I forgot to tell you.
I was wrong about the dog walking thing. He does it if he is not having to get up early. This morning he was doing pilates and so he was getting up early (early being after 7 – which is a lie-in for me!) and so I had to get up at 5.45 a.m.
Still, he does take them out in the morning, some of the time.
Tomorrow, I shall be on holiday. Maybe we shall take them out together? Maybe we shall have breakfast together in some bar? That would be nice.
Well, it didn’t really last long. Three days, in fact. Still, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
Isn’t it? Tell me ‘yes’, please?
Well sort of.
It was an uneventful yet eventful weekend. I mean to say, for most people almost uneventful. For me, quite major things were done.
In particular, I am talking about sewing.
Yes, this post may not be the most exciting ever. Please look away now if you are afraid it might be boring. If you do read it, you can’t then say I didn’t warn you. And it is looooong!
I am, as you may know (or have guessed), a gay man. Actually, an old, gay man. But I’m not really your typical ‘gay’. I am, as N would say, quite a straight, gay man. An old, straight, gay man.
I don’t sew. Well, I do but only when I have to and we’re talking simple things here. Buttons and stuff. Buttons are hard. But not as hard as real sewing. But, like ironing and cleaning, they take me a long time. And, just like ironing and cleaning, if I can, I put it off.
So, all the shirts that I had that lost a button or ripped or needed some sort of repair had been, over the last (OMG! I just realised over the last 18 months or two years!!) ahem, period of time, had been hung in a special part of the wardrobe.
But, I was ‘running out’ of workshirts and having to use the ones that F had bought for me. So, on Saturday morning I said to him that I was going to have to go out and buy some. And then, I thought, of course, I’ve probably got a couple that just need buttons so I should do them first and then I would know how many I really needed.
So, Saturday morning, after F left to go to his place and ‘tidy up a bit’, I thought OK, I’ll do it or, at least, look to see how many I could ‘reclaim’.
I really didn’t realise how much stuff I had in that wardrobe. It was a shock. I started looking at the shirts. Putting the ones which had ripped (usually on the sleeve or under the arm) in one pile as these were, probably, irreclaimable (at least with my level of expertise at sewing) and the ones that missed just a button (or two or three), in another.
There were 7 shirts that were reclaimable. It was a big surprise but welcome, nonetheless.
I started. It was cold in my kitchen. I found that threading the needle, normally a process that takes about 15 minutes for me, seemed to be easier than usual. This was a good sign. I found buttons in my little ‘button store’. And, where I couldn’t find the right ones, I found them attached to the shirts, at the bottom. Or I found one that was very similar.
I progressed well, completing the first one in about half an hour. That’s how slow I am. One down and 6 more to go. After the second one, I was finding it difficult. My fingers, hardly as nimble as they were, seemed to be ‘not working’. It was far too cold. I put on some gas rings on the cooker. It would soon warm up the flat or, at least, the kitchen.
The washing machine was on. I think I was doing towels. Or jeans. Something which meant a full spin at top speed.
I did another shirt. (Exciting, isn’t it?)
I decided to have a break from sewing. I took the three shirts that I had done to hang them in the wardrobe (they were already ironed). On the way back (not that it’s a truly long distance but it’s still true since between the bedroom and the kitchen I go through every other room in the flat – apart, that is, from the bathroom – however, the bathroom is on the way back to the kitchen), I stopped off in the bathroom.
I’m standing there, having a pee (I know you may not want to know this but it is material evidence for the next bit) and I hear a sudden crash from the kitchen. The washing machine is in full spin.
There’s not a lot I can really do, standing there as I am. It’s just not possible to turn off the tap, so to speak. (See, I told you it was material to the story). I finish and walk into the kitchen.
The trays which are on top of the microwave, which is on top of the washing machine were the things that caused the ‘crash’. They have fallen onto the cooker. With them, obviously, are the things that are on the trays. Not much, normally, but F, in one of his ‘tidy up’ moods last week, had moved all the stuff that was with my computer on the kitchen table, onto the trays.
This included some paperwork, some CDs, some DVDs, some pens and some other associated ‘junk’.
You may remember (it was on a few paragraphs back) that I mentioned turning on the gas rings to heat up the kitchen a bit? Well they are gas and, therefore, flames and, sort of, flames tend to do things to pieces of paperwork, plastic CD holders, plastic trays, etc.
To pieces of paper, even bank notes, they tend to send them up in flames. To CD and DVD boxes, the tend to melt them before setting them on fire.
The kitchen was full of flames. Well, the cooker was full of flames and not all from the burners.
I don’t know what happens sometimes in times of crisis. Usually, I react quite well. Sometimes, though, my brain doesn’t seem to work. For a moment or two I blew on the flames, trying to put them out. It almost worked but for one small but very important fact. I couldn’t blow the burners out, of course, and so blowing the flame on a piece of paper out had the effect of it going out for a split second before reigniting itself from the burner.
Hmmm.
At the same time as blowing, I start to move things (well, move isn’t quite the right word – more like grab and chuck) from the cooker hob to the sink which, luckily, was full of water for washing up, the washing up being in the water and not having been done by now because I am on that long, horrible job of sewing.
I do remember thinking that this really wasn’t the best day for this (but, then, when would be?). Not only am I sewing but it is also too cold for me. And I’ve had a bad week at work.
And my tooth hurts.
Although this may seem like a long time for me to ‘do the right thing’, in reality, of course, it was seconds. Seconds before I realised that, of course, before trying to extinguish the flames I should, in all probability, turn off the hob rings.
I do. Then I am blowing and throwing stuff at the sink at the same time.
The CD/DVD cases have started sticking to the black covers over the gas rings. And sticking to each other. In that plastic burned way. They also go into the sink along with the washing up.
I’m thinking that a wet CD/DVD is invariably better than a totally warped one.
I start to clean up the cooker. I fish things out of the water. Some bits of paper have fared better than others. Some now have no writing on. It seems pointless to keep them without anything on them, their meaning lost to the water. I hang others in various places to dry.
I start separating CD cases. The CDs themselves, look OK. I will have to try them. Possibly when they are no longer wet.
The plastic box full of blank DVDs is difficult to open since bits of the plastic seems to have become welded together. I prise the lid open. The DVDs themselves, seem OK. We shall see. Again, perhaps better to check when they are dry.
I make a cup of tea. There is irrational fear in turning on one of the gas rings to boil the water. I mean – REALLY irrational. There is nothing on the microwave any more. It all went onto the rings, into flames or was melted, then the water, then the drainer for drying out or thrown away for being of no use any more.
I have tea.
I re-start my sewing.
I finish the shirts. There are a couple of pairs of jeans that also need repair. They are my favourite jeans. They need repair because I am not sticking to my wine diet very well. And, also because the jeans were always quite ‘tight’ – even before I had need of any wine diet! One of them has come apart where the buttons were. It was either that or the buttons. The sewing gave first. I sew that up. Not well but, I hope, quite ‘strongly’. The other pair were not so lucky. The second button down – since they are not really buttons but those stud buttons you get on jeans – sheared in two. I have a stud from some other pair of jeans. I fix that in and hammer it together. I hope it holds. But I guess there will be another real button put there if it comes off. I guess there’ll be a button there soon, then!
Also, maybe as a result of the need for a wine diet, some shirts have ripped at the sleeve – underneath the armpit. They cannot be repaired. But a couple of them are good shirts and I don’t want to chuck them. I decide that I could just cut the sleeves off. They would be summer shirts. I try. the result doesn’t look so bad. Maybe they will be fine? I will show F later, maybe?
It has taken me all bloody day to do the sewing. The jumpers have not been done. They will have to wait. I’m quite pleased with myself at having done all this. F and I have chatted over Facebook when I was doing the shirt buttons. I told him I hate doing it, having forgotten how he told me that for S’s first show, various family and friends were up all night doing the sewing. He says he will do it later. For one moment I think of saying ‘yes’ but then decide not to. After all, I should be able to do all this myself. Maybe next time?
We went out for a meal. F was ill. The next day he stayed in bed until about eleven o’clock. Asleep. Then he got up and went home and went to bed and slept.
Yesterday, as he was sleeping, I took the dogs out for a long walk to the park. Have I mentioned that Rufus seems to have really perked up in the last week or so? Well, he’s still quite perky. I’m very happy about it even if I was writing him off only before Christmas.
Then, last night, I went to the supermarket. I love that, now, the Esselunga in Viale Piave is not only open on Sunday but also open after 6! Actually, I think it stays open until about 9 p.m. Italy is moving into the 20th Century. Just a little behind others. In fact, apart from about 2 days in the year, it is open every day and at reasonable times.
I had a hankering for parsley sauce. And roast potatoes. And leeks. I got everything, including some cod (because F likes that). Of course, the cod was salted cod and I didn’t soak it for long enough. The rest was perfect. I must try it again – with a more soaked cod.
And F feels a bit better now and has gone to work.
But he didn’t take the dogs for a walk on Thursday and Friday of last week (because he had very long days and was going to do Pilates), nor Sunday because he was ill, nor today (nor tomorrow, nor Wednesday nor Thursday, I suspect) because he was going to Pilates again. So it only lasted last week. And only for three days. Oh well. I’m sure it’s the thought that counts.
&
And some lost comments:
………phew. I hung in ’til the end. phew – and that’s because I love you you old straight-gay man you!!
Love Gail
peace…..
Well done, Gail! Loads of love back
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
As I was sitting in Engineering, one of the rubber soles came off my heel.
I wonder, briefly, if this is a sign.
Does it mean I’m on way to becoming a down-and-out, grateful to have shoes with heels or not? Does it mean that it’s the right time for a new job? Or does it mean that I need to get my shoes re-heeled?
Or all three?
After all, I could be going down the ‘Gentleman of the Road’ road, if you see what I mean. I’ve always felt that I am a step away from that. Well, actually it’s more like a hundred steps. But once you take the first one, I can see how easily one can get pulled down the other ones.
I have applied for the new job. I checked my ‘Internet footprints’. I don’t think I’m that easy to find. I mean to say, this blog is not easy to find. And most other things have privacy setting set so that it is hard to connect everything. I hope. Of course, I am aware that, should I be successful, this blog may have to close, even if I say little about work, apart from Teaching. Well, we’re a long way from that. Not in terms of time but in terms of I haven’t started yet. That’s because I haven’t had an interview yet. That’s because I only sent the CV off about an hour ago.
I think I would love the job. I just think it may have already been taken, if you understand my meaning. Even though this is a British job, I have a feeling that the way it all works is more akin to the Italian way of working. Ah well, I still have this job. This one which allows me to write this blog. Well, they, probably, wouldn’t do much about it if they did find it. If you get me.
I will, of course, on Friday or Saturday, take my shoes to be re-heeled.
Until then I am really busy. Or, rather, really occupied. Which is another reason this post will be short.
Oh yes, and this morning, when I woke up, I had a) no hot water and b) (although I didn’t know it at the time) a broken shutter.
The hot water I hope I can fix by buying a couple of batteries. The shutter has been fixed by the workmen. Thank goodness F was there.
In so many ways.
And now I must really do some work ………
Italy!
Sometimes, to be perfectly honest, it can be a real pain in the neck.
I was only chatting with R, last night, how, although everyone in Italy had mobile telephones the moment they were first introduced and a minimum of two when Britons were still umming and ahing about having their first, when it comes to the internet, they are a tad slow. So, whereas Facebook was a big hit in Britain, say, five years ago, it only really got a toe-hold in Italy in the last couple of years.
And web development is, to be frank, fairly crap here. It is almost as if they don’t really get the power of it. My colleague, S, for example, doesn’t like to book anything or buy anything over the net. So, using websites in Italy is quite hit and miss.
I needed to book tickets to see The Last Supper. If you haven’t been in the last 10 years or so, you really, really MUST. They have cleaned it up and it is, quite honestly, breathtaking. Any pictures you see of it really don’t do it justice.
But you should try to get tickets before you come. These days the viewing is strictly controlled. The number of people allowed in at one time is limited to about 20. You are only supposed to be in there for about 15 minutes.
It used to be quite difficult to get tickets anyway but now, with all the restrictions, it is definitely harder. You can book about 2/3 months in advance only. Even so, tickets are not that easy to get, especially if you are restricted to certain days.
So today, the tickets for July and August came on sale. And I learnt some interesting things that, should you be wishing to book, might help:
1. Getting through on the phone is almost impossible.
2. The website which shows available days, is updated ……… A LOT (so refresh the page as often as you can).
3. Pre-register with the booking site as, during the time you are trying to register, the tickets you thought were available will have been sold.
4. Do try the call centre again if you can’t find what you want on the site.
I had rung last month. The kind lady (there is an English section) told me that I couldn’t book for July, yet. Also, she told me not to worry as they always have tickets available in the call centre that are not shown on the site. I don’t rest easy with that sort of information. When people say ‘don’t worry’ in Italy, it’s usually the time to worry.
Anyway, this morning was the ‘time’ to get July tickets. I need them because D&S are coming over for their first anniversary. So it’s important that I get some for them. I suggested to F that, perhaps, I should also purchase a guided tour. He said, ‘No, I’ll do it’. ‘Really?’, I queried. But, apparently, yes. Well I guess he might know something about it since he did Art and stuff at college.
I got on the site. Until about 8.45 a.m. July and August were not even available as months to look at. Then July was there – but no days were available. Grrrr.
I try phoning the call centre. The line is engaged. I try again. The line is engaged. And again. Engaged. Engaged. Engaged. Engaged.
I get through. I press ‘2’ for English. They tell me, in Italian, that I have to be put through to an operator. I wait. They play a message apologising for the delay. I wait. They play another message apologising for the delay. I wait some more. They play a message that apologises for the delay but adds that the operators are all busy and so it is taking too long to wait. They cut me off.
THE BASTARDS! Having already spent money on the call, I want to wait more. Instead, I must phone again. The line is engaged. I try again. The line is engaged. Engaged, engaged, fucking ENGAGED! Bastards, bastards, BASTARDS!
I am now repeating the calls on both my mobile and landline. I get through! Hurrah!
The message about waiting for an operator comes on. I wait. I hear the ‘sorry for the delay’ message. I wait. I hear the same message again. I wait. I hear the same message plus the bit about ‘we’ve decided that rather than permit you to hold the line, we shall cut you off with no thought for you whatsoever and make you redial 6 million times until we get you get through to here, giving you false and unreasonable hope that you will actually get to speak to someone – but, at least, then, someone else can get through and they can have the false hope that they will get through. Anyway, it’s our joke because although this is called a ‘call centre’, in fact it is only one person sitting by a telephone’.
Bastards.
I go back to the website. I refresh. Well, you never know?
I didn’t know. This time, every day is available until the 13th July! WTF?
Ah, yes, of course, someone is just entering them by hand, right now! They are entering the available dates by hand because, well, this is Italy, and the thought of setting it up in a file beforehand so that the flick of a program makes them all appear at once is JUST NOT POSSIBLE!
Useless BASTARDS!
However, on a brighter note, it means that, if these dates have suddenly appeared, more dates will too. I hope. I sincerely hope.
I am now dialing the useless number that is always engaged and simultaneously, refreshing the page on the site.
The day I want comes up as available. Hurrah!
I select the date. Some times come up. I select a time. To continue I must register or sign on. Damn! I have signed up with this company before. I bought ballet tickets for V at La Scala. I can’t remember my username or password. Damn, damn! I try to register. I cannot. My email address is already taken.
I click on the forgotten login button. I will get an email. An email arrives. It has the username but the password is not there for security reasons. This is quite stupid. I wait for a moment for another email with the password. It’s not coming. I go back to the site. I go back a few pages – except I can’t. I am, in my head, screaming at ‘them’. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
This seems to have little effect. I go back to the original page. OK there’s even more dates available now. I click on the same date and the same time. Of the 7 tickets available, there is now only 1. BARSTEWARDS!
I try a different time. I try to log on with my username and say I have forgotten my password. I go back to the tab with the email and click on the inbox to refresh it, every few milliseconds. I fail to notice that the email has arrived and so click once again on inbox. This only slows everything down.
You might guess by now that I am a tad frustrated.
I copy the password and paste it in.
There is a message in Italian. I do not read it. I have no time for this. It is not letting me go any further. I try a different tab. The same thing happens. I go back to the first tab and try again. I reload the page from the beginning and try it all again. No dice still.
I read the message in Italian.
I am already logged on somewhere else and so must close the tabs and start again.
I close all tabs. I open a new tab. I start again.
The date and the time I want is still OK. They have seven tickets, still. I want four. I sign in again. They do not have all the details they would like. Anyway, the address is wrong. It’s the one that I used to have in the UK. I change it. I have to look up my codice fiscale on my phone. I ensure I have entered all the required fields. I tick the box to say I have read the Terms and Conditions. As with most people, I haven’t, of course.
I am not allowed to go further.
You utter, utter, fucking bastards!
There is a field they insist must be filled even if it is not marked as required. They do not need this information. It is not essential to this transaction. Am I a man or a woman? Why must you know this to allow me to purchase tickets from you (which, incidentally, are going to cost me an extra €1.50 EACH!!!! because I am booking in advance)?
I am tempted to say I am a woman.
I don’t.
I continue.
It lets me pay. But now there is this new thing with the credit card. I must enter my password. The one assigned to the card.
The last time, even if I know I entered the correct password, it didn’t work and I had loads of shit trying to get a new one, eventually having to phone a premium line from my mobile to get it working.
I enter the password, making sure it is 100% correct.
It starts processing. It is taking a long time. I am not hopeful. Eventually, a message appears. The transaction has not processed. For fuck’s sake! I re-read the message. The password is correct, the transaction is being processed now.
Oh!
I get the confirmation that I have four tickets. I print it, not really believing that after more than an hour of phone calls and messing about on the internet, I have actually got them.
F sends me an email with the picture of a dog, a picture of a shower-head, the date of Friday the 22nd and a picture of a clock at about 10 o’clock.
I reply with a picture of tickets, of the Last Supper, a poster with the date that I have booked the tickets and a clock with 1:15 on it.
Underneath I put a picture of a finger pointing out of the screen (you) and a picture of a tour guide with a flag.
We are done.
So, in case you wish to book to see the Last Supper, you can (maybe) book through this site. In fact, if you check right now, there are even a few dates that have become available in April, May and June that, previously, were all fully booked.
Failing that, you can try the telephone number on that site. But only phone on a day that is not the first day of sales. They say ‘Not to Worry’. Of course, I have lived here long enough to know you should. Still, it is worth a try, isn’t it?
Anyway, this was only my experience. I’m sure yours will be better ………….
F A B U L O U S!
Well, for me, anyway.
It seems not for most. An said, last night, that she loved being able to wear sandals now. Compared to the last six years in London. Exactly!
Then she complained it was too hot.
Bah!
As I often say, it can never be too hot. Or, at least, not that I’ve ever yet experienced. She worries about the summer.
“If it’s this hot now, what will July be like?”, she queries.
In my head, I’m thinking, ‘bring it on’. But it won’t be like this. Already, from a forecast high of 28° for today (it will be hotter, I am sure), it will barely reach 21° tomorrow. It says.
I am sitting here, in T-shirt and sandals, with all the windows open and, surprisingly for Milan, a bit of a breeze. It is really, really lovely.
After my cup of tea I will go shopping (for groceries) and then, maybe, I can convince F to come to the park with me and the bambini. I hope so.
I know that those of you from the UK are also enjoying nice weather and I’m almost certain that most of you are not complaining about it.
Me neither.
“Oh!”, she exclaimed, “we won’t be able to fit Rufus in. I have to pick up this other thing too and it will take all the room in the back’.
I turn from looking at the thing we had come to get – something like a washboard but not – and reply, “It’s OK, he can sit in the footwell with me”.
“No, no”, she adds, “I’m sure we can work it out”.
She is giving me a lift home. We are in a furniture restorers or carpenters place or something like that. F is not here. He is somewhere else. I’m not sure where. I don’t like him not being here. He should be here. I am uncomfortable with him not being here. It is the following day. The following day after the party or exhibition and after the after-party party or after-exhibition party at her house.
We had walked to her house from the party or exhibition. F had been there but not for the after-something party. It is disconcerting. I am not questioning why I cannot walk back home.
My worry about Rufus and whether he will fit into the car changes it all. I wouldn’t call it a nightmare – just a bad dream.
I wake up.
The TV is on. But it is silent – the sound turned right down. F is not there. I shout ‘Babe’ and he replies. “Are you OK?”, I ask. Yes, apparently he is. Except he’s not really as it’s almost 3 a.m. and he’s not asleep.
I can’t shake this dream even if the remembering of it is difficult. It has left me with a certain disquiet but for what, I can’t be sure. I get up and go to join him in the kitchen. I am really tired but know I have to get it all out of my head. Look at it logically – not that it was really logical – I know that much.
I grab a glass of milk and a cigarette. I ask him why he is up. He says he doesn’t know but he just can’t sleep. It’s not me or the dogs. He is playing ‘the game’ as we call it. He says that maybe it will help. I doubt it but say nothing.
I go back to bed. In the morning, when the alarm goes off, I put it to snooze and snuggle up to him. He got to sleep then, eventually.
I’m not even sure how the bad dream started. Something about a party or an exhibition. Rufus only appeared the following morning. It wasn’t Milan – nor anywhere I know. But it was similar to Hay-on-Wye. A group of us decided to go to the after party. I knew the people although, with the exception of F (who was never there but always just outside the picture) and one other, I can identify none of them. We walked up the hill. Maybe through fields. It was very late. F knew I was going and would join us later. We arrived with the girl whose house it was and who was giving me the lift back home on the following day. We started the party. Nothing really happened. More people came. It was nice. I worried about F not having arrived. I don’t know if I texted or tried to call but I think I did. I was worried anyway and really wanted him to be here.
Then V arrived. It wasn’t altogether unexpected. I mean, for some reason, I knew he was coming or, rather, might come. Somehow, he managed to avoid turning towards me. He was, as FfC and I say, ‘being fabulous’ as V does. But, still he wouldn’t look at me. I saw him across the room (with his back to me), taking off his jacket and talking to the woman. And laughing as he does. I was disappointed that he wouldn’t at least acknowledge I was there but other than that I didn’t really care.
He must have stayed for a bit and then he left, never once showing me his face. And then it was the next morning. And F wasn’t there. And, for some equally strange reason, I had Rufus (although not as thin as he is now) and we had to get home. And we were stopping on the way to pick up these things that the woman had to get. And then I woke up.
He wasn’t happy.
I turned round once but he told me not to call her over. He pursed his mouth in the way that he does when he’s annoyed. He didn’t go in to tell them. The waitress had, after all, laid our table and given us menus about 15 minutes before. It did seem strange that she had not come back to take our order. She came outside several times but, each time, walked away from our table to other tables.
He was getting more and more annoyed.
Eventually, some 20 minutes after we had been given our menus, a waitress appeared.
There then followed some dialogue between him and the waitress. It wasn’t good. He complained about us having to wait so long. She asked why he hadn’t come in to say anything ….. or something like that. Of course, that was the wrong thing to say, especially to him. The correct thing to say could have been – ‘I’m terribly sorry, sir. I wasn’t aware you were here but I shall make sure you get your order quickly’. this would have stopped him dead in his tracks since this sort of response always leaves the person with two possible options: 1. shut up or 2. repeat the things you have said, thereby making yourself look like an incoherent idiot.
He explained afterwards that he was this way because a) he comes here a lot and b) that was not the right way to answer a customer that wasn’t happy.
And he should know. He added, after I had suggested that ‘OK but maybe they were busy’ with the fact that the turnover of staff here is very high. ‘They change every five minutes’, he advised.
He was right. The service was terrible. The shrimp club sandwich that I had was very nice, though. And the fact that we could sit outside was good. And I wore sandals until the late evening. And we’d had such a lovely walk in the park with the dogs. And I’d changed the duvet for the bedspread. And it felt more like May than April.
But back to the late brunch we were having.
I didn’t even realise that Elettrauto in Via Cadore DID brunch. It is conveniently situated almost at the edge of the park I (we) now go to with the dogs and it’s useful to know that they serve food at 4 p.m. – see, I told you it was a late brunch!
It’s not that cheap – two club sandwiches and two beers came to around €35 – but with the weather being so nice, it was perfect. Obviously, the service was dismal but I wasn’t in a hurry.
But, then, this morning I read this article and I got to thinking.
There is absolutely no reason to be rude to waiters, waitresses, shop assistants nor, indeed, anyone else. At the same time, people doing these jobs should have a pride in what they do and want to give the customer good service. I am a different person when I talk to or are with my customer. It doesn’t matter what day I am having, they are the customer and should be treated with courtesy and respect. I always try to exceed their expectations but, at the very least, meet them. If I can’t then I tell them and apologise. Not really so difficult.
So I am always amazed when the service leaves one feeling disappointed. And the service, yesterday, was disappointing, which was a great shame. It won’t stop me going there – but if it happened too often, it would.
As it is, it does seem a great place to go for a Saturday and Sunday after walking the dogs in the park.
He had talked about another one. One that he used to go to with S. It was a single room with about 10 tables. He said it was very nice.
But that wasn’t where we were going.
It was another one of the Groupon vouchers. €50, for which I paid something like €20 or €25. But we understand it now. We expected to pay at least €50 – €100 on top of the voucher.
To start, I had some kind of Cod mousse. He had pulped broad beans with bits of octopus or squid. Then we shared a sea bass with an orange and fennel salad. Then we both had the same chocolate thing. And nice wine. And a mirto each. It was OK. The branzino (sea bass) was lovely. Being done in salt, it usually retains its moisture (unless it’s done badly) and this one was excellent. F’s pulped broad beans with bits of octopus was nice too. The rest of it was, well, nothing amazing. And, for the price it should have been amazing.
The place was nicely done. I liked the warm colours of reds and yellows. F says that red is not good. Too aggressive. He’s a visual person. I love red. I wanted to say that it was the red in my hallway that I loved at first sight – and still do. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to hear that he didn’t like it, I suppose.
It was, as F would say, very ‘fashion’. We got there at 8.35 or so. The place was empty. For me this didn’t bode well. However, by 10, the place was full. This is the Italians going out on a Saturday night. Arriving at the restaurant at 9.30 or 10. Too late for me, really and, luckily, also for F, even if he is Italian.
And it was very ‘fashion’. Just before we were leaving a couple came in. F explained that the woman had been on Isola di Famosa and he was something on television (I forget what, now). I’m really not that impressed, to be honest. Is that wrong of me? I mean, it’s someone from the telly – and here, that could equally (and is probably more likely to) be someone with no talent. Not that the UK is much better but here they still have dancing girls in the middle of game shows so I’m sure you will understand.
And the bill meant that it was €72 per head. We both agreed we shan’t be going back to Angolo di Casa in a hurry – voucher or no. The food was not really fantastic. F said that he would much prefer Porca Vacca for the price and for the service and for the food. And I agree.
We left and started walking up Viale Piave. As we walked within a couple of doors was the other one he had mentioned. I stood on the step to look inside. It looked delightful. I agreed that I would like to go there. It’s mostly meat but there is one fish dish. F said that it would be fine. And, so, although I can’t write about it, our test of this restaurant meant that we found Piccola Cucina.
So not a wasted evening.
As an aside, yesterday (and today), I am wearing sandals. Yay! This means it is warm. And, yesterday as I was walking the dogs because F was cleaning my kitchen, including the dogs’ toys, the dogs’ basket, etc., I realised that I was out at about 6 p.m. still in sandals. Not something I really ever did in the UK, except for occasional times in the height of summer. And it reminded me that this was one of the reasons I love to live here. And the washing gets dry quickly. And it’s time for salads. And it’s only the very beginning of April. And today is the same and about 2 we shall go to the park with the dogs and stop and get something to eat as well.
I adore my life.
In one hour I shall leave here.
To complete my holiday from 2010. It’s the ‘rule’ here.
On the bright side, the weather is fabulous and will get even better over the weekend. On the downside, F is still ill and so I may not be able to do as planned today.
I had planned (or, rather had thought it would be a nice idea if) I take the dogs for a walk in the park when I get home and stop at a café to have something to eat and a beer – outside. It would also involve F joining us, perhaps.
Now, probably not.
Oh well, such is life. I hope he really improves today as this will be the first properly fine weekend we’ve had for such a long time. I was even going to suggest going somewhere tomorrow or Sunday (with the dogs, of course).
Hope you all have a fabulous weekend anyway, whatever your plans or weather are like.