Tag Archives: Relationships

Somewhere between three and four

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I said we are three but that’s not quite correct.

I get up five minutes earlier than ‘normal’ since the walk back is five minutes.  It is certainly easier than the 20 minutes or so that it was before.

In my bathroom I notice the things that have been ‘left’. Except I am sure they have not been left by accident nor forgetfulness but by design.  There is the cologne, the body lotion, the special stuff for his hair.  These are there for ‘next time’.  All I have is a toothbrush in his.

I have keys but only until Thursday as he needs to give them to the cleaner.  I wonder how long that will continue?  How long before that becomes a ‘pain’ and needs to be sorted?  But I shall hold my tongue.  It will be his decision and it’s not for me to ask.

We watched a DVD on his computer last night, in the lounge as the television will be going in the bedroom.  He’s there, lying on the sofa, in his pyjamas, his feet bare, his sexy ‘frodo-type’ feet.  As I take my cup to the kitchen, I touch them.  It’s difficult not to touch him – any part of him.

So we watch Mina on DVD.  Old stuff from the 70s.  Good stuff, for certain.  But then I had to go to bed and he came too.  He knows that it’s difficult for me and I can’t stay up as late as him, getting up a couple of hours earlier then him, as I have to.

And then when I got home is when I noticed the things in the bathroom and thought of the ‘Dino-licking’ clothes and the pyjama bottoms in the bedroom and remembered the conversation from last night when he asked what he had at mine.  I replied the clothes that I have just mentioned and he said that he would need to bring over a T-shirt next time.  And I didn’t really realise the significance of it but that, together with the other things which are not left by accident, means that we are not 3 but rather three and a half, I guess.

The ugly building

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There’s not really enough time to smoke a whole cigarette.  That’s nice, really.

As I walk back, I look at the buildings since this is a ‘new’ walk, even if I have done it several times before.  There is the house (small block of flats) which is amazingly ugly, right on the corner.  Someone on the second floor has put in new shutters.  They are bright green against the incredibly ugly grey/brown of the building itself.  These shutters are half closed or fully closed depending on the window.  Further on, beyond the traffic lights, Via Modena stretches on, beyond GS (which have now all been officially changed to Carrefour anyway, just this last week) with, from the corner of Via Dei Mille, some beautiful buildings.  And yet, this ugly, three-storey building stands there like it wants to prove a point.  What point though?  And what made someone decide that this concrete square blob could, in any way, ever look nice?

I turn the corner and continue to walk back.  I didn’t sleep well.  Maybe it was the deafening sound of the complete silence in the flat.  I had strained to hear the sound of anything.  Of the trams that are less than a cigarette-smoke away, of the buses, the cars, even birds (this morning).  There was nothing, except, maybe, occasionally, the sound of a car……..maybe.

And it was dark.  I mean pitch black.  No light.  And, whereas I used to like that a lot, I found that I couldn’t see him and I wanted to.

The new duvet was incredibly light and very warm.  But, when he got up this morning, to go to work, it all felt so cold.  It was so weird.  I found myself, all night having to have some part or all of my body outside the duvet but this morning, as soon as he got out, snuggling under it to keep warm.

And, although I should have gone back to sleep, I found I could not and so, about half an hour after he left, I got up anyway.

I stayed a little bit, playing on the computer and had three cigarettes.  Again, I noticed that the flat seemed to fill with smoke so easily and this is not a good sign.  Again, I opened all the windows and let the air flow through to disperse the smoke and I hope it’s OK for when he goes home tonight.

For tonight he will go home.  And put more things tidy, etc.  And go to bed very late, I think.  And so we shall sleep apart, I expect.

And, so, as I walked home this morning, being grateful that we were closer, at least, it was tinged with a little sadness.  For now we are three again and I quite liked being four.

The honeymoon is over

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Well, nearly.

I think he was a bit pissed off that I went to A’s place last night.  But, then, if he won’t give me some sort of plan, what does he expect?  I mean, I wait at home and don’t know – is he going to the new flat tonight or not?  If he goes to the flat then he won’t be at my house until after 10.

And so, last night, when he arrived about 11.30 he said that he wasn’t going to go to the new flat originally but because I was on my way to A’s he decided he would go.  If he had told me, before, like the day before, that he probably wouldn’t go then I wouldn’t have accepted to go to A’s place.  And, even if he had called me a few hours before I could have got out of it, having been to the dentist yesterday.

But, maybe it’s good that I’m not always available.  But, maybe I should tell him the whole story so that he knows to be a bit more planned with me.

So, he arrived last night and came straight to bed.  He said that, on Saturday, he would go and buy a piumino (duvet to us).  They only buy thin ones here since there are only a few months of real cold.  He added that once he had that then next week he can spend a couple of nights at his place.  He probably means ‘we’ but I shall check in any event.  I try not to be too invasive.

However, it’s interesting that he suggests only a ‘couple of’.  Again, last night, he wanted Dino to be lying on the floor at his side of the bed and was really happy when he was.  And we cuddled for a bit and I thought – ‘OK so as from Saturday night he doesn’t live here any more’ – but it’s not like I didn’t know it was coming and, in some strange way, he never really ‘lived’ at my place – even if he stayed every night.

And, although it seems like we have been in this situation for ever, it’s only been a very short time.  Next week it will have been 4 months since we first met.

A asked me last night if we had really ‘talked’.  I said we had.  He asked if F had told me all my faults.  I laughed and said I didn’t have any.  Later as we were curled up and about to go to sleep, I told F.  He said ‘Do you want the list?’.  It was a joke.  I replied that I was surprised there was anything but, yes, give me the list.  He refused saying that this was what being together was about and that there were always things as there would be for me, about him, but that we just live with them.

He said we would definitely go out for a meal on Saturday.  The other night we looked at the flights to the UK to go to D’s wedding in July.

The honeymoon is over and now starts the long haul to a place that is, as yet, is undefined, uncertain – a place that is shrouded with the mist of the future – there but without form or substance.

I wonder if what we both want is the same.  Yet he said, before we met that, we all want the same thing.  I hope that’s true.

The problem with Italian men……..

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“I hope I don’t get …………..”

or

“I think I’m getting………………”

Two of the staple sentences for Italian males.

As happened a number of times on Saturday/Sunday.

It’s not a big thing, nor that important but it does make me want to say ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake”.

So, a shaving rash (which is quite obviously what it was) together with a headache (which I always struggle to accept fully) means that it could, possibly, maybe, perhaps – be the start of a fever.

The problem is that their loved ones pander to this and so reinforce the idea that it’s OK to come out with this crap each time you see something or feel something.  It starts with the mother and continues with the partner.

And I am not better than any other partner but, you know……

It seemed a good idea at the time

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It was stupid of me, really.  But I did owe it to them (A & F2) and it seemed such a good idea about a week ago.

So, today, went horribly wrong.  Well, horribly is probably too strong a word.

First, instead of moving the rest (well, nearly) of his stuff from S’s flat to his new flat, last night, we did it this morning.  It was snowing last night and F was really tired. However, that wasn’t in my plan.

Then there was the shopping to do.  I required the meat, the vegetables, the stuff to make desert, some cold meat for starters, etc.  Then, I had to get tins.  I only brought one roasting tin with me and, for what I am doing, I need at least 3.  And then, finally, I had to get scales.  I just couldn’t go on any more without them.  Especially if I am to make a half-decent Treacle Tart.

I mentioned that to F last night or the night before.  He seemed a little jealous but I promised to keep some for him.  And I also bought some mince to make him Cottage Pie so that, this week, if he feels he wants something other than sandwiches, he can have that in the evening. It is his favourite English dish anyway.

But I explained that I was doing Roast Beef and it seemed a good idea to invite A & Fr – especially as Fr has returned from down South only today after some operation she had to have.  And I said that it was a good idea as F didn’t eat meat (well, not like roasted or grilled meat – meat that looks like meat) and, as he was going to be working it was the perfect time.  I did get the impression that he was a bit disgruntled by it but, as I said, I promised to keep him some Treacle Tart.

So, first we will have prosciutto crudo and coppa, then these peppers stuffed with tomatoes and anchovies (which is really nice), then Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding and then Treacle Tart – maybe with custard too.  And I got a really nice bottle of Barolo to go with it, which I know A will appreciate.  Oh, and I have cheese (Stilton and Cheddar) and some Port for after.  Mmmmm.

And now, as I write this, sometime after 6 p.m. I have not done the ironing nor cleaned the flat nor anything of the things that I simply had to do.  I have put the new pans in to be washed in a moment and I will do some ironing in a minute and then I might make the treacle tat or, more likely, I shall do it tomorrow.

I used to be quite good at preparing.  Now I just leave everything to the last possible minute.  It’s not that I don’t care but I do think, these days, that there is so much more to worry about than if everything is ‘perfect’.  Normally it all works out OK in the end.

And F is sorting out his flat.  He will still be staying here for a bit though and I am really happy about that.  I really like having him around; I like his presence, his ‘being here’.

And, as I write this, he arrives.  The hot water at the new flat not working.

And so I save this for later.

And he had a bad headache so I made him Camomile Tea, gave him an aspirin and he’s gone to bed.

Anyway, so now I have not done the things I should have and I will be rushing in the morning and so, what seemed like a good idea at the time (inviting A & Fr round for Sunday lunch) now seems so much more difficult.

And, remember, this is the oven that I hate.  No numbers on the dial just High, Low and Off.  Not my perfect kitchen.  Still, we hope it all turns out all right in the end.

Oh, yes, and one of the new pans that I bought is too large for the tiny oven. Hmmmph!

Yesterday, we became four.

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I am at the computer.  I’m standing but bent over.  It’s not the most comfortable position but, given the lack of anything I could use as a chair, it’s the best I can do.

The screen springs to life, suddenly showing the background at the same time as it makes the sound.  Great.  The usual Skype message comes up.  It should be upgraded but it’s not mine to do.  I tell it to continue anyway.  I select the Skype account I want to use.  Best Mate may be online.

I go type in the password but nothing happens when I type.  Then there is a new window that comes up.  I don’t really read the screen so don’t know what it says.  I am busy trying to get into Skype.  As I am closing this very annoying window, I notice something about Bluetooth.  As it closes, I realise that this keyboard has no connection lead to the computer and, therefore, must be Bluetooth.

I need to find this window again.  This utility.  I start searching.  the problem, other than I don’t really know Macs that well, is that it is an Italian machine and everything is in Italian, of course.  I go for Finder, since the icon I would use on my machine is not in the right place (or, rather, non-existent) on this computer. I look for the obvious thing.  Something called Bluetooth or Connections or something similar.

On the way to finding this I see some things that I have an urge to see.  Some photos; some other things.  I resist the urge.  It would be like spying; like looking into a private diary; like reading a blog that you’re not supposed to know about (whoops!).  I want to and don’t want to at the same time.  I don’t want to more than I want to and so I don’t.  I give myself a self-congratulatory pat on the back for being good.  It makes me feel good even if I am still intrigued.  But I have no reason to doubt and, therefore, this is something that should be left alone.  But, still……

I don’t find what I want.  I close down the computer.

I switch on the computer again.  The same window/utility appears…..eventually.  I am right!  The keyboard is not being ‘seen’.  I look at the keyboard.  I see that there is a screw thing at the side and open it to find batteries inside.  I know this was all working as he had used it a day or two before when he proved that the telephone line had been installed and everything (including ADSL) was functioning.  I decide that, maybe, one of the batteries is to blame.  But there are no more batteries that I know of.  And, so, I swap the two from the mouse (which IS working), taking two from the keyboard in exchange.

I try all again.  No difference, although the mouse still works.  It is unlikely to be one battery.  I look all over the keyboard, eventually pressing, by accident, the switch that turns the keyboard ‘on’.

Everything now works but a) I am standing and b) I have almost had enough and so, instead of writing a blog post, I play ‘the bloody game’.

The men arrive with the wardrobe and bed.  I don’t really like them.  I was hoping for the three that came to my place.  That would have been just fine.  I don’t really trust these guys.  I smoke and am aware that the smoke seems to fill the flat much more quickly than it does mine.  I think about the time, in the very near future, when we are here, at the computer together or watching a DVD or sitting on the brand-new, white, all-(simulated/something)-leather sofa – smoking and it being difficult.  This worries me.

The windows are slightly open, as they always are.  I notice that, the flat, seemingly so warm every time I have entered, seems quite cold after a couple of hours.  This may not be so good.

The men finish with the wardrobe.  Well, not quite.  I do not know what the man says but I think he says that he has another set of drawers and where should they go?  I don’t know.  I knew where the wardrobe was to go, I had asked F the night before but the second set of drawers?  I phone him and get no answer.  He is working, of course.  The men need an answer as they are now building the bed (which won’t take long).  I send a text explaining that I need an answer and hoping that he has the phone on him.

He calls me.  They should be shelves and not a set of drawers.  I realise I could have got it wrong.  I say yes they are shelves – hoping that I am right.  But where are they to go?  He tells me they are to go in the middle part, above the set of drawers, equally spaced.  I tell the guys.  They tell me what they can do.  I tell them that is OK.

They finish.  There is some discussion about the payment that is to be made.  I cannot pay him the exact money as I don’t have 33 cents.  He has no change.  I know that, in the UK, there would be no money given to the delivery/installer people and I wonder at how this can possibly work properly in Italy.

I change what I have given him.  Now all he has to do is give me 17 cents change.  He only has a 20 cent coin.  I explain that I don’t have the 3 cents to give him and that it’s my money we’re talking about (he already knows that it’s not my house, nor my furniture).

He huffs and puffs.  But, reluctantly gives me the 20 cents.  I don’t care.  I’ve noticed that the guy in the supermarket that I thought was a good guy regularly charges me for an extra plastic bag.  I don’t go to his till any more.  It’s only 4 cents but the Italians, with the old lira in mind, take less notice of the small coins.  I am English and I don’t.

When they have gone I decide that the room is really smokey.  I have only had about 5 cigarettes but I know that F won’t like it and so I open the window wide in the lounge and the bedroom to try and get rid of it.  There is no breeze and so no air through the flat and so it doesn’t disperse.

I get much colder though and, from a starting point that is quite cold, this is not pleasant.  I have texted F to say that everything is fine and that I would go and do some shopping and go home shortly.  I also added that I would come back to the flat whenever he wanted as, of course, I have the keys!

I close the windows and the shutters.  The smoke still seems to hang in the air.  I know my sense of smell is terrible.  I go out of the flat and come back in.  I can still smell it.  If I can smell it, I muse, then it will be a hundred times worse for him.

But I cannot stay.  Or, rather, I cannot stay and not smoke!

I leave.

Later he phones.  He is still at the office.  He has got the company car tonight.  He will go and collect his clothes and take them to the flat.  I offer my help.  He says that I have done enough already (having taken a day’s holiday to be at the flat for his wardrobe and bed).  I reply that it is really no problem and I really don’t mind.

All this is true.  All this is in my interest.  And, anyway, it means we are together and I am helping him and it makes me feel good.  And, also, I want to be there when he opens the flat door – to see the reaction to the smokey smell, for I feel as guilty as hell.  And I have weird thoughts that go through my mind like a) he won’t want me in the new flat or b) he will insist that I stop smoking or something along those lines.  If I were to be there I would know, immediately, if it were a problem.

I wait at home.  I am anxious.  I feel useless.

This is like those times when you were a kid.  You had done something wrong and you knew, as sure as night follows day, that your parents would know.  Perhaps they were out and would know when they came back.  Perhaps they were there and it was one of those things that they would find out about and you just didn’t know when.

And it’s the waiting that is the worst, of course.

And this is how I felt.  I also worried that, after a full day at work, he was going to be doing lots of moving stuff to the car and from the car and it would be so much better if I were there to help.  And it would be quicker.

And then I thought that, perhaps, he didn’t want me to be there because he wanted to spend the night at the old flat.  The previous night had been restless for him.  Apparently Dino had been restless and walking to and fro and playing and crying and other things.  And then I thought that perhaps he just wanted to have a night apart.  But why?

It got to 10 o’clock.  I had heard nothing.  I hadn’t taken a shower wanting to be ready, just in case he called for help.  But now it was time for the dogs to go out.  By now, after all my thinking, I had come to the conclusion that he was not going to be coming here for the night and didn’t want me to go to him and that was why he hadn’t phoned until now – leaving it too late for me to do anything – presented as a kind of fait accompli.

I decide to go out with the dogs; I won’t bother with a shower.

As I’m walking with the dogs I think about going to bed but staying fully dressed and lying on top of the bed so that, if he calls, I will be ready to go.  Maybe the flat stank of smoke?  Maybe he’s just had enough – with not having enough sleep the night before?  Maybe I’m just being too much for him?

I hear the phone ringing in my pocket.  My gloves mean that I can’t get the bloody thing out.  The phone stops ringing just as I get it out of my pocket.  I look at the missed call.  It was F, of course.  I phone him back.  It starts ringing.  Dino, just at this moment decides he must do the biggest poop ever.  This means I cannot hold the phone to my ear, put them on short leads, open up the bag AND pick it up and dispose of it all at the same time.  Something has to go.  It is the call.

Not because I want to but because the poop is more, shall we say, pressing.  Damn Dino!  I pick it up and, as we are only a few minutes from home decide to wait until I am in the lift before trying again.  We get in the lift and I take their leads off and try calling again.  He answers.

‘Can I call you back in 10 minutes?’, he asks.  Of course, I reply – I can tell he is carrying stuff.

He calls me back.  I explain I was out with the dogs and why I called but couldn’t wait for him to answer.  I ask him where he is.  He explains he is in the car and is trying to find somewhere to park and then he will be with me.

‘But I still need to take a shower’, he states.  I breathe a sigh of relief and tell him that I, too, must take a shower.

I finish my glass of wine.  I feel guilty about having a glass of wine (well, in honesty, two).  I don’t know why.  But it’s like when I eat a bar of chocolate.  It’s not that I’m lying about it and it’s not like it’s such a big deal that I feel I must tell him; it’s just like I don’t want his disapproval – like I am a child.  I wonder why this is.  It’s my house and my wine and I can drink it if I want.  Still, even that doesn’t stop the feeling.  It’s like I haven’t told him the whole truth – even if I have or had.  I rinse the glass and stop myself from washing it up.

I start to undress.  I notice that Dino and Rufus are making for the door.  They have heard something (or, rather, Dino has heard something and is very excited – Rufus is just going along with it in that confused kind of way that he has now – that old people have when they know something is going on but have no idea what it is).

Then I hear it too.  It is F, outside the door, making the slurping sounds that gets Dino so excited.  I laugh.

I go and open the door.  F is there, shirts on hangers in hand, a bag over one shoulder, with other bags and things. I keep Dino away from him so that the shirts will remain dry and not get wet from the Dino-slurp.  He explains that he thought he would bring a few shirts and stuff so that he doesn’t have to worry about it for the next few days.

In spite of all the crazy child-like thoughts that have been going through my head all night, at this point, the child inside of me is jumping up and down and clapping my hands and shouting in sheer happiness – whilst the Andy on the outside just smiles and says of course that’s fine and why don’t you hang those in the wardrobe – which is what he does.

I go over and hug him and give him a kiss.  He unpacks his bag.

‘This is for the bathroom’, he says as he hands me his washbag.  I cheerfully take it there, whilst feeling stupid.  Stupid for being so happy and stupid for having thought all those stupid thoughts all night.

Later I ask him about the smell in the flat and explain why.  He says there was no smell other than ‘new wardrobe and bed and paint’.  I am relieved, to say the least.

We have tea, showers and go to bed.  He is cold, he says, as he is in bed before me.

I cuddle him and take his hand and put it on my stomach.  He withdraws it and I ask why.  He explains that his hand is so cold (which it is) that he doesn’t like touching my stomach, knowing it is so cold.  I tell him it is fine and take it and hold it there, getting it warmer and making him feel better.

I resist the urge to tell him that I love him – even if it is true and even if I really want to tell him so that he knows.

And, he hasn’t moved in at all.  He’s just staying with me for a few days although, he said, it could be for all of next week too.  I think I curb my enthusiasm for this quite well.  Or, at least, to the outside world.  Or, rather, to him.

A habit that I like

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I know he’s awake.  Well, when I say ‘awake’ I mean semi-conscious, at least.

People have habits.  Each person has different habits.  Things they do that are not necessarily strange in themselves but are done to excess (comparatively) or are fashioned only by some ‘freaky’ way that their body is built or their mind works.

I have the ‘habit’ of washing my hands.  I do it a lot.  My hands feel ‘dirty’ often and I take every opportunity to wash them.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  I am aware this is some sort of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and so I actually stop myself from doing it quite often – aware that, in fact, it is not really necessary.  But, for instance, when I put hand cream on (which I have to do since the end of 2008, at least from time to time) my immediate thought is that I want to go and wash my hands.  Which I don’t do, obviously, since it would negate the effects of the hand cream and, anyway, it was because of prolonged ‘wetness’ that they became like this in the first place.

I am sure I have many other annoying or funny habits.

F has, for me, very peculiar (but quite beautiful) feet.  If I say they are similar to the Hobbits feet from the Lord of the Rings films – but less hairy – that would give you the wrong impression.  But, in some way, they are.  Not large like Hobbits feet, nor, as I have said, hairy but he really has no ‘little toe’.  I mean to say he DOES have a little toe it’s just that it’s not so little.  In fact it looks the same as the other toes and almost as big.

But there’s a thing about his feet.  When I move my toes, including the big one, they all move together.  they are not like fingers.  What F can do and does subconsciously, I am sure, is move them individually.

And so, in bed, if his feet are pressed against my leg or feet and he is semi-conscious (i.e. as he’s waking up), he will (and this is the only way I can really describe it) drum his toes against my leg/foot.

And, like almost everything about him, I love it.  It’s a peculiar thing to him (as far as I am aware although readers may put me straight on that, I suppose) and, so, ‘special’.  And, every time it happens, I like it and think of his feet and feel safe and warm and comfortable.

Thank goodness he doesn’t actually read this blog!

Hair today………….. ; All change; Doubly dippy

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“I’ve just got to clean my teeth and do my hair”, I say.  He is lying under the covers.  I have just brought him a cup of coffee having been out with the dogs and drunk mine and now about to get dressed to go to work.

And, to prove he is not as asleep as he would have me believe he comes out with ‘which hairs?’

Now, I know I don’t have much hair on my chest and, unfortunately, my hair is thinning on top but…..
‘Bastard’ is my response.  He laughs.

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The wardrobe came last week.  It has mirrors.  It is big.  It is fabulous.  Not all clothes are sorted yet but they will be.  Soon.  The bedroom already looks much tidier and less ‘dirty’.

There are many things to put away and they will be done, mostly this weekend.

And I took the opportunity to have a bit of a move around.

So the TV was moved to the bedroom.  This has pleased F no end.  The night before last, as I hadn’t yet got a long enough cable for the aerial, we watched a video – during which he fell asleep.  Last night, having got the aerial and a digital decoder (as V couldn’t be bothered to find the remote for the one he eventually gave me back) and F having tried to sort out the getting of channels, we watched TV.  F is happy, there is no doubt.

The desk I have moved to where I thought I would have put the Dining Table.  On it is the computer.  Being an iMac, it is easy to move having only the power cable to worry about, the keyboard and mouse fitting snugly under the screen/computer to enable carrying.

I don’t think I like it where it is.  The table/desk, I mean.

I go back to my original idea of having the table near the window.  I think it will be better there.

A agrees.  He was round on Sunday making all sorts of suggestions as to how it should be changed.  It was nice of him but it’s not really for me.  And, anyway, he didn’t really understand that I wanted F to come up with ideas – it would make him feel more at home in the same way that the telly is now in the bedroom.

It all makes me sound rather wicked, perhaps?  But it isn’t meant to be that way.

So, undoubtedly, the table will be moved.  Maybe, even, this weekend, we shall see.

That means moving the ceiling light or, as A suggested, getting a cord by which to hang it across the ceiling.  Then there’s moving the other things around and, hopefully ending up with an acceptable living room/dining room.

Then all I shall need to complete it is a proper dining table and we’re done!

But I shall ask F, when we have time.  I would prefer if he were ‘involved’.

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Finally, I’m pleased for all you UK readers to learn that the UK is out of recession.  You must all be very pleased

Of course, here, in Italy, Buzz Lightyear was saying that Italy and the Italians wouldn’t be affected (oh, yes, apart from those businesses that went out of business and the people who lost their jobs).

I do worry that, for the UK, the house prices are still far too high and wonder how long it will be before ‘double-dip’ is added to the word recession by the UK media.

I hope I’m wrong.

Streets paved with…….what?????; Ironing what?????

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It’s cold.  We’re all wearing thick coats and hats.  Mind you, there’s not that many people around.  I guess, partly, because it’s still lunchtime.

I’ve had my hair cut and am walking to the cigarette shop.  I go down the street with the fantastic Art Noveau buildings – something to be seen in Milan, one of which is pictured at the top of my blog.

I’m following this guy, rather rotund, wearing one of those hats with the fur flaps that come down to cover the ears – like a deerstalker a bit but I don’t remember the proper name.

He didn’t look like one of the homeless guys. I mean he was only carrying one plastic bag which looked like it only had a couple of things, at most, in it.  But his next action was quite surprising.

He suddenly stops, looking at something on the ground, then stoops and picks it up.

Not as you might think, a coin or something that might be of either value or interest.

No, he picks up a comb.  An ordinary black, plastic comb. On the street. Probably used.

Puts it in his pocket and continues to walk on and around the next corner.  As I am going straight on, I turn slightly to glimpse someone who is probably around 60, grey beard, not untidy chap.

What a strange thing to do, I thought.

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F has changed me in many ways.  Or, rather, I do some things now that I would never have done in the past.  One of these is ironing sheets  For me, what was crucial was that they were clean.  Now, yesterday, because my bloody cleaner is so slow I find that all the clean sheets are still to be ironed.

So, as a couple of weeks ago, F, who had been really busy was so apologetic about the fact that he had had no time to iron the sheets, I ironed sheets.  Never really saw the point of it myself.  I mean, you put them on the bed and by the end of the first night they are never perfect.  So why bother?

Yet here I am, ironing sheets.

OK, so I admit that they are better having been ironed.  But still.  As someone who loathes ironing, this was really going over the top!

Bah!

On being putty

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6

‘Can you do me a favour?’

Well, that’s more or less what he said.

This is, after all, quite a difficult period for him.  Working 12 hours or more per day with, maybe, one day off a week.  It’s the same every year.  Well, that’s not quite right.  This year they have planned to have one day off per week.  Whether that will actually happen is another thing and depends on customers respecting the fact that Saturday is not a show day.  We (or, rather, they) shall see.

He’s lying in the bath.  I’m standing just inside the bathroom, trying hard not to be too obvious at looking at him.  I do point out that he doesn’t have so many grey hairs on his chest (I’m trying to make sure he doesn’t shave his chest come summer).  He replies that it’s because it’s wet there doesn’t seem so many.  Still, I have a few months to work on this :-D.  I still can’t help staring.  It’s embarrassing.  I just can’t tear my eyes away.  From his chest, his stomach………….well, all the parts that are, generally not available to view.  I want to crouch down besides the bath and stoke and caress and…… who knows?

But I don’t.

‘I’m going to Florence tomorrow’, he says.  It’s just for the day.  He should be home at 9.30 or 10.30 or so.  In any event, he will be late.  Well, later even than usual for this period.  He’s doing stuff for some show they have there.

Then he asked about the favour.

Would I mind coming up tomorrow night to stay at S’s flat.  Of course not, although I had thought about staying at mine, alone.  But it makes me feel a bit guilty and it’s the first time he’s asked so directly.  It’s because he will be home so late.  And, then, tomorrow, he will be back in the showroom and wearing different clothes and staying at mine just makes it all that more difficult.

So, even if my plan was to stay at mine I say that I would come to him.  Secretly, of course, I am delighted that he asked and that he wants me with him.

I leave the bathroom but not because I want to.  A few minutes later he calls to me to hand him the towel.  I want to rub him dry but I don’t.

Later, as we lie in bed, watching the telly, he touches me more in the way that I usually touch him.  Stroking and caressing.  It’s important for me as he doesn’t normally do this.  It thrills me in that it makes me feel really wanted.  I say nothing.  And, of course, it doesn’t last so long.  I am, apparently, too hot, even if I don’t feel so warm.

But still, it makes me feel that he does really want me there and that, given the time at work and the new flat and stuff, he does feel some support from me.

And terrible as it might sound, part of the reason for me planning to stay at mine was that he would be able to miss me.  But now I can’t.  Now he’s asked if I can do him this favour.  This small thing to make him happy.  Now, although I want to know that he misses me and I want him to know that he misses me, I just can’t do that to him.  He asked, after all.

I wonder if he has any idea that he only has to push the right buttons and I would be putty in his hands.