Tag Archives: Friends and Inimies

The Internet is full of liars and charlatans – just like real life.

Posted on by
2

I’m not entirely sure why people are either surprised or, even, angry.

It’s the thing about the Internet. It’s impossible to say if it’s real or not. And so, the Syrian lesbian blogger who turned out to be some American guy living in Scotland and the lesbian blogger who also turned out to be a man are being hounded and made a lot of people angry. But why?

Karl, posing as (or should that be ‘was posing as’?) a very ugly man wrote a blog for 2 years before finally revealing he was, in fact, nothing of the sort. People got angry. People get angry, I think, because they feel they’ve been duped. But they only have themselves to blame. With the ‘Syrian’ blogger, there’s even a woman (in Canada, I think), who thought she was having a relationship with him/her, even if they’d never actually spoken (obviously)!

In a way, I have to admire these people. To create (and, in some cases, go to great lengths to give credibility to) a persona that’s not only not you, but isn’t even your sex and doesn’t have your sexual orientation takes some skill and creativity. They need to be good writers, one would think. But is it any different than, say. JK Rowling creating a whole host of characters for her Harry Potter series?

One could argue, of course, that JK Rowling doesn’t pretend that the characters are real. And yet, in her head, at least whilst she’s writing them, they do have a sort of reality. When they become films, they take on a more substantial reality. OK, so pretending you’re someone in the real world and carrying it on is different – but only slightly. You didn’t have to believe it. In fact, why should you believe anything you read on the Internet?

There are some people who read my blog who I know and have met. Lola, for example, Pietro, a colleague, Karl, the once ugly man or Stef, a good mate are people who know I am a real person. Stef and Pietro knew me ‘before the blog’, Lola and Karl, afterwards. Then there are those (Gail, The Store Manager, Man of Roma and Ruth, the friend of a friend) who don’t actually know me at all. Well, Ruth knows I’m real, I guess. Yet, I have a friendship with these people. I don’t actually know them either. Does that invalidate the friendship? Not really. If, for example, MoR turned out to be a woman living in the USA, would that make our discussions irrelevant? No, not at all. And I trust that these people, when they blog, are telling me the truth. Would it matter if they weren’t? Again, no not really.

There is a woman with whom I am a ‘friend’ on Facebook. Solely for a game that I used to play. She has all sorts of ‘problems’ but I don’t know that it’s all real. Perhaps she is just making it up? She certainly craves attention both in the game and on Facebook. I don’t know if it’s all real or whether it’s just being said for the attention. And I don’t really mind either way.  I take the Internet for what it is.  I believe the people that I read about but I’m not really emotionally involved, I suppose.  How can I be?  I don’t know them.  I can read about things that they do, empathise with them over problems that they may have but deeper than that it’s impossible for me to go.

And, anyway, it’s not like real life didn’t throw up the odd con-man (or woman) or two?  The Internet just makes it easier and, certainly, makes changing sex very easy too (not that that hasn’t been done in real life).

So, whereas I’m not especially impressed by what the two guys have done I’m not really shocked and I’m not outraged.  It’s what you should expect unless you have proof otherwise.

It’s his way of showing me.

Posted on by
2

“You go and get them”, he says, “because you’ve got to go and do it when I’m not here”.

I don’t say anything at the time. He makes me laugh. I tell him when I get back, as we’re eating the two sandwiches I’ve just bought. I can do things but he seems to feel that I must be ‘trained’ as to ‘how’ to do things. Of course, he’s just making sure I will be OK. I want to say ‘I’ve been here for 6 years. I think I can get by, now. Otherwise I would have died from starvation!” I don’t, of course. It’s quite sweet, really. Bless him.

It felt more than 2 days and 2 nights.

It felt like a week or something.

He had worked hard on the house. I said all the right things. It’s amazingly light. All walls are white, of course. It’s not perfect in that the sink in the bathroom only has cold water; the toilet doesn’t flush properley but you can’t have everything. There were new toothbrushes, soap for me, food for the dogs and many other things. A new telly was bought, rubbish bins, etc. The dogs love it although they are exhausted within a day.

His friend, R, had cut all the grass so the dogs could use the garden.

He’s happy even if it’s not perfect.

Someone asked him how long we had been together. “Almost 2 years”, he replied. It seems longer than that. Like the weekend.

I was shown our place on the beach. I bookmarked his Mum’s place, the house, the beach and the dog walking area on my navigator, as he needed to be certain I would be OK finding everything. He arranged that, when he’s not able to go, I will be able to meet R, have dinner with his Mum and Dad, etc. He wants to make sure that I’ll be OK. It’s like ordering the sandwiches at the beach. He wants to make sure I will do it.

Of course, that also puts pressure on me. a) to go down and b) to go to his Mum’s, go out with R, etc.

So now I will have to go down, even if he’s not there. But all this is his way of showing that he loves me, I guess.

Dinner with B

Posted on by
4

There’s just never enough time.

Or, at least, that’s how it seems. It’s how it seems with some people, anyway.

And then, I talk too much. And too fast. Like there’s not enough time to get everything in. Which there isn’t.

The talking too much is not entirely my fault. B seems to bring that out in me. How different I am with different people!

The Orange Pasta was scrummy too.

Or, maybe that should read Pasta with orange otherwise it makes it sound as if the pasta were the colour of orange (which it was, sort of, but it’s not really the point).

And I never, ever say ‘thank you’ properly. I never seem to with B.

Actually, I was thinking, she would be a reason that I would live in Rome.

Some people you just love to bits for no obvious reason, if you see what I mean.

Here and there.

Posted on by
Reply

He was happier last night, which was good.

I’m not so happy, though.

He’s not here. I’m not there. There’s the two or three hours distance.

It’s difficult to find interest. There’s many things I could do. You know, keep busy. Stop thinking. Stop being without or alone. Stop feeling.

A said it was stupid. I could have punched him in the face. Then, I thought, perhaps he never feels like that? That would explain a lot. In fact, it would explain everything. To never have that feeling would be much worse than having it.

He says it is looking good. There. Where he is and I am not. I look at the weather forecast for there and here. It’s not particularly good at either place. I try to tell myself that it would be dreadful being there, with the rain. And the decoration ‘in progress’. I would be in the way. We would be in the way, which is true. And we wouldn’t be able to do anything. Them for sure and me because I am, quite frankly, worse than crap at this sort of stuff. Not that anyone believes me. ‘How difficult can it be?’, they think. I know they think that. In theory it should be straight forward. But, even when I try so very hard, paint doesn’t seem to get onto the walls as much as me and the floor and other places where it should not be. And the stuff on the walls is streaked or globular or thick in places it should not be, running down. No, it doesn’t work for me.

He said, “You can come down if you want”, adding without a pause for breath, “but it will be a complete mess”. He doesn’t want me there whilst he is doing it. I will be a distraction. So will they. They, maybe, more than I. They, who demand attention from him without even demanding it. Because they are the ‘poverini’, of course. Unable to demand and by being unable to demand, demanding more and with greater urgency. At least for him.

I don’t let on that I’m not happy. After all, that would be unfair. It would be selfish. He is doing this for us. For me, he says but in reality, for the four of us. Or, maybe, mainly for him? Or, maybe, for me too. It is ‘More than Words’. And he had to have an injection for his back, last night. He ‘couldn’t move’, he said. I told him he should stop but he said that he wouldn’t. He’s very stubborn like that. It’s no good arguing with him. He won’t listen anyway or, rather, he will listen but then do what he wants. I don’t demand, I’m far too old for that!

I told him I was on holiday. He knew, of course. I just wanted him to know. So, I was being a bit selfish after all! He told me to relax and enjoy it. I said I would, even if I knew that I can’t as much since he’s there and I’m here.

So I sit here and write this. Rather than there and not. In a moment I will do something. Something else. Washing, cleaning, the dogs, sorting out English stuff, a box, some editing. Something. Or not. Not here nor there.

Damn!

Things change. Things happen.

Posted on by
6

Of course, things change.

I feel sorry for him more than anything. He’s putting in so much effort, spending all this money, working so hard to get it nice for us.

But it’s shared with his brother. His brother, apparently, may want to come and live there. F is angry that he didn’t say anything before. He told his brother that he would have to go and live at their parents’. His brother doesn’t want to. He told his brother that he would have to leave when we were coming down and that we had got an umbrella and everything. He also told him that he was cleaning the place and expected the place to be just as clean when we arrived down here. He said his brother is not like him but, then, no one is like him!

I just feel so bad for him. He was looking forward to this summer as much as me, even if we didn’t tell each other. He is very angry, I can tell. He is continuing to do it but I can only imagine how disappointing it must be for him.

So now we don’t know. Or, rather, I don’t know. We can’t go and stay at his parents with the dogs, for certain. Especially with Rufus as old as he is and the occasional bouts of incontinence.

And, talking of Rufus. Poor thing has an abscess. It’s one of the anal glands which has become infected. It, maybe, explains some other things. He’s on antibiotics. He’s managed to lick all the hair from his back end. That’s how I noticed it. It looks sore and I expect it is. Poverino. Still, when we went to the vet’s last night, the vet was amazed at how well, in general, he is doing. Me too.

So, back to the summer, maybe things will change. Maybe not. We’ll see.

It does make me want to hug F and tell him it will all be OK. For it will all be OK. It’s just a matter of time. And a matter of acceptance when we really can’t change things. And these things do happen.

Summer Sunday Lunch; The House at the Sea Update; Please stop asking, I don’t really know.

Posted on by
6

It is summer, after all. Summer requires salads and fruit and freshness.

I invited A & Fr over for Sunday lunch. I did some antipasto stuff (I seem to be coming almost Italian :-)) and then the Special Salad. Of course, Special Salad is not really so ‘special’ any more since, now, there is a dazzling array of salads that are different. But, ‘special’ is what this salad was known as, at least by our family, in the days that salad in the UK comprised of limp lettuce, tomatoes and salad cream. You see? This was in the days when there was no such thing as mayonnaise.

And, anyway, salad cream works best with this. I thought I had done it for them before but it seems not.

The ‘special’ ingredient is oranges but now that I’m in Italy, it also includes cheddar cheese and salad cream since you can’t get them here.

They said they liked it and I think they did.

Then I served up something that, I think, I’ve only ever made one time before, a long, long time ago. Summer Pudding. I made individual ones which was more of a risk in its own right. Still, I’m a little more adventurous these days, not bothering with trying stuff out first but just doing it. Maybe it’s a little more ‘couldn’t care less’ rather than ‘adventurous’. Oh well, whatever. the result is the same.

As it turned out they weren’t bad. But I need to find different bread than the stuff I used. And make more of the syrup. I’ll try it again soon and if I can make it as good as it should be then I’ll post it as a recipe.

Anyway, they seemed to like it.

And we drank. And then had cheddar cheese and port. And then went for a walk.

_____________________________________________________________

F did the bathroom, apparently. R, his friend, wasn’t there, yesterday. The ceiling didn’t go well. He suggested that he may not finish by next Sunday. This means we (the dogs and I) won’t go down at the end of this week. He said that he would ask R to finish things off (mainly the cleaning) so we could all go down the weekend after.

I’m still hopeful for this weekend and I am pretty certain that he will want us to come down if it is possible. Obviously, it is possible – it’s just not possible for him if it isn’t in a perfect state. Oh well, we will see.

I wonder what his Mum and Dad think of his sudden interest in his house and decorating it and so on? I mean, I’m certain they are fully aware of the situation but as it is never discussed, it must be slightly bemusing for them. The last time he showed such interest in the house was when he was with S.

________________________________________________________________________

Sometimes, I wish people would stop asking me about V.

It doesn’t seem to matter that I say that we are not in touch any more and that I don’t really know.

British Food – not really all it’s cracked up to be (or, Maybe the Italians are right?)

Posted on by
8

Well, apart from trying to fix my blog for almost a month, now, I have also been doing other things.

Take last weekend, for example.

I went to Hay-on-Wye to see Best Mate. She wasn’t able to come here this year so asked if I would go over. F and I arranged it so that he could look after the dogs (and, finally, ‘do’ the bedroom – but that’s another post).

The travel there and back was one thing, again, maybe, another post. And the weather! So cold it was like being back in winter. In fact, the weather alone would be enough for me to never go back there, certainly to live – and that’s without the other things.

However, it was lovely to see BM who was considerably better than last time.

But I came to the realisation, whilst I was there, why it is that Italians have such a fixation about English=bad food (also see Lola’s blog post).

I used to relish going back to the UK. A Kentucky Burger was high on my list, if not essential. This time, however, it was very different. The real thing I absolutely love is Roast Lamb. The British do it so well. It is now, really the only thing on my list. But let’s look at the food I did have.

I arrive at Birmingham Airport at about 9.30 a.m. BM is there to pick me up and we drive back to Hay. This is about two and a half hours or so. By the time we arrive in Hay, I am ready for lunch, having had nothing but a biscuit and a couple of small croissants on the planes (it was Air France).

We go to Kilverts. The first thing is the beer. I’m afraid I forgot the ‘wine-non-diet’. The beer is great. The UK does great beer and, in particular, the real ale. I had some mild. It was nice and smooth. We looked at the blackboard for food. There was no lamb but I could choose something else. However, they were preparing the kitchen for the Festival (which is happening as I write this). We both agreed that was a bit strange. However, we had ham sandwiches with mustard. It was OK but not really as good as it was in my mind. Still, I had more beer, so it was fine.

That night we went to Red Indigo, billed as the best Indian restaurant in Hay, which makes me laugh because it’s the only one! The food was wonderful. I had a lamb balti. And beer – although Cobra beer. Indian food has come a long way from the time I was at University when it was, really, very hot or slightly less hot muck. Now it is fresh and so tasty. As normal I had Naan bread with my balti. In the UK they do nice large, thick Naan breads. Unfortunately, here, they do rather small and much too thin Naan breads.

Saturday, I needed to go shopping. I had things to buy – things I had come for. We got into Hereford and went straight to the cafe in the centre of High Town. It’s in the open air – so we can smoke. Aside from the cold, the coffee was a ‘Starbucks’ type cappuccino. I used to love these. Now they are too hot and too big. I am used to cappuccino Italian style. Tepid, small but lovely. As we are at the ‘bar’ ordering (of course, I noticed, for the first time really, how I am used to having a waiter serve me), I saw delicious-looking Almond croissants and decided to have one.

It was the first time I realised why the Italians think English food is so bad. It is bad. At least, if you’re not in the right places it is. The croissant (brioche, here) was filled with custard (crema, here). It had flakes of almond on top. Without the flakes of almond it would have been the same as the brioche I normally have for breakfast (when we go to a cafe on the weekends), except – the crema was not soft but more of a gel and it didn’t ooze out since there was so little of it. However, the worst thing was that, being used to having brioche that has been baked that very morning – this must have been baked several days ago. It was, quite frankly, stale. If they served this kind of stuff in Italy, the café would go out of business.

And then I thought: that’s how it has always been. The British tolerate this being given very little alternative or just because we don’t complain. I would have complained but I knew that this was perfectly acceptable here, so what was the point?

Later we got some cakes from Greggs. I had a Belgian Bun. It was OK. Actually, it was quite nice – but mainly because here, in Italy, they don’t do them. At least it was fresh, unlike the croissant.

Later still we went for lunch to the The Imperial. The beer (I don’t remember what it was) was fine. I ordered Gammon with Egg. It should have been good but it wasn’t. To be honest, G, here, in our canteen, does a much better job of making it and I had to explain how to make it to her! Also there were just too many chips. Don’t get me wrong, it was OK – it just wasn’t nice enough.

That evening we weren’t able to book a table at the Black Lion and so went to the Three Tuns. This was divine. Good beer (Butty Bach, I think) and rack of lamb. This is how British food should be. Fresh vegetables, good gravy and the lamb was perfectly cooked and juicy.

Sunday, we were in Hay for reasons I cannot disclose. We did go to Shepherds for a morning cappuccino (which wasn’t bad and much more like real Italian coffee) and, more importantly, I had a Toasted Tea Cake. Oozing with butter it is one of the things from my childhood. I adore Toasted Tea Cakes and this one was as good as any I have had.

We skipped lunch and I really wasn’t hungry anyway. That evening we went to the Old Black Lion. I do like the Black Lion. The beer isn’t so special but it’s OK. The food is very good, though. Again it was lamb. Again it was fantastic. I had some meringue thing for sweet. BM chose the summer pudding which I tasted and it was far, far better than my choice!

Before the Black Lion we were back in Kilverts where we met up with T, a friend of BM’s. I had a few pints of Butty Bach and I had really forgotten how good that beer is!

The next day I was back to the airport. I was there about 2 p.m. I had over an hour to ‘kill’. I went through to departures (after stocking up on nicotine) and went to the Weatherspoons pub in the departure lounge. The choice wasn’t brilliant but I chose a cheeseburger. It arrived. It was tepid which was a shame because if it had been hot, it would have been quite nice. Of course, they can do this as there’s no time to fix it, what with departing flights and all.

But it got me to thinking that, really, in the UK, if you don’t know the places, food is quite a hit and miss affair – in fact, mainly miss.

So, Italians are right, in a way, in that British food is not that good, unless you go to a place that does good food. Elsewhere it is liable to be fairly crap.

And, for the first time, I really didn’t want a Kentucky Burger. Too much salt and fat and sugar and crap. It seems I’ve moved on a bit!

It’s been a while, I know.

Posted on by
4

Yes, it seems I am as back as I can be.

Lots of things to tidy up, of course. Lots learnt in the process of trying to get it back. Lots of help from Stef, so many thanks to him.

Lost posts coming back soon. Lost links likewise. Recreation of mods made to blog as well.

Lots to do.

But I am so happy to be back :-)

The checklists that never got posted

Posted on by
Reply

Checklists 3, 4, etc. didn’t get done.

Checklist 3 would have been that the dogs went in for a wash and blow dry. Checklist 4 would have been that the flat was clean. Checklist 5 would have been that the car was packed and 6 would have been that the dogs were clean and smelling beautiful.

Non of these posts got made because of Checklist 4. F was here. And I couldn’t really be sitting at the computer whilst he was trying to super-clean the flat, now, could I?

Oh and there should have been other checklists too. Like 1A – Colomba ordered (and subsequently got). 2A – Eggs bought.

There were to be 6 adults, 1 baby and 2 dogs. I did think it was going to be a bit of a squeeze, even if the flat is big. However, sadly, B couldn’t come. And, so neither did her friend. And, I guess, that was why our mutual friend (with husband and baby) didn’t come either.

We did miss B an awful lot but it was nice all the same. F said, several times, that although he missed B, it is really good with it being just us. That made me very happy. And we talked about his house by the sea and how we should spend more time there and how we could get a place on the Lake (to rent), maybe, if it were cheap enough. Which is almost like getting a place together. And we talked about the dogs. And his dream about Dino dying and how he couldn’t stand it and that was why he never had a dog.

F bought another Colomba and we gave one Colomba and one egg to the Aunt that lives downstairs for her to share with the Aunt that lives upstairs. They are, after all so nice and I will never forgive myself (nor V) for having to wake them up at 1 or 2 o’clock in the morning to get V’s briefcase which he had forgotten.

The Colomba and egg were a little way of saying thank you.

And so, the weekend was great and the weather was, overall, very, very good and the dogs got lots of walks and we spent a lovely time together.

And we talked a bit about the blog. So that was good, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

Unfortunately, any comments have been lost.

It’s life Jim, but hardly logical.

Posted on by
2

When you look at it, logically, there’s nothing actually wrong.

Just like those times when I feel angry for no reason at all.

But I am really pissed off.

Except when I’m with F. For some reason, everything just lifts when I’m with him.

Take last night. After a really dreadful day, followed by a lesson and then a dreadful drive home, meaning I was later than I wanted to be, meaning that, although I really rushed a shower, I arrived at the shop later than I wanted to, once I was with F, I was relaxed and happy. For the next couple of hours, even if he wasn’t with me all the time, I was still happy and relaxed. I knew he was there. It was enough.

It was the “Aperitivo”. They were holding it because it is the Furniture Fair. It was nice. I had several glasses of prosecco. And a couple of the small finger food ‘dishes’ they were handing out. There were lots of F’s colleagues there, of course. They are always so nice to me.

One thing struck me though. F, not usually overly demonstrative towards me, completely changes when there are a lot of his colleagues around. It’s quite funny. He seems, almost, to be jealous of any attention given to me – but not jealous that I’m getting the attention and he’s not. Rather jealous in that I’m his. Phrases such as ‘keep your eyes off him, he’s mine’ tend to come out (or something similar, since it is in Italian). It does make me laugh, inwardly. Of course, part of it is for show, I know that. He is, after all, a showman. It’s what he does best. It’s why he’s good at his job.

And now, as we rapidly approach 4.15, it is the weekend. And the weather should be OK (average for this time of year) and so, I hope, F & I will spend some time together and take the dogs for a walk, etc.

These are the times that make me really happy.

a