Tag Archives: F Says…..

The recurring teddy bears

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Recurring Teddy Bears

He had died, apparently.

His dad said something to me about “not wanting to bother me” or somesuch thing. I cried. It felt wrong that they hadn’t told me. I was upset, for sure.

Earlier, we’d been watching a film. It was a cross between a thriller and a horror movie.

There had been a teddy bear which something embroidered into it. I asked F what it had been on the teddy. He told me it was an “M” (or was it “em”?) When it had been seen, everyone’s eyes went pink, including the teddy bear’s!

Some kids were playing in their room. It reminded me of Peter Pan. Four kids of different ages, jumping on the beds as if on trampolines. It could have been on stage. It may have been on stage – the camera angle being from below and to the front of them – as if outside the room – there was no wall or it was as if the wall wasn’t there being the front of the stage.

Their mother called them for tea. They ran off. The teddy bear was on the floor, near the nightstand, in front of the nightstand and had a sting of pearls around it or, at least, a necklace with beads. It was dark in that particular corner. A hand reached out from under the bedside table and pulled the teddy bear back underneath, breaking the necklace and, so scattering the beads/pearls over the floor. They rolled around noisily.

I got up to go to the bathroom. I asked F if, in fact, I had asked him this question. He said “No.” It had been a dream that I was awake and half-watching the film whereas, in fact, I was asleep and, most probably, fitting the dream to the sounds of the film.

And, then, later. When he died.

And I don’t quite remember whether it was afterwards (after I had got up to go to the bathroom again) or during the dream that I had had the keys to the flat given to me because that was what he had wanted. And I remember the special teddy bear I had bought him years ago – a limited, numbered edition, with wire-rim spectacles and a rolled up certificate. It had been sitting on the small, child’s chair in the hallway. And I didn’t even, at the time, have any reason to look and less to remember and, yet, I did and had remembered.

And was it during the dream or after I had woken that I was torn between wanting to be the beneficiary of the will and wanting to wash my hands of everything because being a beneficiary was also being responsible for all the shit he had left behind.

In any event, I was upset and I cried more than once (but that was definitely in the dream.)

And, for certain, when I was awake, I didn’t want it to happen – to have happened. For all sorts of reasons.

And, I wonder, when will I be able to shake him (and the problems and issues he brings) out of my life?

I don’t know if I really did wake so many times to go to the bathroom or I dreamt it. These were just two of the dreams I had last night. There were others but I don’t remember them.

Discussion versus rant.

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Discussions – where two or more people talk about a subject, expressing their ideas, trading comments and come to an agreeable conclusion, or not.

Rant – where someone expresses their view again and again and, quite possibly their idea of your view without the possibility of any response and where any views held are set in stone.

“We can never discuss anything.”

I am silent. What I should have said is that this, this thing that is occurring, is absolutely, fundamentally NOT a discussion. It is, in fact, a rant. And brought on by something that eludes me and, quite possibly, for absolutely no reason at all.

Instead, I am silent. I am also shocked (although by now I should be used to it) and I am also a little pissed off.

In my head, it should have gone like this:

“I’m tired now because I’ve done lots of stuff today.”

“Yes, I understand. Why don’t you stop now and let the cleaner do it.”

“Yes, good idea.”

And that would be that.

Instead the conversation goes something like this:

“I haven’t stopped a minute.” – note: this is NEVER true – it just means that he has done lots of things. In fact, he stopped on a number of occasions and, sometimes, for half an hour or more.

“I am very tired.” – note: this is possibly true.

“Why not stop now?” – note: I also have been doing things. I am stopping, probably.

“I can’t stop because I have to finish the ironing because “the bitch” (the name given to the cleaner – in fact, the name given to all cleaners who can never do it as well as he does, of course) won’t clean properly if there is any ironing.” – note: OK, it was only a suggestion.

“You never notice but she doesn’t clean properly and she has to learn and if you’re happy to pay her so much when she doesn’t do a good job then that’s up to you and if she came in once a week then that wouldn’t be so bad and I wouldn’t expect it to be perfect (note: although, in fact, he would) but she comes in three times a week blah, blah, blah …..”

I have to admit, I’ve stopped listening now. It’s the same-old, same-old. There is nothing I can do or say that will, in any way, change anything and, especially, what he thinks.

I offer to help with some washing but get lamblasted with the “fact” that we can never have a discussion and that no, I should just go back to my computer. I’ve actually been giving a lesson but let’s not think about that for whatever I say and do it isn’t right.

As I am not permitted to help and as I can say nothing that will in any way either mollify him nor stop him, I walk out. I hear,

“Yes, that’s right. You go away.”

Yes, I know. Just because he told me to go doesn’t mean I should but, you know, fuck it. The rant had been going on for about 10 minutes – I cut it short here – and I was royally pissed off now. What I had intended was that he should take a break. That the ironing (nor the cleaning for that matter) were not so important as to make him work all day (not that he had been). But, apparently, they are. And over that, we shall never see eye-to-eye.

I write up the lesson log. This takes about half an hour. I go to the bathroom and find he’s making the bed. I pick up the bolster cover (he’s doing the other one) and go to put it on the bolster.

“No, leave it. I’ll do it.”

This wasn’t a question. I carefully fold it back and put it back where it was without saying a word. Obviously what I wanted to do was just to throw it on the bed – but that’s not me.

I go back to my studio. After a few minutes I come back to tell him I’m taking the dogs out.

Later, I ask about dinner. I suggest something and he suggests something else. I don’t really care. I choose to get the “something else” out of the freezer.

It will need defrosting. I go and have a shower. He tells me that his mum had said it doesn’t need to be defrosted. I put it in the oven. I go back to my room.

I come back half an hour later and he’s laid the table – with candles and stuff. Perhaps it’s his way of making up? I don’t know and having been really pissed off for about 4 hours now, neither do I care. He doesn’t get away with it that easily.

We eat our meal but I’m not “not talking” to him so we talk about the TV programme that’s on. I suggest ice-cream for sweet, etc. It’s OK (the meal) but it’s not really great (in terms of “us”) – and it should have been great.

And, still, as we approach lunchtime today, I am pissed off about it. I really hate his ranting. I do know how he feels about the cleaner, cleaning and the ironing – I just don’t share his views. Nor will I ever. And, what’s more he knows that. I have no problem with him cleaning all day (he has admitted a number of times that he finds it really relaxing) but I get fed-up when he complains about the fact that he’s cleaned all day. This is like me complaining that I’ve had to read books all day or watched some films all day.

But the key is that, next time, I must remember to just say: “This is in no way a discussion it is just you ranting”, and walk out.

The weekend in which I don’t, exactly, get a cold.

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I’ve woken up with a bit of a sore throat and a little blocked. It could be the start of a cold. But it isn’t.

Instead, it’s because yesterday I was cold for most of the day.

After all, there are wonderful things to say about F being back home.

On the other hand ……..

Saturday was the moving of furniture. That is, the moving of the “new” cocktail cabinet from the place we both thought it would look good (but, in reality, didn’t) to the place in the entrance hall where the bread prover stood. The bread prover was moved to the kitchen, giving us extra space to put things.

Obviously, moving everything out of the bread prover, then moving the bread prover, then the cocktail cabinet, then putting things away takes time. A lot of time. Especially when it’s F who’s putting things away.

And then, just when I thought it was nearly over, F had other ideas. Whilst we were moving things around, he decided to “do the kitchen”. This means taking everything out, cleaning the cupboards and putting everything back except, this time, in a way that he wanted. I’m sure I won’t be able to find things but that’s OK.

So, that was Saturday.

Sunday, on the other hand was a) the first day of spring and b) a lot colder because it was raining first thing and cloudy and damp all day. But Sunday was the day for a “general clean”. And, general clean he did. But, while he’s cleaning all the windows have to be open, everything has to be aired. And, it’s cold. And, damp.

And, so I was cold, all day.

The flat is truly spick and span and gleaming like you wouldn’t believe. Which is lovely and I really do appreciate the work he has done.

But, this morning, I have this sore throat and blocked nose and feel a little bit shitty.

Next weekend he will probably be away and there’s a silent little cheer in my head although, quite obviously, I will miss him like hell. Still, I will be able to relax and keep the flat warmer.

Waxworks, horror and frighteners, part I

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It doesn’t break for breaking implies noise, suddenness, unexpectedness.

This fades in (or fades out). This steals upon you. One minute it isn’t there and the next it is but it seems like you missed “the moment”, like the moment happened whilst you weren’t looking. I realised this when I could see the mist hanging low over the fields as if the earth was still in bed and hadn’t yet rolled back the covers. But it was time to wake up. Although, of course, I’d already been awake for some time.

In fact, I’d been awake since 2 a.m. Sort of. I guess I must have dozed a bit. The clocks did their thing at every quarter hour. I remember most of them. Then came 4 and I was worried that I would oversleep and miss the alarm set for 4.30. I nearly got up but thought that some rest was better than none, even if sleep was not possible.

The alarm went off and the dogs were there, waiting to be walked. For them, it doesn’t matter what the time is. Middle of the night, middle of the day, it’s all the same. The alarm means a walk. Except if F is here. But he’s not and they seem to know that and seem to understand that the alarm is different when he’s not here. I don’t have so much time. I get up and take them out. It is dark, of course.

I get back, make coffee (I will need coffee) and get ready. I leave. It’s a little after 5.30 and I know I’m a little bit later than I wanted to be. The navigator says I’ll be there about 10 to 8 but I’m hoping I’ll make up a little time. There is little traffic. I make it to the motorway.

And, it’s as I’m driving that I realise that dawn doesn’t break at all but just slowly, imperceptibly, comes into being. It’s not summer but it’s not so cold. Cold enough for a coat though, which I have forgotten. Well, I can’t go back as I have no time. Anyway, I think, I’ll be in the car or the church or somewhere for most of the time so it’ll be OK.

So, I’ve started in the dark and now it’s light without any fanfare, without any sudden break, just quietly daylight and sun and clear blue skies. I smoke too much. I am tired but awake. I drive. I wonder, at one point, if I shouldn’t have gone down the day before. This is crazy. But I couldn’t go down the day before. I have the dogs and J is here. I am already leaving her alone for the day. But this has to be done, even if F had said that I don’t need to come. I did need to go. I’d thought about it sometime between 2, when I first woke, and the alarm gong off. I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for permitting me to join the family. And a big thank you for giving me F. And, for that, I would have left at any time to travel down.

I arrive a few minutes earlier than the navigator had said. There was hardly any traffic to speak of and the journey was one of the easiest ever. I text him that I have arrived and he texts me to come up. I go up. I give him a quick hug and then his mum comes out and I give her a hug. It’s all subdued, of course. His mum makes me a quick coffee, for which I am grateful.

I follow him to pick up his sister, brother-in-law and niece. The BiL and niece get in my car and we drive to the hospital and find somewhere to park.

We go in to the small chapel-like place. We enter the room on the left. I don’t really know what to expect but I immediately feel like I’m on the set of some horror movie. The waxwork-like figures have what, at first glance, seems like cobwebs all over them. It’s as if they’ve been there for years and nobody has cleaned them. In fact it’s a white netting but the effect is quite surreal and I’ve never seen it before so it’s all so strange. The first woman, I note, had a huge, pointy nose. Well, she still has that but the thing I’m looking at is the wrong colour like the creator of the model didn’t have the right colours to make a human colour or the dyes were so old that they had faded. There are two coffins with these waxwork figures in them with the cobweb-like netting draped over them. Then we go past to another room. And there is PaC. Except, of course, it’s not him but, rather, a model of him. A likeness of him without really being like him. He too has this netting over him. I realise it’s probably to keep flies off, for if it was summer it would already be so hot. But this is not summer and it is cold. There’ll be no flies.

We stand around. People touch his forehead and then kiss their lips with their fingers. Except his sister who strokes his forehead and cries nearly all the time.

I don’t do this – neither cry nor touch the waxwork. I’m not sure that I could do that for anyone. I almost seem outside myself. I worry, sometimes, that I have no real feelings.

Worse still, we are in the mountains and it is damp. Although it’s light and bright, the sun doesn’t get over the mountains and into this part of the valley until a little later. My hands are cold. My feet are cold. I go for cigarettes. People wander in and out. Hearses arrive. There are at least five waxworks here. It seems most are going today. F suggests we go for a coffee with his brother. It is welcome.

Back at the chapel, F’s sister sometimes seems as if she’s gong to jump into the coffin. I’ve heard of it. F shows me that he’s put a cigar in one pocket, a pack of playing cards in another and, down the side of the coffin, a Toto DVD. It’s his way of making this lighter for him and everyone else. I smile. He is so sweet. Eventually, they close the coffin (although everyone except the sister are outside by now, in the sun which has breached the mountain top) and load the hearse.

We drive to the church. The same one for the Aunt. This is not like the UK, at 5 miles an hour but, more or less, at normal speed. We park up and arrive at the church as they wheel the coffin in. F, bless him, comes to find me and we go in. I’ve learnt that he (the deceased) was a well-respected tailor here. I didn’t know. We go and sit in a pew. We are on the front row again. The big fat priest is there as before. As is the uncle priest who has flown in from Sicily last night and the cousin nun.

The big fat priest does his stuff. The church is freezing and everyone wears coats except me and F’s brother. I regret forgetting my coat.

At one point during the service, we all sit down and F remains standing. I lightly touch his arm and, after a few seconds, he jerks a little as if just waking up, turns to me and sits down. He was lost in his own thoughts. I understand. I want to give him a big hug but can’t. At another point, as we’re standing, I look at him and, suddenly, I see him as an old man, slightly stooped, bearing the weight of life. Again, I want to hug him to tell him it’s OK. I realise that, in some years he will look like this – an old man. But then, so will I. And still I love him. But, for a moment, when he seems so old, I’m frightened both for him and for me. It won’t be the last time today that I feel like this but for different reasons.

The service drones on. Again I am struck by the absurdity of this religion thing (sorry, Gail). As if the suffering of this guy years ago, should it be true, has even the slightest effect on us, now, at this time. But the priest drones on about some point in the story. I am grateful I don’t understand so I don’t get too angry. I do wonder how it is possible for all these people to believe in this fairy story. Especially the priest who always looks so bored by it all. Who drones on in a way that says he’s so bored. Who says this is nothing and just a story. Who says everything as if he is an unbeliever.

The service ends, and everyone files outside. I move away, into the sun. People come over to me to say “hello”. I know quite a few people there now. There are kisses and “how are you”s. As I’m with these people, different people, like a changing of the guard, I watch F being greeted and consoled by people I know and people I don’t know. His mum too. I watch and feel part of it and not part of it. I’m grateful that people seem bothered to come and greet me. All this, in Italian, of course, which limits me as to what I say; as to what I am able to say.

At one point, E, his cousin – the one whose mother died in September, the sister of PaC, the sister of the priest uncle, the aunt of the cousin nun, the aunt of F – says to me that soon, we should come, at a different time, a better time, to eat. She smiles as she says it. My reputation as someone with a “good appetite” is written in stone.

The uncle/cousin/second-cousin? doctor tells a funny story about PaC, in Italian, to the group I’m with at the moment. I don’t really understand. He can speak English but prefers to repeat it slowly in Italian. I do get it. It’s about the fact that they ran (PaC and F’s mother) a laundry and PaC said that he could clean any mark. Any mark that is, except one. But, the doctors tells, I said to him but what? You always said you could clean any mark! Ah, yes, PaC replies, except the marks (scars?) of the heart. People laugh politely. I smile. Is it true, this story? And, anyway, does it matter? After all, the truth of the story is not the point.

F comes to me from time to time. I am there, for him. For his mum. For PaC, though not for him since that is too late.

People drift away. We go to the cemetery with the flowers. The body will be cremated in some place over 2 hours away. The ashes will be interred in the tomb with the aunt. It’s why they haven’t finished off the tomb yet.

There are too many flowers so some are distributed amongst other graves of relatives.

F tells people that I am going to go soon. He’s going to get a coffee with me and then I will go. That’s OK for me. I don’t want to go round to his sister’s where they will cook and talk and I will feel guilty leaving. But I must leave soon. I am tired and I have to drive back and J is waiting at home for me and so are the dogs.

We leave, being almost the last to leave. We go to our usual café in the Marina. We have sandwiches and coffee and cake. On the way, I ask him if he spoke to PaC when he arrived down, before he died. Apparently he wasn’t awake. But at least F was there.

We eat. He thanks me for coming. I think he appreciates it but I didn’t really do it for him. Or, not only for him. I got to say thank you, even if it was to a cobweb-covered waxwork.

He drives me back to my car and I leave whilst he goes up to his sister’s where the family are waiting.

I drive back. Now it hits me how tired I am but I arrive back in good time. I park the car. I get home and J makes me cups of tea. Several. I am exhausted but I can’t really rest.

Whilst we’re sitting, relaxing, my niece texts me. She wants me to find a hotel. She’s coming over to stay in April and she’s staying with V. Or so I thought. And then, that was the other thing that was frightening. But that is an entirely different reason and an entirely different post ………..

Getting my stuff back

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I was apprehensive.

The text messages had been weird. Too familiar, too intimate. It had given me unease. I concentrated on the body of the text. We agreed on prices. Then there was a sudden “Can you give me some money in advance.” I see that nothing has changed. And, of course, I know very well how people, in general, are “dealt with” and so I know the tone really means nothing. It all is, after all, a great big lie.

Still, I have this strange feeling of unease as if, any moment now, I’m going to be hit with some information that I really won’t like. It shouldn’t affect me but I’m wary in case, in some way, it does. In my head, the answer is “no” to any question regarding loans.

As usual, I’m asking “Why?” Of course, on the surface, it’s plain and simple but my experience tells me that nothing is quite as it appears. He’s not doing this as a favour for me, how ever prettily it’s all wrapped up; nor is it in memory of “us”. I don’t believe that one for a second. Still, it’s odd.

I had a text the night before confirming everything but saying that he had “no electricity” to recharge the batteries on his phone as the electricity has been cut off. The story of this is both funny and ironic. Apparently. I suspect it’s neither funny nor ironic. I’m not even sure if he understands the word ironic. He’ll tell me tomorrow, apparently.

The day dawns and I find myself nervous. I’m nervous, in part, because I’m wondering how I’ll feel seeing the things that, in the main, I bought, being “left” or “thrown away” or “sold” (if he can find a buyer which, at such short notice is hardly likely). Will I feel sad? Will I feel some draw? In spite of myself. I’m also worried that I will be hit with some information which leads to a request where I will have to say “no”.

I’m nervous about the dinner service that I will be getting. Maybe F won’t like it with his “minimalist” approach. Ah well, it can always go down to the cellar. I shall have it anyway. And the chair. And the cocktail cabinet. The rest I’ve said “no” to. After all, where would we put it? Come to think of it, where will we even put the cocktail cabinet? Another for the cellar? These things I only left behind with some sadness. I guess, the difference would be that it wasn’t because they were “us” but because of the few things I have left from the UK, they were things that I really liked.

I had people over for dinner the previous night. Take-away Indian. Just for a change. There was FfI, FfC and L. I told them about the exchange of emails and the agreement we had reached. They weren’t happy. I got the feeling that they didn’t trust me. Or him? FfI reminded me of a comment he made all those years ago of “I could get him back any time I want.” He wasn’t right then and is certainly not right now. But my friends are worried.

“Have you told F?”, I am asked. I haven’t. Their question is heavy with alternate meanings. I do understand but they don’t apply. And, yet, my friends are incredulous that I haven’t mentioned it. I haven’t mentioned it because he has hardly been here since last week and he has more than enough to worry about, what with PaC and the rest of the family. He is tired and under stress and this is of no consequence.

But that is not the real question, is it? The real question is “Is F comfortable with you seeing him?” It’s so hard to explain that it’s OK. At least, I’m sure it’s OK. We don’t work “like that” and never have. It cannot be explained and, to be honest, until I met F, I wouldn’t have understood or believed it either. It’s called total trust and it’s what I like about our relationship and I refuse to be deterred by people who cannot believe in it.

But, you know, for a moment, they put doubt in my mind.

But, I find it impossible to explain because it’s not in other people’s experience so they don’t know how it could possibly work. Of course, everything was fine, as I expected.

So, I drive to the place. His house. I park nearby and ring the doorbell. I’ve forgotten which floor. I thought it was the 7th. Turns out it is the 4th. I am let in and introduced to Max. I don’t ask who Max is because, quite frankly, I don’t care. I see the stuff in the hall. There’s a LOT! CDs in bags. The dinner service in bags, wrapped in sheets and pillow cases because neither V nor I have newspaper or any packing material. I hope nothing gets damaged.

I wonder if it will all fit in. I note that the chair is broken. It wasn’t like that when I left. But, it can be repaired and I will get it repaired. It’s also not so clean. In fact, I decide to have a cigarette first before starting to load the car. I sit in the kitchen with Max whilst the DVDs are packed. Max tells me he’s not a good cook but he had made cous-cous for lunch. He’s right, it looks dreadful.

Whilst sitting in the kitchen I notice how filthy everything is. I’m used to living with F where cleaning is like a drug. It’s not here and it makes me feel uncomfortable and dirty. Funny how quickly my standards have changed.

We load the car. Everything fits. I pay most of the rest of the agreed price, keeping some back for the delivery of the cabinet. I will get that on Monday evening, apparently. Just in case, I’ve kept some back.

I get home and unload everything.

F arrives back earlier than expected, just as I’m cleaning the kitchen floor. He sees the service and really likes it. I am relieved. He also likes the chair. I am doubly relieved. He’s also happy to go through the CDs (although he will already have most of them.) And, since he came home on Sunday, we’ve been thinking about where to put the cabinet.

Although, surprise, surprise, I don’t have that yet.

Now promised for Thursday. We shall see.

But the unsurprising bit of news has been given – the deposit money for the new flat may not be available. I’ve ignored it. And, on Thursday, in my wallet, will be exactly €50 more than we’ve agreed. Which will be perfect.

And, then it will be done. Done and finished – the end of it all.

Maybe.

I don’t think I will like it (even if I have no idea what it is)

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He pulls a face.

“Ugh!”, he says.

I think: Oh fuck, he doesn’t like it. Oh well, I’ve done it now. Perhaps it’s the hazelnuts? Or the meringue? Or the combination?

I’d just thanked him. He’d been to the supermarket and brought back some raspberries. He knows they’re my favourite fruit. I’d said, enthusiastically, “Oh, great! They’ll be perfect to go with the sweet.” Which they would be. After all, fruit and nuts go together well. And raspberries and hazelnuts would be a perfect combination.

However, of course, I wasn’t thinking. He didn’t know I had picked this dessert. He had assumed it would be something along the lines of what I had mentioned before. And I had forgotten that I had mentioned something else.

So the response of “Ugh!” came from him asking me what I was doing and me replying, Hazelnut Meringue.

Now, I’ve absolutely no idea what he thought Hazelnut Meringue actually was. But, he didn’t like the “sound” of it. Apparently.

We were doing dinner for a couple. In fact, she was my first landlady in Milan, when V and I came for 3 months to check it out, to see if we really wanted to come and live here and to find a flat to live in. Since then, we’ve kept in touch because she’s really lovely. Well, she really isn’t Italian, in many ways. She had several different types of job and keeps trying new things – radical changes to her life. The latest is that she’s set up a business in Australia. And she’s back for a couple of weeks so, as Saturday was almost the only day we could do it, we opted for dinner chez nous.

I had asked her if there was anything they didn’t eat and she said she was intolerant to gluten (Coeliac) but that one night wouldn’t matter. However, if someone tells you they have problems with a particular thing, you have to do your best to accommodate, don’t you? And so, we had to really think about what we were going to do. Out went all pies/cakes and things like that.

We decided the main would be the salmon and courgette fish cakes that I had in the freezer. So the first course was going to be F’s chickpea soup with fried prawns, I would do the fishcakes with some buttered carrots and fennel and then we needed a sweet. I had said, that morning, that I would probably do something with chocolate. But, then, F had to pop to the shop to change his password and, whilst he was away, I suddenly remembered the hazelnut meringue that I hadn’t made for over 30 years. I had the recipe from the time when I went to night school and took a Cordon Bleu cookery course. I had no idea if it would work OK or not but I had, for some time now, wanted to re-try it.

So that’s what I told him when he came back with the raspberries and that’s when I got the disappointment of him not liking it.

Except, I should (and, for that matter, he should too) know better. He didn’t like the sound of it but, really, he had absolutely no idea what it was.

I made the two layers of the hazelnut meringue which were to be sandwiched together with whipped cream with a little coffee flavour and then to be decorated with whipped cream, hazelnuts and, now, a few raspberries.

I cooked the meringue. Unfortunately, I didn’t have two good size baking trays and so, for one of the layers, I used a roasting tin. I was worried about it turning out OK given that it had deep sides but I needn’t have worried. The cooking of it wasn’t the problem. the problem was the “getting it out of the tin in one piece” on which I failed comprehensively. So, there, cooling, was a perfect layer and a layer that was more representative of a jigsaw puzzle. However, I knew I could put that as the base and “put it together” so that it wouldn’t really be noticed.

F suggested that, instead of trying to put the base together, I should just crumble it on top of the other one. It was, in fact, either something like a meringata or a brutti ma buoni. Apparently. So he said.

But I was curious as to his sudden interest in it.

“Have you tried it?” I asked, slightly accusingly. And, yes, he had. And, yes he liked it. In fact, he loved it. And this is not the first time, of course. I stopped him “picking” at the broken one, which is what he was doing.

So, I have to remember, next time he pulls a face or says he doesn’t like something, to say that he should trust me and remind him of fruit crumble (another occasion where he had said he “hated” it …… until he tried it) and hazelnut meringue.

In the meantime, here are some photos:

Hazelnut Meringue (sadly, NOT how mine looked although it still looked quite good):

hazelnut meringue

NOT my hazelnut meringue, sadly

Meringata:

Meringata

Meringata – a bit like hazelnut meringue – without the hazelnuts

Brutti ma buoni:

Brutti ma buoni

Brutti ma buoni – a smaller version of hazelnut meringue

Spring cleaning every day.

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“Look!” he says, showing me the cloth in his hand. It has dirt on it.

“Bravo,” I respond.

He’s not really happy with my response. But no response I could make would be good enough.

“When I did the kitchen, it only took me a few minutes to do the top of the kitchen cupboards because we did them before Christmas.” “WE” didn’t do them, of course, but that’s a moot point. He continues, “This is from the cupboard in the hall. That’s why if you do it often it’s not as bad as this.”

He’s right, but ……

Nobody will look on top of the cupboard. To do so, they would need to get a pair of stepladders and climb to the top.

But, that’s not the point.

The flat was cleaned yesterday. But, this morning, it seems like we’re doing a whole spring clean thing. That’s because, tonight we’re having a party. Well, kind of. He invited a few of his colleagues, one of whom told everyone so now we have invited everyone. I say “we” when actually I mean “he”.

Of course, I don’t mind at all but he is forever apologising about it. More than that/worse than that is that he won’t let me do anything. I can’t buy anything, I can’t make anything, and, of course, I can’t clean anything. Except the dogs. I’m permitted to do them. And, after much insistence, I make my little ricotta and courgette tartlets. Better than nothing.

But, he spends all day doing this cleaning. The day before, even if the cleaner was round, he did the kitchen – including the top of the kitchen units. Everything must be perfectly clean.

It has to be some sort of obsessive compulsive disorder. I mean to say, it’s nice to have everywhere clean, but the pressure and stress that goes with it (he gets quite grumpy because he always runs out of time) is a bit over the top.

Everything must be perfect for guests – especially his guests who, of course, expect everything to be perfect because it always is.

It feels like we have spring cleaning every day!

[From Saturday]

Bastard weekend. And the tree.

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It’s been a strange weekend.

First, on Saturday morning, we went to buy a tree. We chose one and had it delivered. It fitted perfectly.

I left him to it. I did ask if he wanted help but he said no. The strange thing is that we can do certain things together but for other things, we just don’t rub along. In this way he reminds me of my father, for whom I could never do anything right; I was never ready with the correct tool or correct thing; it was boring because I wasn’t actually allowed to “do” anything. With F, this is much the same. So, as last year, I left him to it.

But, obviously, that wasn’t quite right either.

After some time, I heard a load of expletives and so I went to look. Apparently the adapter, for the lights, was broken and, worse, he couldn’t get the broken one out of the socket. I started to suggest something but, as usual, he talks over me so I shut up. Then we have the usual “go on then …. say what you were going to say …”

I made a suggestion. I went to get the screwdriver. I asked if I should do it. He, grumpily, moved out of the way and, within 2 seconds I had removed it.

Of course, we didn’t have another. I offered to go and find one.

Now, here’s the thing about Italian plugs and sockets. They can be very different. Some plugs have two pins and some three (in a line, not like the UK) and sometimes the pins are “fat” and sometimes “skinny”. The fat ones seem to be on the larger electrical items (fridges, cookers, washing machines, etc.)

So, we needed and adapter with thin pins which allowed both thin pinned plugs and fat pinned plugs to be connected – like the broken one.

Off I went, carrying the broken one because I needed to find the same type. I went to three supermarkets and managed to find one which only allowed thin pinned plugs to be connected. Then I went to one of the Chinese shops and found one which did allow fat pins to be connected – but one of the fat pinned sockets was with a special “round” extension that didn’t allow all fat pinned plugs to be connected.

It was no good.

I said I would take the dogs out and have a look on the way.

I found another Chinese shop and got another adapter which was possibly going to work. Then I found a hardware store. The guy gave me an adapter – like the first one I bought, only for thin pinned plugs. i explained that I needed it for both types. He told me they didn’t make them any more (which explained why I couldn’t find them) and gave me a single converter for thin to thick pins. I said OK then I have both and plug the converter into the adapter. He said this was wrong/bad/something similar – but sold them to me anyway.

Obviously, this worked. And we only have the lights on when we’re there, so it’s OK.

The tree looks lovely.

The Xmas tree, F and the dogs

That night he had the shop Christmas meal.

The next day, after breakfast, I did some cleaning things. He said he wanted to reorganise the kitchen cupboards “because I can’t find anything.” He had mentioned this the day before and suggested something to which I had said OK. This time, he opened one cupboard and queried why some pans were at the top of the cupboard and some in the drawer. I explained (I thought) that I’d already tried that but, because the drawers were not fixed to the wall, the extra pans made the whole thing to heavy and it fell forward when you opened the drawer.

But, it seems that to his ears I was saying that I didn’t like the idea! Or, at least that’s what I guess.

Then he started on a rant about how everything is always done the way I want it. I said that it wasn’t true but he stops listening when he’s “on one.” So I shut up. Then I get how all English people are the same and just stay quiet followed closely by how selfish I am which is followed by how everything has to be done as I like which is followed by how the washing is always done when I want. The logic of all this escapes me. I laugh, for what else should I do? This is insane. Obviously, the laugh was in frustration but, possibly, the worst thing I could do.

So that was that.

I continue my polishing of the silver and doing the washing. We didn’t speak for the rest of the day. I watched a film; he watched a film. He went out.

He came back. “I’ve bought you some cakes. Well, obviously, they’re not all for you.” I thank him. I put them in the kitchen.

I ask, a little later, if he wants something to eat. He doesn’t. I take a shower and ask, again, if he’s sure. He says no, he’s still full from last night. I make myself some pasta, eat it and have one of the cakes. I go to the bedroom and thank him.

All other “conversation” is me telling him what I’m doing. Which is only when necessary. I try not to be angry but it’s hard. His argument still makes absolutely no sense to me. It has no merit or logic! I absolutely did not say that stuff had to be in a certain place, I just said that making the drawer too heavy meant that it would fall over when you opened it! I just don’t get it and realise that, in so many ways, we are so different. But, as I say, once he starts, there’s simply no speaking to him. I tire of it and I don’t want it. If I hadn’t been in the middle of cleaning the silver, I think I would have gone out. Next time, I probably will.

I realise that the cakes were some kind of peace offering but it’s just not good enough.

And, then again, I try to be somewhat sympathetic. After all, the thing with PaC and his aunt dying earlier ……..

I have a feeling that, this morning, he may have re-done all the kitchen cupboards anyway. We shall see.

In the meantime, life goes on. I don’t feel like going down to Carrara now. I want to say to him that I won’t go. And, then again, I think, perhaps, how miserable he feels and, so, I won’t say anything, of course.

Funny week that wasn’t funny.

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It has been a funny old week, really.

F came back on Monday afternoon. Unfortunately, I’d got up late and by the time I’d taken the dogs out and had coffee, my appointment was coming, so no time to give the flat a quick clean. I did, however, complete all the washing in between everything else.

After my appointment, I knew that the most important thing was to get the Christmas cards finished. Which I did, expecting F to let me know he was leaving Carrara to come home. He didn’t tell me and arrived as I was almost complete with the Christmas cards. But this meant that I hadn’t cleaned anything.

He ironed whilst I finished the cards. I took the dogs out and he cleaned the floors of the flat “because it won’t have been done in 3 days.” Which, of course, was right however, it is difficult to keep the resentment inside and not to make some remark. After all, it wasn’t like I did nothing over the weekend. In fact, I hardly stopped except from Saturday when I did relax a bit – I was so very tired.

Anyway, I can ignore these comments and move on, which is what I did. I had something to eat and then suggested we watch the film on the TV (connected to the computer) which was fine for two films on Saturday night.

The problem was that it didn’t work. There was no connection. It was disappointing, to say the least. I did a quick look on Google and found out why. The adapter is prone to overheating and, instead of unplugging it completely as I had done previously, after Saturday, I left it plugged in and it had, sure enough, overheated and has probably burnt out. I’ve ordered another. I hope it arrives on Friday.

We went to bed and at some time after I fell asleep I had a very strange dream which, as normal, turned into a nightmare. It was all to do with hospitals and me being unable to escape. Then, later, at 4 a.m., I woke up – wide awake, like it was 8 or 9 in the morning. In spite of doing my best to drift off again, at about 4.30, I got up, frightened that I would wake F.

At 5.45, I retrieved my mobile phone from beside the bed, switched off the alarm (this is important for later in this post) so that it wouldn’t wake F and got up.

I left a little earlier. We had clients in and I needed to do some things before they came. As I’m walking along the road towards my car, I spotted the market setting up, as usual, on a Tuesday and realised that I had completely forgotten about that and my car was parked in the way. All I needed this morning was to have my car towed away!

As luck would have it, my car was still there although they had just started setting up the stall by my car, so 15 minutes later and it would have been gone. But I was relieved, to say the least.

But, it was no good. A lack of sleep was already “killing me.” By the time the customer arrived, I had sunk into a black mood.

Coupled to that, my credit card had maxed out the previous week (remember the tickets for a friend to go to La Scala?) and I needed to get that fixed as a payment had to be made later this week (and more of that later, or in another post.) So, at one point, I left the customer in the hands of Engineering. Fixing (increasing) the limit was not important but, contrary to the information I’d been given by phone the previous week, it would NOT take a couple of hours to upgrade but up to 2 days – which would have been too late! I was a bit pissed off, to be honest, which was not helping with the day I was already having.

But, with nothing to do that was within my power, I could not stay angry. Just a little frustrated. Oh and getting more tired as the day progressed.

That night, I had people coming and no time to sort out real parking so I parked in one the residents’ areas, hoping I wouldn’t get a ticket.

By 10, I was in bed although F was watching a film and so it was quite difficult to get to sleep. I suppose I drifted off about 11.

At 6, exactly, I opened my eyes. And, thank God! I had forgotten to put the alarm back to “on” and it should have gone off 5 minutes before! Having rushed to get out, I found that my gamble with the parking was OK in that I didn’t have a ticket.

I had decided to order a new adapter for the MAC to TV and did that first thing. Wednesday was a little better, even if the meeting with the customer was so, so boring (it’s engineering stuff and absolutely NOT my bag) and I was still very tired. Also, the offices, as usual in the winter, have become cold. So cold that all you can think about is how cold you are.

Now it is almost the end of Thursday. The customers haven’t been here today but are returning in about an hour to stand around and witness something. After yesterday (it being so cold), I am NOT wearing a suit but am wearing warmer things.

I am still tired and exhausted. F will be here this weekend which has it’s good and bad points.

And, as an update to Christmas, the latest thing, according to F is:

He will go down a couple of days before Christmas;
I am to follow on Christmas Eve or even Christmas Day morning:
Depending on PaC, I will either stay down a couple/few days or come back almost right away.

I don’t really fancy travelling down there for only a day. But I will, if that’s what he wants. But, of course, it’s still all flexible.

Other things that I have learnt are that some people in the family want a second opinion because they want something (some cure) to be done. Except, I have a feeling that for PaC, no “cure” is desired. But that’s only a feeling, of course. In the end (I know because I asked directly), F didn’t speak to PaC about my coming down. I think (and he hinted as such) he’s going to do this at the last minute – and by that I mean Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. He also bought some x-rays back with him. I found them on the table. I think he is going to show them to someone but we haven’t spoken about it so I don’t really know.

But, the whole thing becomes tiring and if I feel like that, I can only guess what his family feel like! In the end, he’s not going down this weekend. For one reason, PaC would find it too strange. For another, I suspect, he is exhausted with trying to prop up the family, trying to make out that everything is OK, like he does.

Last night he was away, for work, and sent me a picture of a tree. I wonder if he’s still going to decorate the flat? And, if so, I wonder why? If I were him, I wouldn’t do it and yet, maybe, it will help him feel better, more like Christmas?

Lights and decorations are everywhere now but I don’t feel in the least Christmassy. Still, I get F for the whole weekend, which will be lovely. Probably.

Sunday

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I am at home. It is the long weekend before Christmas.

To be honest, without the dogs and the need to buy things from the supermarket, when I’m on my own, I wouldn’t leave the flat.

That’s one of the reasons I have dogs. At least, then, I know I’ll step outside, getting some fresh air and exercise.

And, if there wasn’t F to consider, all the things I have been doing today, would be postponed until tomorrow. Or next week. Or to some near or distant future.

If it weren’t for F, I wouldn’t speak to anyone. After all, I don’t much care for human interaction. At least, I like it when I’m doing it, sometimes, but to go out of my way to get some, well, that’s just not me.

So, I sit in silence, occasionally talking to the dogs.

Yesterday, after taking the dogs out, I went shopping. Once to get the things I needed and once to buy the big bag of dog food. Then again to take them out (I had to force myself to take them for a long walk) and that was it. The only people I talked to, aside from F in the evening, were a few people who were asking about the dogs and a butcher where I tried to get some lamb chops (I really, really wanted lamb last night, F not being here and all) but, of course, it’s the wrong season for lamb so no lamb to be had anywhere.

It’s now nearly 3 p.m. on the Sunday. So far, the only real speaking episode I’ve had (other than with the dogs which is a little one-sided and F by messaging) is a lady in the dog area this morning with whom we exchanged “Good Morning”s. And then, I DID have a real, and quite long, conversation with FfI. She rang just to catch up and to kind-of make some sort of invitation to do something later. We’ll see. While she was on, she asked about F and how things were going and I was telling her that, maybe, I won’t go to Carrara at Christmas and she immediately jumped in with “Oh well, you’ll have to come to us for Christmas Eve” (they do a kind of party – her, her ex-husband and her daughter – it’s like a family tradition.) Then she added “We can’t have you alone at Christmas.” Humpf. I know all these people mean well but, you know, I don’t know that I really WANT to be with anyone else. All that having to be nice crap. That having to make polite conversation stuff. Of course, if I tell F then he will be delighted. On the other hand, he tells me that he’s been cleaning the house down in Carrara. This could be in preparation for us going there at Christmas – but I’m not going to ask. I’ll wait for him to decide.

On the other hand, so far today, I’ve washed all the Christmas present we are giving to each other (it’s a canteen of cutlery in case I hadn’t mentioned it before now), done some washing, reordered some cupboards in the dining room (to fit the canteen of cutlery in) and stuck the non-slip stuff on the back of the rugs in the hall. Oh, and some other bits and pieces. Now I’m relaxing a moment before having a bit to eat and then I’ll (force) myself to take the dogs out again.

Will I call FfI? I really don’t know. I’m in two minds. In one way, it would be quite nice to see her later, but in another, I’d quite like to have an early meal (as I did last night) and then watch a film with a glass of wine (or two) in hand.

Anyway, first a bite to eat and then we’ll play it by ear.