ICM poll for the Guardian and the BBC’s Newsnight.

Hmm. So, in this poll, it seems most people were opposed to the war. I suppose the 7 percent missing were ‘undecided’ but I’m not sure this counts as support, does it? Certainly, the people actually supporting it were only slightly less than those opposing it and, if you add on the 7 percent of missing persons, then you get over half – but supporting it?

It just doesn’t read quite right to me.