Tag Archives: General Rambling

Not a politically correct post but it’s my blog (and it’s the truth).

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We are all equal. We have equal rights to everything, including jobs. There should be no discrimination.

Except that isn’t really true. There are complaints that models are too thin. But, having been to a show, it would be insane to have 20 stone, 5 foot high models. There’s the space, there’s the clothes, there’s the look. I mean, you tend to clean your house if you’re trying to sell it, don’t you. after all, you want it to be seen in the best light possible. In the same way, you can’t have jockeys who are 6 foot tall and weigh 20 stone.

So there are reasons. For people who don’t fit the physical requirements, they may feel discriminated against – and they would, of course, be right. So, should we really complain? And at what point do you draw the line between practicality and true discrimination?

On our flight was a rather larger than normal, uglier than normal, steward/stewardess. Ugliness or beauty is in the eye of the beholder and our idea of beauty does change over generations/centuries. And although it really doesn’t matter a great deal, we all prefer to be served by someone with a pretty face, wouldn’t we?  However that wasn’t really the issue.

The size was more the key. It’s bad enough, when you have an aisle seat to be constantly buffetted by large-assed people going to and fro but to have stewards/esses like this is inconsiderate by the airline and yet, no doubt, they are trying to stay within the regulations regarding employment discrimination.  For me, being in an aisle seat it made the flight more uncomfortable.

For certain this steward/ess ain’t going to be appearing on and advertisements for the airline. It would hardly serve them well in spite of all we may say about discrimination being all wrong.

I wonder what it will take?

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Generally, I have a very positive outlook on life even when, sometimes, it is hard.

But on one thing, I guess, I am a doom-monger.  That is on the general, global economy – or certainly the way the the economy works now.

>This should be interesting reading and, whereas one shouldn’t believe everything (sometimes I think anything, given some of the recent journalistic “stories” put about by the media, them being, whilst not complete fabrication, certainly omitting important facts so as to slew the story in such a way as to make the point a complete fabrication – and I can give you examples if you would like) one reads or hears, there have been, over the last couple of years, enough of these type of stories, almost always buried and never refuted (or not that I’ve seen).

As I was reading this (and the comments below the story), our Engineering Manager came up to me and we talked a little.  He asked if I knew about PIGS.  I replied yes and that it was Portugal, Italy……at which point he stopped me and said that it wasn’t Italy but Ireland. Huh? I mean, there’s being faithful to one’s country and there’s bloody stupidity. He came to tell me it had been replaced by SWINE (Scotland, Wales, Ireland North and England). On that, given what I was reading, I could not add anything other than completely agree with him. I’m really not sure who’s in a worse position – us or them!

It seems that Buzz Lightyear’s (Burlusconi) boast about Italy being in a good position is really believed!  This on the day that there is a General Strike (for various reasons including the crisis) here in Italy.  After that we talked about housing and how the prices were still far too high.  At least he agreed with me on that one – sort of.  But still believing that his money was safer in housing than anything else!  Another colleague really doesn’t believe me when I try to explain that neither he nor I will be retiring at 65 or 67 or 68 or whatever fool age they’ve currently given as the retirement age.

Maybe I am wrong, of course.  I hope so, not that it is important to me one way or another, to be honest.  But still, I really can’t see how the hell this is going to work unless things change.

Sooner or later, the model has to be changed.  And it will cause great pain and hardship unless the people decide on something radical which they won’t because the people in power believe the crap that is coming from the bankers and the like.  No one can see a different way because they are too frightened of losing the power/wealth that they have. No one in power nor those without power.

I wonder what it will take?

Swimming in Glue

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I don’t know if you’ve ever made Treacle Tart – mixing the Golden Syrup with the breadcrumbs and lemon zest – the ‘treacle’ being so thick it’s difficult to mix and you have to force the spoon through?  Or maybe you’ve been wading through water with a strong current against you?

The phone saga continues.  It seems as if there are about 6 different people dealing with it – and none of them talk to each other.  Then there’s the bank.  Well a branch of the bank that are unable to be part of the same group as another branch of the same group.

And then there’s this computer.  Running so slow as to almost grind to a halt.

And it’s snowing.

And it’s very cold.

On the plus side I’ve watched three episodes of The Tudors (series 3).  It is good but one would think that everything they did at that time revolved around sex – there being naked bodies in every other screenshot.

Last night I went out with A for a couple of beers at the Birrificio – Lambrate where, apparently, they brew their own beer.  I had a couple of nice beers (Porpora) – what they call red beer (a darker bitter rather than the light lager-type that the continent is famous for).  Quite strong but very drinkable.  It’s one of those places where it is better to book a table in advance.  We were lucky and found a table but it was the only table left that had not been booked.  But it is a strange thing – to have to book a table at a pub, don’t you think?

F also texted me to say he had bought me a present.  I’m not sure why or what it is.  He said that he hoped I didn’t already have it.

And today is our mesaversary – well the mesaversary of the day we met (which, to be honest is almost the same as the day we became a couple :-D).

And, someone who is reading this blog thinks that my writing reflects the fact that I am, ahem, gay!  Really, AnaP?  Well, I suppose, to some extent it would but I’m not sure that it makes that much difference.  Although I do note that the people who spend a lot of their time on FB (and, in particular FV) are women or gay.  I wonder if anyone has ever done a survey on that? Not that that particular point has much to do with my style of writing here but I thought it was interesting to note is all.

Anyway, it feels like I’m swimming in glue right now.

Off the Boil

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I am angry.  No, not just angry – absolutely furious.

OK, not now or, at least, not so bad but I was.  The thing is, I don’t really know why.  There was no obvious reason.  I woke up angry, was angry all day and went to bed angry.  To be honest, it felt like there was something wrong with me.  The worst was Saturday night/Sunday morning.  True, my ‘cold’ was dreadful or, at least, it sounded dreadful but it wasn’t that.  Or, it wasn’t only that.

On Sunday morning, as I took the dogs out, I was muttering to myself, asking myself why I was angry; amazed at how angry I felt inside.  I thought: ‘this is what it must be like to go insane’.  There was no sanity in the anger.  I realised that it had been around for several days and that some people had taken some of it by saying a wrong word or making a wrong gesture.

I thought perhaps it was the cold; or maybe because I was so tired; or maybe I was mentally insane.  I managed to keep it from F, thank goodness.

I write about it now because it has abated, if not entirely gone away.  I certainly feel ‘better’ even if the ‘cold’ is still with me; even if F is away all week in Germany; even if I do have to go to a Northern Country next week when I really don’t want to (and I have still to find a solution for the dogs); even if the weather has turned cold and wintry again; even if I am pissed off about certain things and towards certain people; even if ………….

But now I feel better.  And now (since I started writing this) I have booked the flights for next week and found out that my bank will offer me huge amounts of money in loans (has nothing changed in the last 18 months after all?) which I don’t want but may need if certain things occur (but the madness flowing through the world seems unstaunched) and so, suddenly, I seem happier.

And, the saga with my mobile phone continues.  Normally, in Italy, one expects to make two trips to sort anything out.  The first – you are armed with every sort of document that you may need and the second is for handing over the document that you never knew existed.  So far I have been to the TIM shop 6 times since the problem with the Direct Debit and the wish by TIM to charge me an extra €166 (for a €50 per month plan) started.  However, it may almost be sorted.  We may hope.

Still, the phone itself is great and the whole thing is much more pleasant than dealing with 3 who, to me, are magic only in their incompetence.

Governing by ‘The Lynch Mob’ rules

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The olde worlde Wilde Wilde West!  How great that must have been.  Unless, of course, you were either innocent and incorrectly suspected of some foul deed or stitched up by someone.

In those days the lynch mob ruled.

Nowadays we don’t have that, do we?  Of course not, you may say, huffing and puffing as well as saying it.  I mean, the lynch mob would get told or decide amongst themselves that someone was guilty and then go hounding them until they found them and then, well, lynched them.  Nowadays we are much more civilised, aren’t we?

And yet, reading the last few days about this (and, if you read it it’s almost at the end now) reminds me so much of the lynch mob mentality even if the person was guilty of something about 17 years ago.

So, there’s this child who did some really terrible thing when he was 10, so terrible that, in order for him to live a life, any sort of life, when he leaves prison, must take on a secret identity.  But what he has done and the time that he spent in prison would have an effect on the rest of his life forever, let alone having to live with a ‘secret identity’.

Unsurprisingly, in my view, he had a drug habit and, given that he was in prison at 11 or 12, was probably a bit of a hard-nut.  And now he has been taken back to prison for some breach of the conditions.  What shocked me was the daily (almost hourly) call for the public to know why.

The only thing I wonder is……………is this the public who ‘need’ to know or the media who ‘need’ to tell the public.

Either way, this was lynch mob mentality.

And, what worries me more is that now, according to the article I linked to, Jack Straw is considering what else he may tell ‘the public’.

You have just got to be joking, Mr Straw!  Jack Straw should stick to the original script and not say a word.  Those baying for blood should continue their baying.  Does Jack Straw think that, on giving further information, the baying will cease?

To be honest I’m not even sure it was necessary for the public to know that the guy was returned to prison but certainly there is no need to know why.  What purpose would it possibly serve?

Sure, there does need to be checks on the authorities to make sure they are doing their jobs correctly but this ‘baying for blood’ that seems to have invaded our lives is not acceptable.

The Government seem to have lost their way if they really think that bowing to the public (or is it media?) demands is the correct way to govern a country/nation.  I know I’ve said it before but, really, enough!

Explanation not required nor desired?

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Well, what was I supposed to do?

He was complaining about last night.  I didn’t give him the support.  WTF?  I mean, I couldn’t hug him (his shoulder was so bad and he wouldn’t let me hug him), I couldn’t really say anything (what is there to say with news like he had).  What the hell did he want?

“But you had a bad shoulder”, I replied.  “How the hell could I comfort you?”, I asked.

He hadn’t phoned me because he had been annoyed with me.  But, really.  There was nothing I could do.

Of course, after a little while I had started to get a bit worried.

“And, anyway, I can’t see into your brain; can’t know what you’re thinking”.  It almost sounded like whining.  I kicked myself but I wasn’t going to give in on this one.  He wants support (which I’ve been doing) and then, when I don’t do something that he thinks I should, he complains.  I mean, we haven’t been together that long that I can just work everything out.

It’s more like being with a woman!

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Actually, of course, almost none of that happened.  It just went through my head.  Soon after it went through my head, I did what I usually do which is worry about him and be concerned about how he was feeling whilst resisting the almost unbelievable urge to call him.

Then he texted and I was sooooooo relieved that we didn’t have any of that conversation at all.  And he wasn’t angry with me.  And he didn’t think that I didn’t support him.  And I hadn’t done anything ‘wrong’ nor misunderstood anything.

All was well, apart from his shoulder and the fact that he had had no sleep.  We slept apart last night.  He explained that, if he stayed awake like the night before, he might want to put the television on or go and sit at the computer and he wouldn’t be able to do that if I were there because I ‘need your rest as you have to get up so early’.  He thinks about me too and considers my needs.

As I say often (to him), there’s no need to explain.  I usually add that there’s no need to say sorry, either.

But, of course, there is.  But it’s just for confirmation, of course.  And to stop the things in my head becoming real – to stop me giving voice to them.  So, my biggest problem here is myself.

I have no words.

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It’s the way of things.

You miss, most, those things when they are irretrievable; when they are lost forever.

I say ‘those things’ but I also mean ‘those people’.

Worse, still, is when those people disappear from our lives unexpectedly, without warning, without the chance to say goodbye.  And, yet worse, is when those people take their own lives.

I don’t know about you but haven’t we all had moments in our lives when, for a brief few minutes or hours or days, it seemed that the solution to it all, all the problems and the hurt and the terribleness of life, the solution seemed to be to end this life; to not be?

The first funeral I remember attending was for St.  St was 21 or so and had been with D for a couple of years and we (M & I) were close friends with them.  We didn’t understand why.  Well, I say that.  In fact, unknown to me at the time, M had spoken to him that very day but I only found out about that later.

St got in the car with their dog in the garage and used a hose from the exhaust.

Later (but much later) D explained that the worst time was, actually, some time after the funeral when people stopped calling, stopped coming, stopped including him.

But still, I couldn’t quite grasp why St had done this.  I think M had a better idea but if he did, I don’t believe he ever told me.  I don’t know that D ever really knew or understood.

I wonder still, having never quite been there, how everything can look so bad that ending it all seems the only way out?  I see, this morning, the lady tramp, who sleeps on the benches where I take the dogs.  She, if anyone can, has reason to think that life is not really worth living.  And yet she is still there.  So why doesn’t she think that life is over and yet St felt that he couldn’t go on?

But we can never see inside someone else’s head, can we?  And we can never be that person or, even, put ourselves in their shoes.  Not really.

And you may wonder why I write this post.  Not enough that a very dear friend from the past did this nor that a very dear friend from the present attempted this but, last night, a dear friend of F succeeded in ending his life.

I had no words.  I didn’t know the guy but F had spoken of him a few times and he was a close friend.  He had texted him that very morning.  They called each other ‘sister’ and that was the word that he texted.  I couldn’t really give F the comfort he wanted or needed, not least because his shoulder was so bad I couldn’t hug him and hold him close.  He stayed awake all night.  I’m not sure that was all about the shoulder.

And it led me to thinking about a dear friend who may not have been here now – but is and for that I am grateful.

Someone said to F that G (the guy that committed suicide yesterday) was courageous (he jumped out of a 6th floor window).  And I see her point although there is also a selfishness about committing suicide and, unfortunately, a cowardice about it too.  Of course, the selfishness and cowardice are for the living to bear and not the dead.

But bear it we must.  And there was a song that some of you may remember.  But the title is not true, at least not for those left behind.

But last night made me think of St, all that time ago and the other dear, dear friend who is still with us and how things might be different (in both cases). And I want to scream at them that suicide is not painless. Not for those left behind and there is always someone left behind.

And, through all the thoughts my stomach churns for it makes me scared.  Of what, I am not sure.  Perhaps the recent incident with my dear, dear friend makes me realise how close it was and how it could have been and I wonder how I would be about it.  And it brings me close to tears.  Tears for St, tears for G (even if I didn’t know him), tears for D, tears for F (who has the last text) and tears for my dear, dear friend.

Tears because it is so hard to understand how anything could possibly be so bad that ending your life seems the solution and more for the people left behind, who will never quite comprehend what has been done.

And so I text my dear, dear friend as I don’t want the last text to be a single word.

I will stop this post now.  As I said to F, last night, I have no words………..

Adrift

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I’m not sure how I feel.  I’m not even sure how I’m supposed to feel.  My head tells me I shouldn’t feel anything but my heart is beating fast, almost as if I’m scared.

I don’t feel sad or that I’ve missed something.  I don’t feel angry or unhappy.  Nor do I feel happy.  And, somehow, at some time, that’s how I thought I would feel – not this ‘nothingness’ with a beating heart.

I read the stuff again to make sure I understood.  Yes, I cannot be wrong.  So much stuff on the internet these days but still cannot find anything about the actual event.  But then it goes and makes me look for other things.  Most things are just confirmation of things I already knew.  A few photos, a few discussions.

And still I can’t get this thing out of my head.  Why?

And then I think about the date.  No, it’s all wrong, somehow.  I mean, 2003.  I was still in the UK.  Not only in the UK but also still at the original address – the one she knew.  No.  I must have made a mistake.  A different anniversary then?  Ah yes, she was going for a walk.  And, at that time, I seem to remember, the talk of new knees.  Perhaps that’s the one she talks about?  Perhaps it was her AND him, celebrating the 7th anniversary of him being able to walk again?  That’s why the walk and why it’s worth the post.

And, yet, there was the comment about “he would be so proud of you”.  Surely you only say that of someone who’s gone?  Otherwise you’d say ‘he must be so proud of you’ or something similar.  But, perhaps there is a mixture here.  The walking being different from the dying.  The anniversary being the walking; the dying taking place at some other time.

But it tires me.  It’s boring crap and, after an initial interest, the whole thing starts to become pathetic.  I mean that I become pathetic to me.

And then, I wonder, should I make contact now?  What would it take?  And, anyway, she’s already in New Zealand or Australia or something.  With ‘her Ruthie’ on their yacht or her yacht or something.

But then that exposes me again and I don’t want to be exposed.  The rest of them come too.  It comes with a package (and a price) and the package I don’t want to open (and the price I don’t want to pay).  And, it’s strange really because only a day or so ago I found myself thinking about being adrift and that I was adrift and had almost always been adrift and, most of the time, I like being adrift and not anchored but that sometimes, for those brief moments, when being adrift seems less exciting but rather more scary, that’s the time that you have families for.

And I don’t have that.  And now, after V, I have less of even the little bit I thought I had.

And, maybe that’s why my heart raced when I read (and, probably, misunderstood) the thing on the screen.

The same thing with the right person

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To be honest, I’m just a little apprehensive.

I knew it was coming, I just expected a little more notice.  And it’s not as if it’s anything to worry about, really.  But, you know…….?

F phones.  He is at Liù, near my flat.  He’s not IN Liù since it’s only 6.30 p.m. and I know they don’t open until 7.30.  He’s there because he has to get some stuff.  He needs a cable for the TV so that it can be moved to the correct place in the bedroom.

“Would you like to go for a pizza later?”, he asks me.  “We can go to Liù”

“Sure”, I reply.  He’s going to phone me later.

He does.

“We’re going to Basillico”, he states, “for 8.30.  We’re meeting S”.

He uses the nickname so it takes me a moment to understand what he means.  “Is that OK?”, he adds, maybe misunderstanding my initial silence.

“Sure but are you sure you want me to come?” I ask him.

Now, you should know that this is only me being polite.  S and F haven’t met up since S got back into town.  And, I’m not really jealous but there’s something.  I mean, he was with S for 11 years and, you know, maybe with S coming back, F thinks there may be a ‘getting back together’.  I don’t really think so but…….

And, I think, perhaps it would be better for them to have an evening together, catching up on old times or stuff like that and I would just be in the way.  Anyway, S’s boyfriend is still in the States.  It will be weird with me being there but S not being able to bring his boyfriend too.

Of course, the question, just like the thoughts are all crap.  What I want is that F would not possibly meet S without me being there.  But one can’t actually say that, right?

But there is also the thing that I am not S.  I am not as good as S.  That my not being good enough will become obvious to F when he sees us together.  Still, I want him to say that he wants me there too.

And he does.  He calls a little later to say he is having an aperitivo at Bar Basso, which is in the same piazza.  I have just come out of the shower.  I can’t meet S without making the best of myself, obviously.  I expect him to be somewhat glamorous.

I say I will be another 10 minutes.  As I am leaving he calls to say he will meet me at the pizzeria.  I walk up.

I see them.  S with his back to me, talking to F.

We meet.  He shakes my hand.  I shake his and we kiss on both cheeks, as one does, instigated by me.  Why not, I think to myself?  He is the same height as F.  Thin but not as thin as I thought.  An old-fashioned haircut, a short beard, not over-fashionable nor quirky as he might be, being a designer and all.

We sit in the restaurant.  Afterwards I think about how strangely F acted.  Like he was over-excited.  It strikes me that he was excited about introducing me to S.  I think that either he so wanted S to meet me or that he wanted to show S that he had someone else.  I thought the former last night and the latter this morning – so, obviously, I have no idea.

He and S always spoke Italian to each other in the past, F not speaking any English when they first met but, several times when S spoke Italian last night he asked him to speak English.  He finds it difficult to understand S so well, what with his heavier Mancunian accent.

Anyway, I liked him.  S, that is.  He’s not me and I am not him.  We are very different.  He asked a lot about me and I asked a lot about him.  He told me that when I meet F’s family I will like them.  He asked how long we had been together.  F replied that it was four months to which I added that it wasn’t so long.  However, S seemed to think that it was and seemed genuinely pleased that F had ‘found’ someone – as did F.

At the end he said that it was really nice to meet me after all the good things he had heard about me.  And since he would only have heard those things from F, it made me smile as perhaps this IS the real thing?  Apparently he texted F afterwards to say I was simpatico – our equivalent of nice, I think.

I don’t know, really.  Should I feel jealous (or whatever this is)?  Do I, in fact, feel jealous?  I’m not even sure about that.  Whatever I feel, I feel less now that I’ve met him.  He’s more ‘gay’ than F, for certain and more ‘gay’ than me too, for that matter.  I think that’s what F likes about me and it’s certainly one of the things I like about him.

And, after all, F said that we’re all looking for the same thing really.  The same thing with the ‘right person’, of course.

How where we grow up affects us

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I am a little worried.  Only a little – right now, of course.  The actual (possible) events are a long way off.

I was born and brought up, for most of my childhood, in the middle of the glorious countryside of Herefordshire.  For the UK, this was one of the places furthest from the sea.  Yes, sure, when we went on our 2 week holiday, we went to the beaches of North Wales (and, sometimes, even had sun and warmth, I seem to remember).  But most of the 6 weeks of summer holidays, we were, as kids, stuck in the middle of this countryside.  And, so, we played in the garden (which was huge) or went walking or playing in the fields and woods near the house.

Certain things I remember would not be allowed now.  Like the bales of straw in the field opposite, where, every summer, we went and made houses of these bales, lugging the heavy bales to form walls and roofs, creating dens.  I was one of those kids that also liked to walk, across the fields and through woods, on my own, looking at the flora and fauna, enjoying the calming effect.

Now, as I am older, for me, the countryside is special.  It invokes images of tranquillity, of a tamed wildness, of being at peace.  Last summer, in the hills of Piedmont, I enjoyed, for a few days, thanks to N&S, the countryside and the hills that, somewhat, reminded me of Herefordshire.  And, every day, went walking with the boys, which they enjoyed immensely.

And then, for lunch or the evening, there is always a town or village nearby where, in the UK, one can find a country pub with good beer (one hopes) and, possibly, some pub grub or here, in Italy, you might chance upon some nice country restaurant.

One thing about my childhood that I always hated was our summer holiday to the beach.  I hated it for many, many reasons – we went in a caravan and, later, when the four kids were older, we had an awning attached, which was where we slept (of course).  The big drama of packing the caravan (to make sure the weight was evenly distributed), the putting up of the awning which had to be done even when it was pissing down with rain, the showering in some toilet block on the camp-site, the daily preparation and trek to the beach, my parents always preferring to be in a part of the beach without too many neighbours, so a longer walk with all the ‘stuff’, also knowing that one had to return with all the ‘stuff’ at the end of the day, etc.  Oh, yes, I hated it.

And now, of course, I have certain things that make my holiday.  Being in the countryside where one can walk without the need to carry; eating at restaurants and bars rather than taking all your own food; having the opportunity to visit a church or a museum or, here, a vineyard or the like.

But, for those people brought up near to the sea, the beach was the place that they went during their time away from school.  To them it is the perfect place to relax.

And so it is with F.  He has told me that, after breakfast he goes to the beach and stays there all day.  When he returns home, at 6 or 7, he eats having not eaten at lunch.

My worry is that, this summer, assuming we go on holiday, this is what he will want to do.  For me, it is boring and hot and I’m not really one for lying there just to get brown.  Getting brown is a consequence of doing something in the sun, not the reason for the holiday.  I can swim but I’m not good – basic, I think you would say.  But for him it’s his way to completely relax.  For me it is not.

Or, maybe it is and I have just not been with a partner for whom this IS the summer holiday.  Perhaps I should try and see.  My worry is, what if I do get bored and after an hour or so on the beach, want to do something?  Go for a walk, visit the town, do something else?

I know I should wait and see and, if I really don’t like it, I’m sure we can compromise, both of us wanting this to work, after all.

It just niggles at me from time to time, is all.