Tag Archives: Shopping

Everything’s golden.

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He told me that I needn’t but I couldn’t really go there with nothing, could I?

And, so, last Saturday I went hunting.

Before that, I asked him, “What are you going to get them?”

I’m glad I asked – a bottle of grappa for his Dad with a gold top or something and a gold picture frame for his Mum. Damn because the gold frame was what I had thought of.

“What were you thinking of?”, he asked me back. Quick thinking got me to say, “Maybe some gold coffee cups since they drink coffee every day”. Good idea, I told myself.

However, I found that gold coffee cups are NOT that easy to find. I did find some on my foray in the morning – but they didn’t have handles and looked rather cheap. Well, they were rather cheap so maybe that’s why.

But I had a brainwave in the afternoon and trotted off to La Rinascente (a huge department store by the Duomo). They had a section for fine china and the thing about fine china is that often it includes gold decoration.

And, even if they’ve changed it so that resembles more of an up-market market, I did find some. They are Wedgewood (so an English company, which makes sense) and they are simple, white cups and saucers with a rather fine pattern in …. GOLD! Hurrah!

OK, so they weren’t exactly cheap but on the basis that I get fed and looked after when I’m there, it seems (and is) a very small price to pay.

F said they were really nice. He’s going to wrap them, obviously, being so neat as he is.

And so I am set for our trip down there to the Tuscan coast. We leave on Thursday (probably) and come back on the Tuesday ……… unless, of course, Piero is born and we can go and see him. In which case F wants to go and see him – so we might either delay the visit by a day or come back a day early.

And, on the Sunday, which coincides with my birthday, we shall be having the Golden Wedding Anniversary lunch at some rustic restaurant in the foothills, on the veranda, overlooking olive groves, etc. All the family and cousins and so on will be there. And me :-)

It should be a nice few days away.

We go to the vet (and other things)

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I weigh it up in my mind. Emergency or not?

Of course, in reality, one day or two probably won’t make any difference but I am worried.

Just because I’m worried doesn’t make it a real emergency, though, does it?

No but I would absolutely hate for it to be my fault if something bad happened.

So, although it may not be an emergency, they SHOULD have been here and, so, it is an emergency and won’t wait for another day or two.

But let’s step back a bit.

I didn’t leave work early yesterday. Probably because of my undoubtedly-misplaced loyalty. In any event, I left ‘on time’. I parked and went to see about the tyres. The old, miserable guy remembered me. Or remembered the car. I booked. They keep the tyres in their store since I have nowhere to put them – and the store is somewhere else in Milan, so no doing it straight away.

Anyway, I don’t really want it done before Easter. I want good tyres for going up to the lake (for that is where we are going). If it rains a lot, the winter tyres hold the road better.

Then I go to the supermarket. Not my normal supermarket since I need soap and, therefore, I have to go to the horrible supermarket, Unes. It used to be my favourite supermarket until I found the meat wasn’t so good and they kept overcharging me for plastic bags, etc. Now I hate it. But they do the soap that I like and so I have to go there. I try to get round it as fast as I can, not only because I don’t like it but also because I have to take Dino to the vet.

I get my stuff and pay and leave. Back at the car, I put the shopping in and drive the few streets home. Of course, I am later than normal and so there is no parking in my usual street :-(. I drive around a bit and, eventually, park in a dodgy place – on a corner. Ah well, other people do it. Mind you, my normal parking is half-on the pavement in a street where it has a sign showing that cars will be towed away.

But we are in Italy and everyone does the same and, so far, mine has not been towed away. And nor has anyone else’s. So I park in a place that in England would be absolutely illegal and for which you would certainly find you had a big fine – if not that your car had been towed away.

I rush to get cigarettes since I am nearly out.

I rush home and change my shoes and take my tie off and off we go. I notice that Dino now has a cough as well. This is not good :-(

I feel rushed. And hot, even if it isn’t quite so hot. Spring is back with a vengeance – meaning it is cool and overcast and not really that nice. Milan is grey when it’s cloudy. More like Aberdeen (in summer :-) ) than a city near the Mediterranean!

Dino is a bit confused because although we start as normal for our early evening walk, we deviate.

There are a lot of people about which is why, normally, I don’t come down this street. Too many shops and stuff and the pavement is not very wide. It means Dino cannot wee as often as he would like.

As we approach the vet, I see that the shutters seem to be down.

When we get there I see it is closed. I check the opening times on the notice. Yes, they are supposed to be open. There is a motorbike outside and it may be one of the two vets. I try to call the vet number – the phone inside. It rings but no one answers. I look at the notice. There are two mobile numbers to call ‘in an emergency’.

Then I spot another, temporary notice. It explains that they are sorry but the practice is closed this afternoon. In an emergency phone this mobile number – one of the ones on the main notice.

And now we have caught up. I phone the number. I get the not-so-nice-vet. I explain the problem. He is sorry that they are not open. I humpf in my head. I am not happy. It’s a good job I hadn’t come home early especially to take him there. But I don’t say this. I explain he has what seems like a very bad cold.

He asks if he is coughing – except he uses the Italian word for it. Cough is a difficult word for Italians – unsurprising when you consider its spelling to its pronunciation. I explain that he wasn’t until this evening.

He asks if he’s eating. I say that he is – which he is. He says its a virus and common at this time of year. I think it must be Kennel Cough.

Anyway, he asks what I have left over from the time when we had Rufus – as we kept on having lots of pills for him. I say I don’t know and he says I should telephone him and he will advise if anything I have is good for Dino.

I rush home. The chemist will close in just over half an hour and if I need to buy something, I need to do it soon. Of course, I moved a lot of the bandages and plasters and stuff that we used to use with Rufus, into storage above the wardrobes. At least, I hope I did else I don’t know where they all are. And, of course, there’s the bathroom cabinet stuff. Some dog’s stuff might be in there.

I get the stepladder and find the stuff I am looking for in the second box I open. I get the stuff from the bathroom too. It goes onto the kitchen table and I make the call. I don’t have so much, to be honest. I thought I had more. Ah well.

The vet tells me that none of the stuff I have is any good and I must get this other stuff. He should have one pill tonight and one in the morning. Then I should phone him tomorrow. The stuff I am getting is anti-inflammatory.

I rush to the chemist. I get the pills. Dino has one. Or, rather, I shove it to the back of his throat and clamp his jaws shut, massaging his neck so that he swallows.

Last night I was really quite angry with the vet; for being closed; for not being there in MY emergency.

This morning, Dino is much better. He still has the occasional problem but is definitely more lively than the last few days. He didn’t cough at all this morning. And I didn’t get woken up in the night. But I shall take him to the vets this evening, just in case. I am not so angry with the vet now and, anyway, any anger is negated by the fact that the pills seem to have worked.

Walking through the city that I love.

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I must admit, it didn’t seem quite right. Of course, it had crossed my mind earlier, before I set out. And, so, I should have checked, I suppose. Still, I had mentioned ‘showroom’ and nothing was said to make me think otherwise.

In fact, when I had asked, earlier, if he would like to come with us for a walk, I had assumed he would be going that way anyway. He had said ‘no’ since he had many things to do. In a way, that was a shame, in that I would have found out that he wasn’t going to the showroom after all!

Unfortunately, I was a little late setting out. And there wasn’t a bus coming. But I knew that, if I walked, I could be there by about 7.30, so that was only half an hour after it started and that was OK. I walked. Eventually, at one of the stops I saw that the bus was coming and waited. Three stops later and I was off.

I don’t particularly like that part of town. It always seems so dark, so dead. I got to the gates – painted especially mimicking something that a graffiti artist would do, thereby making graffiti pointless. It works. Also it is quite stylish.

The gates were closed. I rang the bell. As I rang the bell, I thought that, quite obviously, I was at the wrong place. For certain, with something this important, the gate would be open and I would hear sounds of partying or, at least, sounds of people, etc.

I text him, asking if it was at the shop but not really expecting an answer since it would be unlikely he would have his phone on or with him. Still, if it were to be at the shop, then I would be very late and, maybe, he would check his phone and see where I was. Or where I had been.

I ring the bell a second time. There seem to be lights on, from what I can make out over the hight wall and gates – but, still, I am sure I am at the wrong place.

Now this is nowhere near the shop. The shop will take a while to get to. I think about a taxi but decide I can’t really justify the expense. If it had not been for him, at this point I would have just gone home. But I can’t let him down and I know he wanted me there.

Luckily, I have a general map of Milan in my head, including most public transport. I can get to the Duomo (cathedral), I think and from there I can walk – it’s not so far.

But first I need to walk back the way that I came – the other side of the park that Dino and I had been playing in a few hours before.

At first I was going to walk straight up the road then I realised it would be quicker to go diagonally, through the park. Well, when I say quicker, easier to catch a tram. I thought I would take a number 12 or 27 as I was sure they were the ones. They didn’t take me to the centre but it would do. It would have to do. It wasn’t so far to walk to the centre. Then I remembered that I could change and take a tram number 23 which would take me to a delightful little square just behind the Duomo. The park that I’m walking through is quite nice in the darkness (although there is no real darkness since we are in the city. So it is more shadows of darkness, some darker than others). There are few people about. A couple of couples, intertwined as young lovers often are in Italy – after all, they seem to have nowhere else to go! A few people walking their dogs. A group of three young lads one of whom is holding the lead to a rather small white fluffy dog which takes away from their swagger as it’s more of a lap dog. I smile. To myself, obviously.

But it’s beautiful in the park with its shades of darkness. It makes me think of Twilight (even if I’ve never seen the thing). It makes me think of summer (even if it’s not as warm so as to be wearing just a T-shirt). It’s that kind of smoky darkness you get at twilight in the summer. It’s why it’s also called dusk, I guess. Dusky.

I got to the stop. Earlier, when Dino and I were coming back from the park, there had been an accident. A tram had run into a car. I had heard the bang from the park and thought it must have been an accident. It doesn’t happen that often and still amazes me when it does. I don’t believe that the tram ran into the stationary car but that the car had tried to turn left, crossing in front of the tram, thinking that he could ‘get away with’ the manoeuvre – except he didn’t. Stupid.

Now there was no sign of the accident. I get to the tram stop and walk a little further down to check on the trams or buses that stop here. I am in luck! A number 73 bus, from Linate airport also stops here. I had forgotten about that option. This takes me right to San Babila and so is a much better choice.

And even more lucky! The bus is nearly here. The bus is packed as it always is, coming from the airport. I can’t believe it has taken them so long to make a metro from Linate. Well, it’s still not finished but at least now it’s under construction!

As we near San Babila, I look out of the window of the bus and see, above the buildings, the Duomo, there, in all it’s glory, floodlit and beautiful (well, if you take the plastic wrapping off the tower that holds the larger-than-life, golden Madonna). I catch my breath. It can still do that to me!

I get off the bus and walk over the square in San Babila. I think about V and how much we loved this city and realise that I still do. It fills me with an excitement that is impossible to describe. It has a beauty and a liveliness that I have found only in one other city, Istanbul (even San Babila with its modern buildings all around – its shops). There are people with bags – bags from designer shops, there are people making their way to dinner, or the cinema, or the theatre, or home, of course. The city is alive and I like it a lot.

I walk down Via Montenapoleone (one of the main designer shopping streets in Milan). I notice windows more now, given that it’s F’s job. I like the window in Louis Vuitton. They have large arrows as if on a target, in a circle, around a bag. The fletches are the same colour for each window, but a different colour between windows. I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean, as such, but it’s pretty and inspiring at the same time. Like a work of art.

I notice that some of the other shops are no longer impressive to me, with their window displays. I am affected (or should that be infected) by F and what he does. I am less interested in the actual clothes or bags than I am in the displays! I pause in front of Iceberg. They were my favourite designers. I quite like a jacket there. Sometimes, I wish I had the money to shop there like I used to but that’s just a fleeting thought. Clothes, after all, are not that important, it’s how you wear them that’s the key.

The street is not full but the people there are mostly tourists. Maybe they’re too frightened to come there during the day? Frightened they will be made to purchase something that’s too expensive or that they will look out of place walking down there when the shops are open?

Still, I enjoy walking down the street. I want to tell them that I live here, that this place is my home. I am happy to live here. No, even proud! I imagine their envy, even if it’s not for everyone (even for most Italians). Still, it’s a city that I love and I like to be reminded that I love it – and not just because I’m with F. And it does feel like home (which it is) even if I would happily live in the country again. But I may only have this short time here, in this city, so I have to savour every moment.

At the end of the street, I turn right and reach the shop. Even if F has not replied to my text, it is obviously right. Whilst all the shops are now closed, there are people outside this one, having a fag, talking, etc.

It’s a special thing to launch a range of spectacle and sunglasses frames. Of course, I know a lot of people there. Well, the people that work for the company. They are all, of course, very nice to me. F is pleased to see me and I explain what happened.

It’s like an upmarket cocktail party. There are drinks (prosecco and wine) and nibbles, being served around the shop by waiters. Finger food, aperitivo food. When I try some, eventually, it’s nice. As I would expect, really.

I wander about a bit, not wanting to be in F’s way as he is, or should be, working. Saying hello and chatting with clients many of whom he knows, of course.

Someone comments on the jumper he’s wearing. It’s a simple grey v-neck. He tells them it’s from Zara and that I had bought it for Christmas. This is true but I only recognise it now, when he’s said it. He did seem particularly pleased with it and, obviously, he really is. That makes me happy. Also, I am happy that, even if I’m not in this business, I can do something so right.

He finds me a little later. He puts frames on me. He favours one that is a pale grey. I prefer one that is a dark blue. He says that the lighter one suits me. This time, I think, I shall listen to advice since I am always better pleased later.

But since I like the darker frames, later still, with a group of colleagues around me, we have the frames put on me again and people nodding their heads or shaking it giving their sage advice as to what looks best.

Apart from me and one other person, they side with F. I guess my next pair will be light grey frames then?

The party finishes and most people leave. F had told me that he has to re-do the shop for tomorrow. It has to be done now because tomorrow (today as I write this) he is in Germany for a week. I thought it was going to take a long time but before 10 he is finished and we go home.

As soon as I got home, I took off my shoes since my feet were killing me. I had done a lot of walking in shoes that I don’t wear so much now. Still, the walk both through the park and the city itself were worth it, reaffirming as it did, my feeling for this city. And I’m not even a city person!

Never going back (unfortunately).

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Walk down any High Street in the UK and, more or less, you could be walking down any High Street in any UK city.

What’s wrong with that?

Positively, it means that, wherever you go in the UK, you can be sure there will be the same shops. It means that, if you buy something in, say, Nottingham, it’s more than likely you can buy the same thing in Exeter. This is a good thing, right?

Well, yes, of course. And also no.

The High Street is filled with the same shops everywhere. Individual shops, local to a town or small region have all but disappeared. It means that economies of scale can apply – the big shops buy larger amounts so can get better prices which, hopefully, they pass on to the consumer.

I remember when we first came here. I was shocked but delighted to see shops that weren’t the same in every town. How refreshing it was to find a small, independent jewellers, a stationary shop that had something different or unusual, etc? It was a little like when we went to live in North West Herefordshire and went shopping in Kington.

It’s a treasure that one should guard lovingly. Of course, in every major town there are streets full of High Street names, but mixed with them and in many side streets off them are the small shops. Let’s take cake shops as an example. Go to the UK and there’s Greggs. Probably there are some others but Greggs comes to mind. Greggs is in every town. Everything is ‘freshly made’. Everything is ‘the same’. You go to Greggs because you know what you’re going to get.

Here it’s not like that. Each cake shop (maybe with a café as well) produces their own stuff. Cakes are different. Some cakes you won’t get anywhere else. There’s a risk, of course, that you won’t like what they’ve made. There’s also the risk that it will be a unique experience and will be the most divine thing you’ve ever tasted – like my local cake shop does zeppole. However, I am informed (by F) that these are not quite the same as normal zeppole. They are not deep fried (as is common) but baked. They have ones filled with custard and ones filled with cream. If we choose them, we usually have one of each.

The UK used to be more like this but then it all changed. Competition was everything and, gradually, for convenience and, originally, price, we chose to use the big supermarkets and the national bakers, etc. And, so, the result is a High Street that is homogeneous and, to be frank, boring as hell.

And now Italy is going down the same road. People here don’t realise what it will mean. It means that the small shops will close. It means that all towns will look the same. We will have to buy what everyone else buys because there will, in the end, be less choice – well, less real choice.

Of course, it’s being sold as ‘opening up the markets’ and the arguments are made that everyone will benefit. But, in reality it will mean that big business gets to own the market and the benefit will be, in a word, ‘grey’ – i.e., the same things sold everywhere.

I find that I can’t put into words what this change really means. But I’m not sure that the free market is actually worth the loss of what Italy has now (and what the UK HAD about 30 or more years ago).

Sure, it would be nice to buy aspirin and stuff at the supermarket. It would be nice that shops were always open. But that ‘nice’ is tempered by the fact that, as a result of allowing this to happen, we shall lose something that is most precious.

It’s not that I don’t want change or that change is bad. It’s not that I even like the rules and regulations here. It’s more that I don’t want to see, here, what happened to the UK. Nothing is perfect but I am fearful that Italy’s ‘localisation’ will be lost forever and it’s something I would not like to see.

After all, once the small places are gone, they are gone forever – there’s no going back.

Joni sang all that needs to be said:


(Joni Mitchell – Big Yellow Taxi)

The Chritsmas Spirit; Friends from across the water.

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“Did you like the thing on the table in the lounge?”; he grins as he asks this of me.

“What thing?”, I ask back. Of course, I knew he had been there, dropping off some jars of antipasto stuff for Christmas day lunch. But they had been in the kitchen. Although I had put some washing out to dry in the lounge I had, as normal, failed to look at anything. I am a man. It’s not an excuse – just a fact.

He is obviously excited about it. In fact, he seems very excited about Christmas all round. Which is lovely.

I go back home and look on the table. There is a festive table centrepiece. All green and gold and red. I tell him it is lovely – which it is – but more for the fact that he is making such an effort with everything this year. Not that it is really effort – at least, I think he’s doing it because he’s really looking forward to it.

The previous morning, we had gone for breakfast and, on the way back, we popped into the Chinese shop round the corner from me. He had decided that he didn’t like the lights round the doorways in the lounge. They were not the right shade of white. He bought two more sets of lights that were the right shade of white.

In the evening we went to Baia Chia – the Sardinian restaurant. A colleague (of mine from 18 years ago, he said – and it was probably true) and his wife (whom I had never met) are over in Milan and we had agreed to go out. Also, Stef was over from the US. An also joined us and so we were six.

We had a fabulous meal. I miss Stef and Nicole quite a lot so it was particularly good to see him. He has gone very American though and all the good work I had put into teaching him British English has been for nothing. Obviously, it’s OK but it was funny to hear him speak with an American accent and use words live ‘beverages’ when he meant ‘drinks’.

We also had a lot to drink. Indeed, between the six of us we must have had the best part of two bottles of Mirto after all the wine! F was a little drunk. When we arrived home, he started trying to put up the new lights. I told him not to do it because he was drunk. He did one but left the other until the morning, thank goodness.

And now the flat is nearly ready. The only room which has not had the full ‘spring clean’ is the bedroom – to be done on Christmas Eve.

And, unusually for me, I did some Christmas shopping on Sunday! This just shows how much I am into the Christmas spirit this year. This could be the very best Christmas ever :-D

Knowing me, knowing you

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He thinks he knows me now.

This is good and bad. It makes me laugh and makes me annoyed, depending on the situation.

We’re at the supermarket checkout. He complains that this line is too slow. I say, “Never mind, we’re on holiday”.

A few moments later, I start laughing. I had been watching the checkout man scanning the stuff through. For each item, he took several moments to find the barcode, then scan it, the read the label of the good, then place it carefully on the conveyor belt, before carefully selecting the next item to be scanned. He was very, very slow. As F said, the checkout girl on the next counter scanned four items to his one.

But, for some reason it just made me laugh and soon F was laughing too. As was some woman a couple of people behind us.

Later he said that he was right about the slowness and that I had, as usual, done my internal rolling of my eyes, and issued my usual conciliatory remark.

He was right about what I was thinking and doing after all, I’ve had over 20 years of practice with V and it’s automatic.

….. to be continued ….

Luncheon vouchers?

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I’ve never worked anywhere that gave luncheon vouchers.

Here, we have a canteen that is, in my opinion, very good. Every day (more or less), I have a pasta dish and a meat dish with a vegetable. It’s good value for money in that only about 7 cents is deducted from my wages.

Also, our cook is very good and tries to be a bit imaginative, which I really like.

But we are into the holiday period and, I have been informed, the canteen is getting some sort of make-over. And, so, it’s closed in August – for the whole month.

Here, in Italy, lunch is provided almost everywhere you work. Provided for a small fee. I think this sort of thing happened in London, at least until the Inland Revenue saw it as a useful source of extra tax. If your company (in Italy) does not have a canteen, then you are provided with these tickets. The value depends on your company. It is usually about €7 or so.

And so, we have some tickets for this period. The value of each ticket is only just over €5. Some people are less than happy with that. To be honest, I don’t really care. It’s not so important. After all, this will give me the chance for a bit of a ‘diet’ for the week before I stuff myself with food for two weeks and a week’s ‘diet’ for the week after the two-stuffing-weeks. It may, after all, be quite a good thing.

So, I shall probably, for the first time in my life, be like so many other annoying people at the supermarket queue – using my tickets for the shopping!

I am very excited. Does it show?

Last Weekend

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Obviously, we’re back online :-)

I’ll be adding posts written in the last few days and here is one:

26/7/11
Well, that was all rather nice. I think they enjoyed it. We didn’t seem to do much except eat and drink and do a little tourist stuff and a bit of shopping and then eat and drink.

My perfect holiday.

We did go to Bagutta, a restaurant in Milan, just behind Via Montenapoleone. We ate in the garden. It wasn’t so hot and there weren’t so many mosquitoes, which was good (although it could have been hotter for me, of course).

The waiter was funny (as in funny, ha ha not funny, strange) but he did bring us fried courgette flowers to start which were delicious. It was the first time that I’ve had them like that. Before they’ve been filled with ricotta cheese or something. I had some culatello (meat – like ham, thinly sliced) with figs. F had prosciutto with figs. I tried some. I should have had that.

I had penne with a ragù sauce (which included peas). We skipped main courses because this was enough! However, I saw that they had raspberries and wild strawberries so I asked for a mix of those with some cream. It was lovely (even if the raspberries were not as tasty as those we had the other week in Cararra.)

We had wine and water and mirto or limoncello at the end. It is expensive, coming to over €270 for the four of us but really nice and the food and service were excellent.

The night before, we had gone to Porca Vacca. F is so taken with that restaurant now that he suggested to An, when we went out for a drink with her on the Sunday night, that we should go this week. So we are going on Wednesday night, apparently.

But the main thing was that D&S enjoyed it – which I think they did.

Service

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I have mentioned ‘service’ in Italy before now, probably in many posts.

Sometimes, it is exceptionally good. At other times it is, at best, abysmal. The abysmal usually occurs when you’re dealing with bureaucracy. There are many things which, whilst in the UK are straight forward, here require an amount of red tape that is, let us say, unfortunate.

Go to a small shop that, for instance, sells pens. There the service will be wonderful. When you have finally selected a pen, it will be wrapped with care as if it were to be the most important gift for someone – even if you are buying it for yourself.

Obviously, this doesn’t apply to all shops. Zara, for example, doesn’t carefully pack your purchased items but, much as shops in the UK, will just slip them in a bag. It does depend on where you go.

However, when dealing with something that requires the red-tape documentation, don’t expect a level of service even up to the Zara standard.

Instead, expect to wait; to be ignored; to be advised that you will have to come back with some other document; to be told that it simply ‘can’t be done’.

I go. Each desk is occupied both with an ‘assistant’ and a customer. There are a number of chairs for people who are waiting to sit on. It’s not a good sign. I’ve found waiting areas to be a sure sign of extreme slowness and incompetence. I find that I am not disappointed this time.

Two customers leave. The desks are empty of customers. The staff, though, are doing something else. Going for water; chatting to other people; walking around. They all look at me from time to time. I am English so am, to some extent, used to waiting. Quietly. Surely, I think, someone will attend to me shortly.

Another customer leaves. There are a lot of staff walking around. The desk where the last customer was definitely says ‘Closed’.

There are now only two desks which have customers at them. There is an office behind me that seems to attract the busy, walking-around staff. I could just pop my head round the door as it is right behind me. I don’t, of course.

Surely, I think, someone will notice the fact that I am waiting and that, by now, I don’t look like I am enjoying myself.

I wonder if the two customers that remain and are being served will ever finish.

A short man who could best be described as a retired spiv walks past. He is wearing one of those loud brown, striped suits. He reminds me of Danny DeVito. He looks at me and bids me good day. I mumble something in return. It’s not really a ‘good’ day for me.

The mumble was going to be something like ‘salve’ which is a two-syllable word but comes out as a one syllable word that almost doesn’t come out at all, it is so quiet. In part this is because no one, up to this point, has spoken to me.

He walks off somewhere.

About five minutes later he comes past me again. He asks me something in Italian. By now my mind is numb and even if he had said ‘Good Day’ in Italian, I wouldn’t have understood it. I feel like I have died whilst I’ve been waiting.

I give him the contents of the envelope and crank my mind into some sort of gear. I think I am somewhere between zero and first gear. He understands my comment that I just want to pay. He calls a woman from the room behind me – her with the ‘Closed’ desk. He tells her to serve me.

She is, obviously, less than happy with this. But, then again, I am less than happy with being here amongst all these totally ignorant Italians. I mean in this office not in Italy, of course.

She serves me. She is useless. But, in spite of her uselessness, five minutes later I am out of there. It will be the last time I use them and so, next year, I will do something about it. In time. I.e. a month before I need to do this again.

Or else I will be too lazy and go there again this time next year and be unhappy all over again.

Let’s see.

British Food – not really all it’s cracked up to be (or, Maybe the Italians are right?)

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Well, apart from trying to fix my blog for almost a month, now, I have also been doing other things.

Take last weekend, for example.

I went to Hay-on-Wye to see Best Mate. She wasn’t able to come here this year so asked if I would go over. F and I arranged it so that he could look after the dogs (and, finally, ‘do’ the bedroom – but that’s another post).

The travel there and back was one thing, again, maybe, another post. And the weather! So cold it was like being back in winter. In fact, the weather alone would be enough for me to never go back there, certainly to live – and that’s without the other things.

However, it was lovely to see BM who was considerably better than last time.

But I came to the realisation, whilst I was there, why it is that Italians have such a fixation about English=bad food (also see Lola’s blog post).

I used to relish going back to the UK. A Kentucky Burger was high on my list, if not essential. This time, however, it was very different. The real thing I absolutely love is Roast Lamb. The British do it so well. It is now, really the only thing on my list. But let’s look at the food I did have.

I arrive at Birmingham Airport at about 9.30 a.m. BM is there to pick me up and we drive back to Hay. This is about two and a half hours or so. By the time we arrive in Hay, I am ready for lunch, having had nothing but a biscuit and a couple of small croissants on the planes (it was Air France).

We go to Kilverts. The first thing is the beer. I’m afraid I forgot the ‘wine-non-diet’. The beer is great. The UK does great beer and, in particular, the real ale. I had some mild. It was nice and smooth. We looked at the blackboard for food. There was no lamb but I could choose something else. However, they were preparing the kitchen for the Festival (which is happening as I write this). We both agreed that was a bit strange. However, we had ham sandwiches with mustard. It was OK but not really as good as it was in my mind. Still, I had more beer, so it was fine.

That night we went to Red Indigo, billed as the best Indian restaurant in Hay, which makes me laugh because it’s the only one! The food was wonderful. I had a lamb balti. And beer – although Cobra beer. Indian food has come a long way from the time I was at University when it was, really, very hot or slightly less hot muck. Now it is fresh and so tasty. As normal I had Naan bread with my balti. In the UK they do nice large, thick Naan breads. Unfortunately, here, they do rather small and much too thin Naan breads.

Saturday, I needed to go shopping. I had things to buy – things I had come for. We got into Hereford and went straight to the cafe in the centre of High Town. It’s in the open air – so we can smoke. Aside from the cold, the coffee was a ‘Starbucks’ type cappuccino. I used to love these. Now they are too hot and too big. I am used to cappuccino Italian style. Tepid, small but lovely. As we are at the ‘bar’ ordering (of course, I noticed, for the first time really, how I am used to having a waiter serve me), I saw delicious-looking Almond croissants and decided to have one.

It was the first time I realised why the Italians think English food is so bad. It is bad. At least, if you’re not in the right places it is. The croissant (brioche, here) was filled with custard (crema, here). It had flakes of almond on top. Without the flakes of almond it would have been the same as the brioche I normally have for breakfast (when we go to a cafe on the weekends), except – the crema was not soft but more of a gel and it didn’t ooze out since there was so little of it. However, the worst thing was that, being used to having brioche that has been baked that very morning – this must have been baked several days ago. It was, quite frankly, stale. If they served this kind of stuff in Italy, the café would go out of business.

And then I thought: that’s how it has always been. The British tolerate this being given very little alternative or just because we don’t complain. I would have complained but I knew that this was perfectly acceptable here, so what was the point?

Later we got some cakes from Greggs. I had a Belgian Bun. It was OK. Actually, it was quite nice – but mainly because here, in Italy, they don’t do them. At least it was fresh, unlike the croissant.

Later still we went for lunch to the The Imperial. The beer (I don’t remember what it was) was fine. I ordered Gammon with Egg. It should have been good but it wasn’t. To be honest, G, here, in our canteen, does a much better job of making it and I had to explain how to make it to her! Also there were just too many chips. Don’t get me wrong, it was OK – it just wasn’t nice enough.

That evening we weren’t able to book a table at the Black Lion and so went to the Three Tuns. This was divine. Good beer (Butty Bach, I think) and rack of lamb. This is how British food should be. Fresh vegetables, good gravy and the lamb was perfectly cooked and juicy.

Sunday, we were in Hay for reasons I cannot disclose. We did go to Shepherds for a morning cappuccino (which wasn’t bad and much more like real Italian coffee) and, more importantly, I had a Toasted Tea Cake. Oozing with butter it is one of the things from my childhood. I adore Toasted Tea Cakes and this one was as good as any I have had.

We skipped lunch and I really wasn’t hungry anyway. That evening we went to the Old Black Lion. I do like the Black Lion. The beer isn’t so special but it’s OK. The food is very good, though. Again it was lamb. Again it was fantastic. I had some meringue thing for sweet. BM chose the summer pudding which I tasted and it was far, far better than my choice!

Before the Black Lion we were back in Kilverts where we met up with T, a friend of BM’s. I had a few pints of Butty Bach and I had really forgotten how good that beer is!

The next day I was back to the airport. I was there about 2 p.m. I had over an hour to ‘kill’. I went through to departures (after stocking up on nicotine) and went to the Weatherspoons pub in the departure lounge. The choice wasn’t brilliant but I chose a cheeseburger. It arrived. It was tepid which was a shame because if it had been hot, it would have been quite nice. Of course, they can do this as there’s no time to fix it, what with departing flights and all.

But it got me to thinking that, really, in the UK, if you don’t know the places, food is quite a hit and miss affair – in fact, mainly miss.

So, Italians are right, in a way, in that British food is not that good, unless you go to a place that does good food. Elsewhere it is liable to be fairly crap.

And, for the first time, I really didn’t want a Kentucky Burger. Too much salt and fat and sugar and crap. It seems I’ve moved on a bit!