Tag Archives: Drink

Inauguration

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We’ve now eaten a few times in the kitchen.

F made soup. And, one time, pasta. I like eating in the kitchen. It’s warm (from doing the cooking) and light and very comfortable. I think, even if he says he hates cooking, that he secretly quite likes it. Possibly, also because I am appreciative. V used to like cooking for the same reason.

However, the “big” test came on Saturday night. We had our first dinner in the new house. We ate, of course, in the dining room. First there were drinks in the living room and then we moved to the dining room to eat. F did soup, I did fish cakes with spinach and roast potatoes and then a chocolate cake.

And lots of wine.

It was lovely and the food seemed to go down quite well.

But, for certain, F had far too much to drink and, overnight, was ill. I know it wasn’t the food since we had the same thing and I was fine. He also blamed the drink. Still, it gave me time to clear up the next morning a bit, which he liked.

So, our first dinner was a success and it was certainly very comfortable with the space to do it properly.

However, there is something that I’ve noticed which is quite strange, for me. In the past, I would always do stuff I had done before. I did things that I had practiced until I “got them right”. Now, I always want to try something new. So, the fish cakes were new, the chocolate cake was new and I cooked spinach for the first time ever!

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m confident (because whilst doing these things I always worry that everything will turn out terribly) or, as I think it is, the thrill of doing something for the first time – with the fact that it could be a complete disaster (but rarely is).

20 years ago I would never have been so “reckless”. Now I seem to actually look for things that I’ve never done to see how they turn out!

F, bless him, compliments me to others, saying what a wonderful cook I am. Anyway, he certainly seemed to like the chocolate cake which was a little like chocolate fudge cake – like eating pure dark chocolate in cake form. I was (am, because there is still half of it left) very pleased with it.

So, that’s it. First dinner done. Now we have a lot more to do to repay all the dinners we’ve had at other people’s places. And, then, of course, the house-warming party in December. Maybe it’s the sharing of food with friends, the “breaking of bread”, but our flat seems almost officially inaugurated now.

We entertain, properly, for the first time.

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He says he hates doing it and, yet, I suspect he secretly quite likes it.

He calls me. I am surprised to see he’s calling me. I check first, thinking that maybe my telephone called him (it does that these days, randomly calls him – it reminds me, daily, that I will NEVER have another Blackberry phone, piece of trash that it is) since it was only a few minutes ago that we were talking face-to-face, in the flat, him having just arrived home!

But, no, it’s not my phone calling him, he is really calling me. Perhaps, I think, he’s stepped outside for something and forgotten his keys? The door automatically locks.

“An is coming in a minute. Can you let her in, please?” he asks me.

“Where are you?” I am confused.

“I’m in the shower.”

It makes me laugh. But, even if he had shouted loudly, I wouldn’t have heard him. That’s the really nice thing about this flat.

An comes. She explains that she has come because she is on her way home for work and fancied a drink.

I assume that means they are going out but, as I have someone coming in a moment, I offer her a glass of red wine from a partly finished bottle that I had opened the other day. She accepts and sits down. I don’t offer to take her coat or anything as they will be going out.

My “someone” arrives. Luckily, F appears from the bathroom.

Me and my “someone” go to my room. Almost an hour and a half later, I can hear they’re still there and not out as I expected. Indeed, I need to just ask F something and so I go to find them. They are in the kitchen having soup. The soup that F made the day before.

When my “someone” leaves, I join them in the kitchen and get offered some soup. It’s leek and potato soup with grated Parmesan cheese and fried bacon bits on top. He is so proud of it. And rightly so, it is lovely.

He explains that An DID ask him to go for a drink but, as it is so cold and as she has no kitchen in her new flat, he suggested drink and soup at ours. It’s nice sitting at our new kitchen table with a friend. It’s very comfortable and easy. I can’t truly express how lovely it is to be entertaining friend(s) in the setting with home made soup and wine in our flat. And, more so because it is unexpected. No elaborate planning and work. Just simple and easy. I can see he is happy about it too. And about what he has cooked. Which is, in any case, really tasty – and I like the bacon bits on top.

The heating is turned on (slightly) and the kitchen is warm and inviting.

It’s exactly how it should be, the whole thing. Even better that, now, I can do my thing and he can entertain and I can join them when I’ve finished. All really perfect. Long may that continue.

Not really in the UK

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Of course, London is not really “the UK”. It’s like its own country. Still, it has many things related to the UK.

It seems as if people fall into three groups: Eastender-type people, foreign people, pretentious pricks.

Eastender-type people speak estuary English. That’s like English for people who never went to school. They also dress as if they don’t have mirrors at home and select clothes which, quite obviously, don’t match anything else in the world, thereby creating an image of having selected things from a jumble sale. Basically, they don’t seem to give a shit.

Foreign people are everywhere. Of course, by “foreign people”, I don’t really mean foreign, what I mean is that, even if they, themselves, were British born, their parents or grandparents came from somewhere other than the UK. The mix of cultures is obvious. I don’t have any problem with it – it’s just noticeable and completely different from Milan. F said that it seems as if all staff in restaurants and bars are not English – and I think this is true. Certainly, we seem to come across “an Italian” in nearly every restaurant or bar. It was noticeable that there were a lot more “Muslim” women around, wearing some sort of head cover. Milan, on the other hand, seems to have very few.

Pretentious Pricks fall in to two categories. 1) Hipsters (although there seemed to be less than in Milan.) 2) People who look like someone from the 30s or 40s. Same haircut, same “look”, normally as camp as Christmas. Speaking with received pronunciation and being loud everywhere. Or “business men”, on the phone or a laptop being “business-men-who-are-very-important” – with received pronunciation or speaking like a cockney. All of these people seemed very much up their own arse.

On the other hand, there was BEER, TEA and full-English breakfast. Pubs with tables sticky from spilled beer; weather which was bright or cloudy or raining or different – every few seconds; wind; police or security – everywhere; drabness and colour in equal amounts; overflowing ashtrays; expensive public transport; and, of course,

Kate.

No, not the one that people call “beautiful” even if she isn’t – it’s just compared to every other member of the royal family, she is!

No, Kate Bush. The live edition. The two-and-a-half-hour extravaganza of singing and music and choreography. It was truly fabulous. She was fabulous. The whole set was fabulous.

Oh, yes, and we went up the Shard, which I think is an ugly building – but the views of London were stunning.

So that was London.

Tea and coffee make a house into a home. Apparently!

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F decides that he will be at home when I get home from work. He is going to go to Carrara. I told him that he didn’t need to wait but he wants to. I know he’s worried. There has been a bit of anger; a few tears. The problem with waiting for me is that he will hit the rush-hour traffic. But I’m not going to give him hassle. He doesn’t need any from me.

When I arrive, he’s there but he was late home and so is still packing. I have an appointment later and need to take the dogs out but I wait. After all, he waited for me. The kitchen has been finished. Of course, that means we can use the brand new dishwasher, the washing machine, etc. This is great news and I start to read the instructions for the dishwasher as I’ve never had one before. Apparently I need salt! 1Kg!! Damn! I don’t have it. It means I can’t start washing all the dishes, cups, etc.

He leaves. It seems he will be back sometime on Sunday, probably, unless something happens whilst he’s down there. His plane to Spain is on Monday. At least I will get to see him a bit.

As soon as he leaves, I prepare to take the dogs out.

Whilst out with them, I remember a small shop. This shop is a real blast from the past. It is run by an old couple who, by the looks of them, should have retired about 20 years ago. But they’re ‘hanging on’ in this supermarket age. The shop is full of stuff you might get from the supermarket – except fresh fruit, vegetables and meat. It’s the sort of shop my grandmother ran. I went to buy some milk and water from there once and, inside, they have some old cabinets that, it was explained to me at length, keep the milk at the perfect temperature. This time I am in a hurry as my visitor arrives in half an hour.

But this is NOT a supermarket. This is a place where regular customers come and chat. This is old-style shopping. This is not impersonal. He had been sitting outside chatting to a guy (more or less his age) when I arrived with the dogs. He gets up and tells me to go in (I am hesitant because I have two dogs). I ask if he has salt. Yes, he does. We go into the shop – but he doesn’t follow us for he is in conversation with the guy. He says he will be in “soon”. After a few minutes he comes in. He explains that he was having a chat with his friend. He likes the dogs. “Everyone who likes dogs is a good person,” he says.

I get 2 Kgs of salt. After all, if it uses 1 Kg now, for sure we shall need more. Plus, I’ve noticed, the water in the flat is very hard, worse than I’ve ever known.

This type of shopping takes time. Time is something I don’t really have but, I guess, it’s still quicker than going to the supermarket. Anyway, I feel somewhat obliged to use these types of shops. “Use them or lose them”, so the saying goes. I’m amazed this shop continues, to be honest but I like the idea of it, so I’m quite keen to use them from time to time.

We get home. I start to read the instructions and fill the dishwasher with the salt. I then “set” the hardness of the water. I set it to 5. The highest is 6. Maybe this will be enough?

But, now I have no time to load the machine. The kettle boils but there are no clean cups. It is only too late that I realise I also have a sink, so I could have washed a cup without the dishwasher. It’s been so long since we’ve had a fully-functioning kitchen, I seem to have forgotten what to do! Well, I will have to wait until later before I have my tea.

When she’s gone, I go back to the kitchen. I boil the kettle and load the machine. I wash a cup and make my tea. Whilst the machine is doing the first load, I go back to my studio and drink the tea. It is heavenly. It is the first cup of tea that I’ve had in over a month! I’ve missed it so much!

Later, I prepare the coffee machine for coffee in the morning. And, this morning, I switch on the machine. I do the milk first. It seems to steam better than before! I go to run my bath (I don’t have a shower yet which I’ll explain another time). After my bath, I come back to the kitchen to do the coffee. Except it doesn’t seem to be working! It’s making all the right noises, it’s just that there’s no coffee dripping through into the cup! I look inside. The coffee is damp but not “wet” like it should be. I replace the coffee holder.

I suddenly realise that, after cleaning the coffee maker last night, I didn’t actually fill it up with water! The water was the key. I have coffee.

Later, as I’m on my way to work, I feel much, much better. The full mug of cappuccino makes such a difference. I feel awake and alive.

And I realise that now, with a functioning kitchen and tea and coffee, suddenly the flat feels much more like a real home. Which, from a logic point of view, seems quite strange.

I thought the sausages were good – then they brought me meatballs!

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I went out with A last night.

We normally go to a restaurant because he wants (needs?) to eat. Sometimes I eat and sometimes not. Last night he suggested trying Il Trullo, a restaurant specialising in cuisine from Puglia (the heel of Italy) and, as we were going there, my mouth was already salivating. This restaurant does some of the best sausages that I’ve ever tasted.

It’s not a big restaurant and the tables are very close together – but it is always very busy and, probably, about 50% of the time we go there, we can’t get in!

It’s not really a romantic restaurant in any way, apart from the tables being so close, the lights are bright and it looks more like someone’s big kitchen. Last night, however, there was one table free.

They give us the menus but I already know I’m taking the sausages. However, when the guy comes to take the order, he informs me that they don’t have the sausages tonight. Instead, they have polpette (meat balls). It’s still cavallo though and so I choose that.

And, to be honest, they were even better than the sausages! Filled with herbs and spices, they came with a simple tomato sauce and red and yellow peppers strips. The taste is absolutely amazing!

Sadly, last night, the service wasn’t “wow!” In fact, it was rather poor. The usual two girls weren’t there.

But the meatballs! Just so stunningly good that, even as I write this, I can taste them and now I really want to go back there again tonight!

One of these days I’m going to try some other things but, you know, when I get there, the sausages (and now meatballs) are just so damned good, I can’t see anything past them.

We also had a litre of wine, two small bottles of water, some mussel thing that A had and he also had a sweet (Forest Fruit tart – which I tasted and it was rather lovely – definitely home-made) and the total cost was about €45 – which was really quite good.

Obviously, we are in Italy, so cavallo is fine (and I really like the meat as it’s quite strong tasting). For those of you who don’t eat meat (Lola) or want your meat to be in plastic trays covered with plastic film, don’t go looking up what cavallo is.

Still, I’ve been meaning to write about Il Trullo before. They do lots of fish stuff as well. And cheeses cooked with vegetables and I really should try this other stuff. But, right now, I just can’t – the cavallo stuff is just too, too good.

What makes it perfect is also the fact that it’s a couple of minutes from my flat and only a couple of minutes more from the new flat (it’s between the two). Which, by the way, we shall be moving into on 24th July – kitchen ready or not! Eeek!

Update and Easter

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Well, obviously, it’s not all cut and dried …. yet!

It seems that the building expenses weren’t quite right and, in fact, are higher. What I still fail to understand is why they weren’t right from day 1 as the people involved MUST have known the correct figure!

So, last night we went through the options and I suggested offering something with the option to go a little bit higher, if necessary.

F decided to make the offer as suggested and not go higher. And, he’s kind of right. So, we’ll see what happens.

I’m still hopeful though.

Apparently, the agency phoned him yesterday (they’d given us the correct figures just before Easter and were closed on Saturday and, of course, Monday) – so they’re obviously keen to let it to us.

If it doesn’t work out then it isn’t meant to be, so I am calm and relaxed about it. And, anyway, I’ve got the work visit to another country (where I dislike both the country and the people), so the flat, at the moment, is not at the forefront of my mind.

In the meantime, the weather at Easter was fairly crap – apart from Easter Sunday which was nice and when we went out for a meal with friends to a little place called Il Fontanone. It’s basically a small fishing lake with a wooden hut. The wooden hut is like a slightly bigger version of a garden shed and probably seats about 30 people and they serve a set menu. The lunch is served at 12.30 sharp! The food isn’t “wow” but it’s good and wholesome (one might say “rustic”). We had an antipasto, some pasta (and three of us had second helpings), some grilled and roasted meat (including lamb chops – there is a tradition of eating lamb here for Easter) and roasted potatoes, a colombo (a type of cake they have at Easter) with cream and coffee. We also had about 4 bottles of wine and coffees. The total cost was €20 per head! Which, given the amount of food and wine we had was a real bargain.

The day itself was quite warm and sunny. We sat outside for a bit, walked around the lake and, generally had a lovely time.

On the other hand, it was raining nearly all day on Saturday and the same on the Monday, when we were on holiday. Also, Monday was bloody cold.

Now, of course, when we’re back at work, it’s beautiful and warm outside. Typical!

Still, this week is a short week (Friday being a public holiday) and the following week we have the Thursday and Friday off. And, in between this work visit, the only bonus of which is the thought of the Tapas restaurant we went to last time we were there!

Plastic People

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I am way, way over my head here.

And how different this was from the previous night!

I am introduced to various people, only one of whom I will remember – and that’s because we’re going to his wife’s shop (or, rather ex-shop) soon.

Eventually Si and I go to get a glass of prosecco and I manage to grab a small chocolate sweet from one of the waiters passing by who, until now have passed close to me but not close enough for me to grab anything and, anyway, seem to be moving through the room at something close to the speed of light. Most of the time, the ones that get close enough are carrying empty plates back.

The people around me speak mostly Italian and far too fast for me to understand. The men are dressed in suits with ties (no jeans) and the women have on their finest designer outfits and are all “beautiful” and “thin”.

This may be Design Week but one could be excused for confusing this with Fashion Week.

Si had only texted me when she had arrived at the shop (or, as we should now call them, Flagship Store.) Initially, I thought I’d say “no”. I was already tired from the night before but then I thought that I never really do these things and that I really should. What’s the point in living here if I don’t experience the “high life” once in a while. So I had rushed to change and to get there and I was now hot and bothered. She is dressed with a pink theme but doesn’t look out of place. I feel out of place since I have jeans, a casual white shirt (a little unusual – as is my wont) and a “suit-type” jacket.

After a little while we go to our next place. Si’s colleague, M’s wife used to own one of the most famous jewellers in Milan (apparently since I had never heard of them). We walk to the shop. On the way, in Via Montenapoleone (one of the main fashion streets in Milan), we pass their other shop. M goes over to say hello to someone there and then beckons us over. Apparently we should be going to this shop and not the other one. This shop, though, is not their historical main store but, rather, one that is exclusively for Rolex watches. In fact, I learn, this was the very first Rolex Flagship store in the world.

The party is in full swing. As for most places, there are people on the door checking if you are “on the list”. If you’re not “on the list” or know someone inside, you won’t get in. Of course, we are with the husband of the ex-owner (her cousin now owns it but she goes because it’s expected as she can meet and greet some of the long-term clients that will be there), so we get in.

Si seems very pleased with all this. She works in Marketing for a Luxury Brand (but not fashion) so there could be a tie-in.

Here the clientèle at the party are richer than the previous party. The men are not all in suites but, then, the crowd is older. I say older and that’s not entirely true. The men are older, some of the women are older but some are there because they’re not. However, there is so much plastic in the room – most women seem to have been under the knife, some with disastrous results (in my opinion.) There was fur; there were jewels; there was plastic – everywhere.

The shop is not that big but opulent would be a good word to use. The carpet thick, the wood special and lots of it and, of course, the watches. Now, personally, I really don’t like Rolex as a watch. Too much – I prefer simple watches – simple faces, preferably white or blue – even if mine are quite expensive (not as much as a Rolex though.)

The food was fantastic. They did little burgers that were so tasty (and, obviously NOT McDonald’s) and some proper Risotto Milanese. Si knew the chef (I’m not sure how she found that out) who is quite famous here, apparently and has a restaurant near Bergamo. Anyway, she mentioned something to one of the waiters and the next thing was that the chef came out to say hello to her – and me – and bearing another tray of the delightful mini burgers (just a mouthful each time – I had about 5!)

The shop had a “vertical” garden at the back, a roof terrace on the top floor and, on the same floor, a very large balcony that overlooked via Montenapoleone. Quite stunning.

It was all very nice but, to be honest, I preferred the previous night. There weren’t any real “designers” at these parties, just people who were to be “seen”.

I wasn’t way over my head because of the people so much as the fact that I don’t have the “culture” knowledge that they do. I mean, I know stuff but when people mention this designer or that artist, quite often I don’t have a clue who they are. Mostly I say I don’t know them. Sometimes, just because otherwise it gets boring, I say “Oh really?” – thank God they don’t ask too many questions.

Although, obviously, these people, especially at the Rolex shop, do move in a different world from me.

Still, it was all very nice and I’m glad I went but I did prefer the previous night where I got to meet “real” people rather than “plastic” people.

A supermarket is a supermarket is STILL a bloody supermarket

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Italians like their food. Especially fresh food or proper original food.

Therefore, the best pesto (apparently as, to be honest, it’s NOT my favourite thing) is made in Liguria (and, more specifically, Genoa.)

Obviously, you can get pesto here, in Milan. And, sometimes, F, who is just a tad crazy over pesto, says that the pesto is good (normally the fresh pesto sauce we get from the local pasta shop – yes, they have pasta shops selling just pasta and sauces.) Rarely has he said that about anything we buy from a supermarket.

There have been exceptions, of course. The Parma ham I got from our local Carrefour was, apparently, rather superb. It was from the deli counter so was cut extra thin, on his instructions, didn’t have much fat and was “sweet”.

If we want some much better food than the supermarket, we go to the pasta shop, the veg shop, the butchers, etc. For really good fruit and veg, the Tuesday market is the best.

But, if you want really special versions, go direct to the producers, of course. The very best mozzarella that I’ve ever tasted was one that F’s parents served up one time. They get a lot of their food shipped specially to them (from relatives) or from local small holders. F, for example, doesn’t like to eat eggs from the supermarket because they aren’t “fresh” (his words.)

Supermarkets are great for cleaning products, dog food and stuff like that. Day-to-day food (coffee, sugar, dried pasta,etc.)

They buy in bulk and get everything for a good price which means they are cheaper. But, things like strawberries, etc. are, usually, pretty bland and tasteless (as is mozzarella, imho).

Even up-market supermarkets aren’t that “wow!”

And up-market supermarkets will quite happily sell you the same (for example) wine that you can buy at Billa or Carrefour but at a much higher price.

Now, I confess, I’ve never been to Eataly. But, I know people who have. In Milan, just recently, a great theatre (Smeralda) was closed down, was refurbished and re-opened as the flagship Eataly store in Milan. People swear by it. But, so I have been informed by someone who knows a thing or two about wine, it is nothing more than an up-market version of any old supermarket. It sells some “special” things and then some ordinary things but at much higher prices.

But, I have to admit, their marketing is definitely up-market in that people really believe they are getting something special. I’m sure there are some things that really are special. However, I suspect that most of it will not be although the prices will be special.

In this country of wondrous food, this kind of faux-speciality really annoys me.

Instead, if you want the real stuff, seek out the smaller shops that really do have something special.

Without the drinking!

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There used to be this thing.

I went out and got very, very drunk.

The next day, I was would worry about what I had said or done whilst I was drunk.

Maybe it’s happened to you too? (No, not you, Lola as I don’t think you’ve ever been THAT drunk.)

Anyway, I think (hope) it was a kind of “normal” thing.

But that’s stopped now. Well, for one thing, I don’t really do “let’s get plastered” any more.

However, now this thing happens more often – even when I haven’t been drunk and can remember (I think) more or less everything.

Like today.

It’s just bloody stupid and I realise it’s my mind playing tricks on me.

Or that I’m going mad.

Or that I really have said/done something but I have forgotten and all that remains is this nagging doubt that I HAVE said/done something bad. Well, not necessarily “bad” but certainly not “good”.

As long as it’s not the last thing, then it’s OK, I guess :-)

I go to buy some shoes …… again …. and again ……. and again!

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Seems simple, doesn’t it?

I need some new shoes. For work.

I had worked out (and it’s only taken me about 3 years to do this) that my “cheap and nasty” shoes that I get for work really are worth peanuts. Although I never normally spend over 30€, they are really crap. Not only do they let water in if it rains hard, they are like wearing just a pair of socks when it is very cold.

Since most of the day, I am sitting at my computer and since the MD considers anything above about 10°C too warm (and, therefore, most people in the office are really cold during the winter), my feet get exceptionally cold. And, when my feet are cold, it makes for a pretty miserable day where my only thoughts are on how to keep warm.

The other day, because I knew it was going to rain A LOT, I wore my new walking boots to work and I noticed that my feet didn’t get cold and, as a result, the rest of me felt pretty much OK. The day after, I wore my normal shoes and I really could feel the difference. I could feel the cold from the pavement seep through the shoes.

So, the solution was to spend a bit more money. I decided that normal shoes might also let the cold seep through and decided that what I needed was shoes that were designed for real walking (or treking, if you like) as these would be made with the idea of keeping the feet warm.

The only shop that I know sells walking boots (and where I recently bought my boots from) is Decathlon. Unfortunately, the only Decathlon I know that is not outside Milan, is over the other side of town. I had quite a lot to do on Saturday. The plan was that, after breakfast I would go to the supermarket, then to Decathlon, then to get some cologne for work, then do some editing, brush the dogs and, if time was left over, watch a film.

It started so well, if a bit late. Breakfast was about 10.30 and then I went to the supermarket as planned. I got the stuff I wanted and, these days, to avoid more interaction with people than is necessary, I use the self-checkout tills. It generally means that I don’t have to talk to anyone at all in the supermarket, which I much prefer.

I paid by credit card and then took my shopping and the receipt to the service desk (about 1 step away) and signed the credit card receipt for them. I went home and packed everything away.

Although I didn’t really want to leave the house again, the weather was OK and I really wanted the shoes. The question in my mind was – should I go up the road and get the cologne first or the shoes? I chose the shoes first. After all, the shoes required a metro journey (which I also dislike). So, off I went.

I arrived at Decathlon and, since I had been there for boots a few weeks before, I knew exactly where to find the shoes I wanted. I do like that – walking into a shop and just being able to go to the place you want without having to search the shop. In spite of the fact that it is sale time, there weren’t too many people in the shop, thank goodness.

I go to the walking shoe/boot area. There’s nothing exactly as I want but there are some that are near enough OK. I select these brown shoes. Well, actually they are a little like small boots – but that’s OK. They are for work.

I need size 43 or 44. Since these are walking shoes, they tend to be oversized so I try a 43 first. It fits perfectly and will be big enough even with thicker socks.

I go back to the “43 rack” and find the other one. In fact, there are only two pairs of these shoes in 43. It’s obviously the most popular size! I try on the other shoe and that also fits perfectly. I walk up and down a bit to make sure there’s no obvious problems. There aren’t, so I go to pay.

At the payment area, I have to queue a bit but it’s OK. I wait for about 5 minutes and then go to the cash desk that’s become available.

The guy checks the shoes. Inside is a little label. He checks each shoe.

“They’re different sizes,” he says. “One is 42 and the other is 43″. He hands them back to me and I thank him although, really, I am a a bit annoyed that they had a 42 on the 43 shelf.

I go back downstairs. This will only take a moment.

I check the other shoes on the 43 shelf. In fact, what I thought were another pair were, in fact, two right-foot shoes. and, in spite of them being on the 43 shelf, they are size 42. So, there is one right-foot shoe in size 43 (in my hand) and two right-foot shoes, size 42, 42 on the shelf and one left-foot shoe, size 42, in my hand. That’s it!

Bugger! I check the size 42 shelf below. Yep, they are all 42. The shelf is jam packed with pairs of shoes at size 42.

I check the shelf above – the size 44 shelf is jam packed with pairs of size 44. There is no left-foot 43 to be found!

Double bugger!

I think for a moment. Well, the size 42 actually fits and the size 44 will be too big. I decide to try a pair of 42s. I get a pair that are fixed together by a thin piece of plastic wire. After all, these should be the same size!

Still, I double-check the small label inside :-)

Yes, both 42. I try them on. They are fine. I take them up to the tills.

There is a short queue. There are only two tills open but it should be fine. Sure enough, one till becomes free almost immediately.

Unfortunately, the guy in front of me has two baskets full to the brim with stuff. He is buying things for his kids for skiing. He is going to take a (long) time at the till. I look at the other till. The couple are only buying about 4 things. Three of them are scanned by the assistant but there seems to be a problem with the fourth item. I don’t know this for sure but it seems as though the price the guy thought the product was is different from that which came up when it was scanned.

There’s a discussion and the assistant rings someone else. I am patient but I really do want to get out of here now. I’ve done with shopping.

The guy goes off (downstairs, I guess) to either get the right product or whatever and as the assistant starts putting their shopping on “suspend” so he can serve me, they open a third till.

I go there.

The assistant checks the size – but I know they are the same size and so I get my wallet out and open it up to get my credit card out.

As the guy rings up the shoes on the till, I see that my credit card is not there. I check to see if it is loose (rather than in it’s allotted slot) but, even as I do so, I already know where it is. Or, rather, where it was. It was in the payment machine at the self-checkout in the supermarket.

Fuck!

I tell the assistant that I left the credit card in the supermarket. I explain that we can try my debit card but I’m sure it won’t work. It doesn’t. I’ve maxed out my account, as I knew. I have more than enough cash but I don’t really want to use cash. He asks if I want to hold the shoes while I go and get my credit card.

I say “no” for two reasons. One is that the supermarket is the other side of town (which I explain to him). The other, of course, is that, maybe, horror of horrors, the credit card may not be at the supermarket any more!

However, I’ve got to try.

I go back towards home and straight to the supermarket, dreading the thought that it may not be there and having to stop the card, go to the police station and do a statement, fax that to the credit card company and then wait for a new one, etc., etc.

Plus, of course, here, in Italy, I’ve heard all sorts of tales about things like: even if you stop the card, until the statement is faxed, it isn’t really stopped – and you’re still liable! Plus, people don’t check the signatures here (take the supermarket which allowed me to sign without even seeing my card!!!!). Occasionally, like in Decathlon, you are asked for ID – but that isn’t guaranteed. So, more often than not, you can get away with using someone else’s credit card.

My friend, A, for example, regularly signs the slips with Mickey Mouse or something – and nobody checks!

I go to the service desk and ask about my card.

“What bank is it? What does it look like?” I am asked. Luckily, the company card is from the same bank so I show them that and say that it’s something like it.

They have a STACK of cards left behind! She searches through. She asks my name. I give it in the way it is on the card (surname first). She asks for ID.

RESULT! I have my card back. I toy with trekking back to Decathlon but decide not to as I really need to do the other things and the editing is important and I’m not sure how long that will take.

I go and get the cologne though, which is something.

My friend, FfI, texts me. Can we do coffee in the morning? I am almost certain that I can’t really as F and I shall go for breakfast in the morning and, probably, that won’t be early.

I suggest (as I MUST get these shoes for work) that she could come with me to Decathlon tomorrow. She say OK, maybe, and to call her tomorrow. At least this way I will definitely go and get some and not put it off (and then suffer all week with cold feet).

The next day dawns and we sleep through that (dawn, that is). In fact, we don’t get up until after ten. I take the dogs out while F cleans (again). I come back with the dogs and he hasn’t finished cleaning. In fact, I am pressed into doing some stuff. We go for breakfast about 11.30. After breakfast he goes across to the supermarket and, as I go home, I text FfI and suggest she comes to Decathlon with me. She arrives at my flat about 15 minutes later. We walk towards the metro stop. She keeps going on about taking the bus rather than the metro. She says she hates the metro. She says she always goes by bus and she prefers to “see” where she is going.

She also needs coffee as she hasn’t had breakfast.

I say OK to both, even though I point out that the metro is quicker. In fact, the real reason she wants to go by bus is that, going by bus she can get away without having a valid ticket. Going by metro this is not possible. She doesn’t say this directly but I’m not stupid. It’ll save her 2.60€!

As we approach the bus stops, she finds that the cafè she was hoping to go to is closed. We go to Sissi – a well-known bar here, in Milan.

She grabs something to eat and we order two coffees. She has something else to eat. I let her pay for my coffee (after all, she is making this trip to Decathlon veeeeeeery long).

We get on the bus and, after some time, arrive at Decathlon.

We go and find the shoes. I double-check the sizes and, just in case, try them on again (size 42).

I go and pay.

We go back to the bus stop. It really is a beautiful day although a little cool. The sky is a wonderful blue and so clear and, in the sun, it almost feels warm!

We get back near my house and she wants another coffee. We go up to a bar near my house. I hang the bag with the shoes on the back of the chair. We have coffee and smoke a few cigarettes and chat.

We leave to go home. Just a few steps from the cafè, I realise I don’t have my shoes. They are on the back of the chair. I go back and get them wondering if, in fact, these shoes are not really meant to be mine after all!

As I sit here, writing this, I have on the shoes. My feet are definitely much warmer so it was worth all the effort. The shoes aren’t as warm as the boots but, still, with thick socks too, I’m absolutely certain that my feet will be much warmer than last year! I bloody hope so after all the trouble I’ve had to go to to get them!