Tag Archives: Strange things

Is it connected or just coincidence?

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The place’s entrance is on the outside of a curve in the fast main road. The road runs along the top of a large hill but dips down towards the entrance of the place to rise again afterwards. The entrance is large, as is the car park that surrounds the place – too big for the place itself and one wonders how the car park was ever filled.

I go in with friends, as yet undefined. The car has a problem. We need somewhere to stay the night and this looks like a pub/hotel. But, apparently, it’s not. However, there is a hotel, within walking distance (since the car won’t go any more) further down the main road. We go for a quick drink in one of the many bars. This particular bar is to the left (as you look at the pub) and is, almost a separate building which has its own entrance.

A few days or weeks later I am back.

I am with a woman, younger than me. We stop at the pub for something to eat and drink. We get two rooms for the night. We each go to our rooms after dinner but then I remember that this place is not a hotel and has no rooms. I go back to the bar. I ask if it isn’t possible to stay in the rooms we are already in. Apparently not, since this is not a hotel. I go back to my room to pack. I pass the girl’s room which has a window (very large and with a rounded top) onto the corridor. I go in to tell her that we do have to pack and leave after all.

She is sitting in the hallway of her room, her back to the large window, kneeling on the floor. She is making what appears to be circles with her right elbow on the lino in front of the window.

“What are you doing?”, I ask.

“I’m clearing these lines away”

I bend down to see and, sure enough there are lines made as when you drag furniture along the floor – a sort of grey. As I look, her elbow does, indeed, clear these lines.

“OK”, I say, “we have to pack and go to this other place which is a hotel”. I add, “I’ve been before, it’s not far”.

“I’m glad you came”, she said, in a slightly strange, flat voice and yet, filled with some emotion that I could not guess at. “I need you to help me”.

“I need you to help me get away from this thing at my back”.

I look and see that there is a swirling, white, whirlpool of light behind her that appears to be pulling her into the window. I grab hold of her and pull. I pull her away from the light. The light wants her for itself. I pull harder. Even when she is free I can feel the light pulling her back, as if they are attached by rope. Once she is away, we stand and I hold her, cuddling her. My head rests on her shoulder. I look down her back and see that, although the white whirlpool of light is back at the window, she now has white light in the small of her back. I say nothing. I am scared, mainly for her.

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I woke, of course, but returned to sleep quickly, as I was very tired.

The next morning I couldn’t get the girl out of my mind. Who was she? At first, I thought it was my sister, even if she looked nothing like her. Then I thought it was Best Mate, even though, again, it looked nothing like her.

I became convinced it was Best Mate.

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I phone. I wait whilst some unknown, unnamed person goes and gets her.

“How are you?”, I ask. She answers that she is ‘fine, thanks’ in a bright and over-cheerful voice. There’s something wrong, I know it. I ask. She explains that she now has someone with her. All the time. I guess what it is and why it is. I admonish her for it but in reality just feel frightened for her.

I tell her of the dream. The dream was two days ago. She says ‘Oh, how interesting’ in the fake, light voice that is required in order to get the ‘minder’ taken away. I can’t bring myself to ask if the dream and her actions were at all connected. But I am left wondering.

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He tells me, over dinner what he would do.

“I would go and tell her like it is. Say that it’s her life and she can do what she wants but if she really wants to be better, she has to understand that it’s inside her and only she can stop it. Drugs and other things aren’t required. There are so many people who have real problems whereas hers are all in her head. If she was my friend, I would be hard on her. You should take a week from work and go over and talk to her”.

I want to. But I don’t want to make a mistake. He is right but it is easy for us to say. He thinks she is weak (not that he doesn’t like her) and she needs to be strong and, most of all, like herself. This is true. One must like oneself above everything, otherwise how can you like others or life or anything else?

But I’m not sure I am strong enough to do this. He tells me that if it was his best friend, this is what he would do. But, at least, I’m thinking about it!

If they put the price up, the people who will pay more will be those that buy the product.

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I was reading this article about imposing a minimum price for alcohol in the UK which, as with most research, seems a lot of money to pay for what is, in reality, common sense.

I can quite believe that the ‘winners’, should they fix a minimum price for booze in the UK, would be the supermarket chains. Of course they would be the winners!

But, I really couldn’t believe this line:

Researchers also suggested minimum pricing would have the greatest impact on households which consume the most alcohol.

Ummmm. Yes, I would think so. And I wonder why it was only a suggestion? That’s like saying that the people who smoke are going to be the most affected by an increase in the price of cigarettes or that people who drive a long way are likely to be those that suffer if there is a hike in the fuel price.

Well. Doh!

And I would like a few thousand for my statement in the title if any of you researchers are thinking of using it in any report you write. Please.

Telecom Italia – giving a response, as usual. Or should that be – giving the usual response?

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Yes, I’m fairly certain it was because my phone got wet in the rain last night. Now it’s dried out it seems fine.

And, so, I was able to call Telecom Italia about the lack of ADSL.

And yes, there is a problem centrally, somewhere. Of course, they’re going to send an engineer to fix it. And when will that be?

Well, Monday, of course.

Telecom Italia – a complete load of crap.

Spam comments; Mantova; Facebook and the changing of Social Networking

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I’m getting more spam on here at the moment – all captured and not published but I still have to check it, so it’s a pain.

Usually, the English is terrible. Often, in spite of links to different sites, the messages are the same. I think the best one I have ever had was the one that just said ‘I hate you’ the other details of this were: http://www.lloydstsbbusiness.com/ (being the link), Holquist@gmail.com (being the email address) and 67.212.185.94 (being the IP address). I kept that one, even if it isn’t published. Most tell me what a wonderful site this is and how wonderfully I write and how the ‘post’ was so informative and was the perfect answer to some life-long question that the supposed person had had.

A few offer me ways to make this web site something that can generate so much cash that I would never have to work again. A few offer pornographic sites that are, of course, the best.

Still, the ‘I hate you’ one was by far the best and, strangely, I really love it!

Actually, I think I’m getting more spam because of my ‘Elton John is Gay!’ post. It has been the one most favoured by Google searches as of late. It seems that if you type in ‘William Hague Gay’ and search for images – the image I posted comes out as the first one! Who would have known?

Even though that image is used by a number of other newspaper sites, mine is first :-D

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I had a very nice comment from Saruk to say that Mantova will be waiting for me next time! I am so happy about that. The weather, this weekend, will be very nice and I remember so many nice years being at the Festival – even the year where an African artist, doing some rain-evoking chanting/dance thing meant that the heavens opened and the storm was so bad that the event had to be cancelled, people walking over chairs as the auditorium was flooded (perhaps God was looking down after all! :-D) – enjoying both the Festival and the fine weather, meeting friends from Mantova and the UK. Ah, good times.

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Facebook, the popular social networking site is losing some of its function – at least for me.

There are many applications (games) on there and, having moved on from Farmville, I am now playing Camelot. This is Farmville with wars which makes it a little more interesting.

Every time something happens (like you complete a quest or get a token from Merlin or ask for help building a castle or searching for your destroyed army after some battle), it is posted on your wall for all your friends to see. Since the purpose of this game is to grow and become stronger then encourage you to become friends with as many people as possible and so, now, I am ‘friends’ with people all over the world – people who I have never met and am unlikely to meet and who, in real life, are unlikely to be friends.

And, yet, since you ‘speak’ to a lot of these people almost every day, since you have common goals, since you are sharing experiences (albeit fictional ones within the game), they feel the same as real friends and provoke the same emotions.

There is laughter, crying, anger, frustration – in exactly the same way as if they were ‘real people’ (yes, I know they are real people but they are only ‘virtual’ friends, so you know what I mean). Recently, when the leader of my alliance was verbally attacked by other members of our alliance it caused a rift every bit as real as if we all lived in the same village. The hatred was just as vicious, the outpouring of emotion from all sides, just as real and vivid.

And, for me too! I was surprised at myself and noted how much I felt, how much, inside, I was upset or angered. The edges of the virtual and the real were blurred.

Originally, Facebook (as far as I was aware) was intended for a way to keep in contact with friends from real life; to see how they were doing; to share photographs; to tell everyone how you were doing, what you were doing, etc. But this ‘gaming’ thing is different. It never was quite the same with Farmville – but with Camelot the virtual world becomes another ‘real’ world, even if it isn’t. Friends are not friends but more like colleagues in the game with all the political and emotional ‘games’ that people play in real life work situations or, even real life social situations. Although it does tend to be a little more like school with it’s excess of pettiness, etc.

The major downside is that, with all these Camelot friends, posting all this stuff on the main page, the real purpose of Facebook has changed and it’s difficult to see what your real friends are doing, so lost are their few posts to the hundreds generated by Camelot each day.

So, whereas Camelot started as a subset of Facebook, now it almost seems as if Facebook has become a subset of Camelot! Of course, I could ‘hide’ all these Camelot posts. But to do that would mean that I lose out on free Merlin’s tokens and not be able to help these virtual friends of mine (and in turn they will not help me, perhaps?). Mixed in with these posts are the Farmville posts and the Frontierville posts (which, although I don’t play that, come up as some ‘friends’ do play it), etc., etc.

And, so, Facebook, instead of telling you anything about your real friends, tells you so much about what they are doing in these virtual games.

Of course, there is a solution to this (Facebook – if you’re listening?). That is to have two ‘front pages’. The front page for games and the other front page for sharing photographs, posting things of real interest rather than the fact that you are building a castle or have found, on your farm, a party duck, etc.

But, back to the game and how much real life is there in this virtual world. Is this what the social network founders had in mind? I suspect not. The creation of a world, bringing together people who will never meet and who, if they had, would never be real friends has, I suspect, modified the function of social networking, creating something that is similar to social networking but cutting across the boundaries of the real world.

But, then, this IS like the real world, I suppose, just on a global scale and in a virtual world that, to all intents and purposes, is a mirror of the real world. This gaming is much like school or work. People from different backgrounds and with different (moral) standards, forced into a small, inner world, where, here, they have something in common as one does in school or at work. The only danger that I see is where the virtual world of the game is taken too seriously (and I assure you that it is) by some people. There is a danger that the emotions in this world become too real and people lose the ability to see it for what it really is – a game and not really the most important thing in life.

The House

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“We can come down in March, next year, and do a bit of cleaning and painting”

We can. I agree. Yes, that’s right, that was me agreeing to doing decorating, even if, as usual, I will end up with more paint on me than any of the walls. I agree to it not only because of the implications of the statement but also because it will make him happy and it will make it more comfortable for us.

The house is, as usual here, not a house at all but a flat. For those of you in the UK it is, what we would call, the downstairs part of a two-storey, detached house. The upstairs currently being occupied by an 80-odd-year-old uncle – the upstairs part has been promised to Johnny which is why the flat is ‘jointly owned’.

It is old but not old enough to be rustic nor charming. It is not, at first glance, in a particularly nice area. It is close to the main railway line. It is surrounded by other houses with gardens and, more importantly, dogs that a) live outside and b) tend to bark at our dogs (a lot).

Dino, I’m sure, taunts them. He walks around in front of them. Slowly, deliberately, staring at them, walking as if he is walking on eggshells. They bark. He stares. Then stops staring and walks quietly on, a few steps, then stares again. Is he petrified of them or taunting? I’m convinced it’s taunting.

Given a second glance these houses would not disgrace one the nicer parts of the UK and have gardens to match, carefully tended and watered. The trains that go past, surprisingly, don’t make so much noise. The roads in the area would not look out of place in a Cornish village – narrow and difficult for two cars to pass each other.

We are, unfortunately, a little too far from the sea to just walk there. We are, also, just a little too far from the main town to walk there. Here you would need at least a bike, if not a car. With the dogs, a car.

The flat is quite big, by Italian standards. The entrance hall is large enough for a three-seater sofa on one side and a sideboard on the other. The kitchen is large enough for a large, marble-topped table in the centre that would very comfortably fit 6. The units are not new (probably early 70s) but serviceable.

The bathroom looks as if it hasn’t been touched since it was installed in the 50s (my guess). The sink has no hot water. At least in the 50s they hadn’t got round to having avocado suites! The bedroom that we were ‘allowed’ into is very large. The furniture looks like it is from the 40s or 50s. Maybe, because it’s Italian, it is later. Either way, it lacks the clean beautiful lines of the 30s or the sleek modernness of something later. Old but not old enough to be beautiful – just old. If it were in the UK I would expect the smell of mothballs and find myself smelling them anyway – but it’s probably all in my head.

The other bedroom, the one we are not permitted to enter, apparently, now I am told, because it might contain “mouses” (sic), is supposed to be as big as the one we are sleeping in. So, for here, the house is huge.

Outside, there is a garden to four sides although one of those sides is given over to the flat above with the uncle who, for mid to late eighties, looks surprisingly robust and in fine health. So the garden, for this flat is on three sides. I learn, later, from his father, that F’s father used to have vegetables growing here until last year, when it became too much hard work for him. He’s had stomach cancer or something a year or two ago – I don’t like to ask too many questions.

You can see that anyway. Although it is grass, there is an unevenness about it which implies it was once tilled soil. At the back there is a kind of patio area with another, very large, marble-topped table – suitable for eight or ten people, under a cover that has seen better days but the structure is sound. It’s not a canvas covering but something similar – only now there are a few holes. To one side are some sinks – it could almost be a kitchen outdoors – just without a cooker.

The walls, on the outside are concrete. Unfortunately it has not been kept perfectly and so, over time, has become porous, which shows through into the rooms inside, the paint over the plaster peeling off in places. I imagine this place feels damp in the winter.

It’s not ‘pretty’ but it could be made to look much better. F says that they might have to pull it down and rebuild. I don’t think so. Unless, here, it is all done differently. They have planning permission for some extension (I think something where the ‘outside kitchen’ now is) – to make another kitchen and convert the existing kitchen to a bedroom.

Certainly, the garden could be rather lovely. It gets the sun most of the day, so needs some trees for shade – or else, use it for vegetables.

We talk about coming here again and coming here next year. I tell him the dogs love it here, which they do but also, sneakily, because I know how to say the thing that will matter and therefore means he will want them to come more often.

Which is, I guess, why we are talking about tidying up a bit before next summer.

Later he says to me that I should come down here on my own, if he has to work and if the weather is going to be reasonable.

“You can go to eat at my Mum’s” he says.

Later, on the beach (I still owe you a post about the beach), his sister comes by with some home-made fruit salad for us, after lunch. She talks. As she’s telling a story to F she will look at him, and then look at me, who is watching her intently as I’m trying to understand the stories. F tells her that I don’t understand so she doesn’t have to look at me. She looks back to him and continues her story almost without pause. She looks at me again. Sometimes F reminds her that I don’t understand. She talks too fast.

He mentions that I might come down on my own. She says I can come over to her flat for something to eat. She is sweet although I would end up the size of a house if I was there often enough!

We go back there this weekend, again for a long weekend.

The main thing about going back there this week was that, even if I did have four days at work, it felt as if there hadn’t been a break in the holiday. Getting back, although not filled with that relief that I used to have coming back after the holidays (maybe because we were staying on our own), it wasn’t as bad as last time. This time F was with me and that just made everything right.

Religion costs, apparently!

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19th August, 2010

When we were in the UK (really? Was it almost a month ago?), I took F to Hereford Cathedral. It is, after all, one of the main tourist attractions of Hereford, along with the ‘Black and White House’ in the centre (which was closed when we were there).

Of course, when I was a child, as I explained to him, and a pupil at the school that, in only three years, had such a profound effect on my life, the Cathedral was a haven. It was a haven, not in a religious sense, however much, at the time, I needed something to ‘save me’, but a haven from the cold in winter. Although the Cathedral could never be heated properly, they had these great big radiators/boilers at intervals and round those we could, at least, keep from becoming solid blocks of ice. I say ‘we’ but, actually, I don’t remember who ‘we’ were, that whole three years being almost a blank, save for a couple of people and some very important ‘learning’ that took place.

There was one other thing I remember from the Cathedral – the Mappa Mundi. All those years ago, relegated to some side aisle of the Cathedral, I don’t even remember if it had a light (but I think it did), operated by a switch which automatically turned off after a short, set time.

Now, of course, things are different. Then, a visit to the famous Chained Library was by appointment (and I’m pretty certain that I never went) – now it’s by payment. The same payment allows you to see the permanently illuminated and better explained Mappa Mundi. It was, if my memory serves me well, £9. But for me this is OK. I mean to say that it does not detract, in any way, from the ‘religiousness’ of the Cathedral proper. It was all discreetly done, at one side of the Cathedral.

Yesterday, we went to Orvieto. A very pretty (though typical), hill-top, Umbrian city, more catered to tourists than, say, Todi where we had visited just before.

The Duomo at Orvieto is quite beautiful. In a way (in that it’s made of layers of black and white marble(?)) it reminded me of the Duomo in Florence but with a front façade that is truly wonderful with decorated frescoes or mosaics (I’m not sure which).

We took it in turns to go in (F is just beginning to learn that the dogs should not come ‘everywhere’). I went first. It required an entrance fee of €2. I paid and went in. The people who didn’t want to pay were stuck, right by the entrance door, in what I can only describe as a ‘pen’. They had, to my mind, successfully turned the Duomo from a place of worship into a museum. There were no pews in the main aisle, just a few plastic chairs where those who had paid, could sit.

A service, held in one of the side chapels and accessed (for free) from a side door but fenced off so that if you went to the service you could not, then access the rest of the Duomo, seemed to be out of context. I walked down the one side of the main aisle. there was another side chapel and I could see it had rather splendid painted vaulted ceilings and walls. A girl was there – she asked to see my ticket. “No”, she said, wagging her finger at me as Italians do when something is not permitted. There was no “I’m sorry” and, until asked, no explanation.

As a result of the rather indifferent and, for me, rather rude girl, I decided I wouldn’t go and pay the extra Euro. And I also felt no reverence in this building. No desire to be especially quiet (although, being on my own, I was). The whole idea of paying, just to get inside a place of worship, owned, as it is, by one of the richest organisations in the world, left a distaste in my mouth which is a shame as it was a beautiful Cathedral.

I know that €2 is nothing and an extra Euro (which I advised F to pay – and which he did) is even less but the way it has been done devalued the experience, whereas, in Hereford, it did not

Apparently, religion costs!

Packing, English milk and other things

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Of course, I should be packing now instead of writing this. But I am always ‘last minute’.

The dogs are in being groomed. I may have to collect them at any time.

F is at work. He is slightly peeved that I didn’t answer my phone straight away but it was on charge.

I’ve been and got the money from the scratch cards for him. I went to the supermarket to buy Autan because the vet suggested that this would stop the dogs getting bitten by sand flies (that pass on some dreadful disease, apparently) but I shall get a collar when I pick them up later too.

Whilst in the supermarket I saw that they had English milk. Well, not exactly from the UK but, rather, made in the English style. I drink a lot of milk. The problem here is that it is a bit watery for my liking. Proper, full-fat English milk would be great – except that they are in bottles. Not plastic bottles but glass bottles. So maybe I won’t. Carrying that back from the supermarket would be a real pain. Plus, it was expensive.

But now I must get back to packing. I don’t want to be doing it still when F arrives and wants to leave!

And, so, it’s unlikely I will post anything for a week and a half or so. I have decided not to take my computer. I have books and we have cards. The danger with the computer is that I will play the Facebook game – and that is time consuming and not something I should be doing when on holiday!

We have four days at the beach in Tuscany, followed by a week in Umbria, in the hills. It should be lovely. F wants to take Dino down to the sea because he thinks Dino will swim and enjoy it. I’m not so sure but it will be fun finding out!

And so, my dear reader, I leave you for this, our first real holiday together. I am so looking forward to it.

Whatever you are doing, have great couple of weeks and I will see you when I get back :-)

I go to the bank…………and again…………and again.

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Being our holiday, and F having given me a money box (a Shaun the Sheep one, in case you were wondering), we decided to save all our loose change at the end of each day. We’ve been dong it for about two months.

Surprisingly, it was quite heavy.

And, on Saturday, we decided to count it all. It was surprisingly good and came to much more than we had thought it would. I had also been putting €5 notes in there too, so the haul was nice.

In coins, we had just short of €300. Now, although this is nice, paying for a €50 meal with 50 cent coins may not be welcome by the restaurant owner. So it seemed quite reasonable to get it all changed for notes.

In the UK, this would have been a bit of a pain. First I would have gone to the bank to get some special bags, then I would have had to bag it up, and then take it to the bank. Any bank, of course – although they might insist on their bags. Here it isn’t like that.

It’s worse.

I suggested to F that I would go today (this was written yesterday – or most of it). He said to try the tobacconist first. I mentioned it to them (one of my regular tobacconists) – and they would have been interested but they were shutting up for two weeks. F seemed to think that this might be a problem – but didn’t explain why.

Yesterday, as I didn’t have bags, I put the coins into rolls of paper – similar to the ones that are given to shops. Obviously this was my own, made-up, paper rolls – not nearly so neat as those used by the banks but, at least, I could write the amount and the type of coins on the outside, once they had been rolled up. It took forever! The coins kept slipping sideways until I got the knack of doing it.

But now they were all rolled up in blue paper (it was the paper I had to hand) and each one marked with the coins contained and the total amount inside. What more could the bank want?

And so, this morning, I went to the bank. As there is one just across the road from me I thought I would try there. It is Banca Intesa or Intesa San Paolo or something. anyway, one of the bigger banks in Italy, with branches everywhere. In fact, there is another branch on the opposite side of the piazza that I (almost) live on! So, opposite the one I first went to.

First I had to get into the bank. All banks here have a series of doors to get it. This is to prevent robberies by a mass of people I suppose. You have to enter something similar to an airlock! The door behind you has to close fully before the one in front of you will open. Funnier still is the ‘no guns’ signs that I have seen in banks – but, then, this isn’t the UK, I guess.

So I get inside the bank after repeatedly pressing the ‘man’ sign to find that, in fact, you had to press the small green button (that I mistook for a green light). But I’m in! There is hardly anyone around – this being 11.30. A nice young lady comes forward eventually. I explain in my terrible Italian, that I want to change some coins.

Apparently this is not possible. Why? Because, at 11.30 a.m. on a Monday morning, there are no bank tellers. Apparently, she explains, they will be here this afternoon – from a quarter to three to a quarter past four!

You have to remember, banks here do not work like they do in the UK. In the UK (more or less), the account holder is the customer. Here, you have to be grateful for a bank at all – and you should treat them as the customer. Certainly the opening hours are, more or less, from about 8.30 or 9 in the morning until about 1.30 p.m. and then for another hour or so in the afternoon!

I asked if I should try the Banca Intesa branch opposite. She said that sure, I could try – but she looked doubtful.

Of course, I am, somewhat determined (some may say pig-headed) and so off I go, across the piazza, to the other, grander and newly refurbished, Banca Intesa. At least, here, I thought, they will have cashiers.

And, true enough, they did! Two of them. Both occupied with clients at the moment. I see, like the post office and other places, there is a queuing system, done by printed ticket. I look around for a machine, expecting something like ones you see in the post office! I don’t see anything. There’s only me anyhow, so maybe it won’t be necessary, I think. But, to be on the safe side, I keep looking. I see a thing that looks more like an information box or cash dispenser. I go over, on the off chance, as, anyway, this is the only thing that looks remotely like a machine to print a ticket.

Sure enough. This is the ticket dispenser! I am, at once, both relieved (to have found it) and slightly peeved (at how stupid I am not to have seen it before). I get a ticket.

It seems I wait ages. However, it is air-conditioned AND they are playing some light pop music (although I forget which song – although I could sing along with the chorus, so it was a song sung in English). It’s not an unpleasant wait.

Eventually I get to go to a counter.

Unusually, this is not a stand-up counter but one where you sit down. However, this IS a cashier – my Italian is good enough to know that.

I don’t sit down. I ask the guy if I can change the money here. He asks if I have an account. I don’t and, in my best English, which, to be honest, is a life-saver more often then it isn’t, ask him what I should do, ignoring the fact that I’m not an account holder.

He explains that I need to put the money in these special containers. OK, I say. No problem. He gets out two. This will hold about €10 worth, if that. I explain I will need a lot more than that. He goes to chat to a colleague who is hidden behind an opaque glass screen.

He returns.

Apparently they can’t change it for me because I’m not a customer of theirs. I protest – but you’re a bank, I say. Apparently that makes not one iota of difference. I protest some more. He is Italian. We have the blank face and usual shrug of the shoulders. It’s not that they can’t, it’s that they won’t. In other circumstances, I would have been more persistent but, maybe, I am succumbing to the Italian disease of giving up when faced with a ‘can’t/won’t do it’ shrug. Or maybe it’s because I really couldn’t be bothered and had better things to do.

I told F. He said he would do it the next day. But, being me, I hadn’t quite given up.

Just after a quarter to four, I went to the bank across the road. The same bank I had been to in the morning where they had no cashiers.

There was one guy being served – and one cashier open. I waited. For some reason I felt more hopeful about this, in spite of the fact that it was the same bank, just a different branch. This branch was not sparkly new. It didn’t have music playing. It was air conditioned – but then, of course it would be.

It was my turn. I explained what I wanted. He started to open my carefully prepared packages – he saw my face. He explained that they had a machine. We could just put all the coins together. He and I spent the next ten minutes undoing my 3 hour work and mixing it all back up. He put it all in a plastic bag.

He asked if I knew how much it was. I got out my piece of paper. ‘No, don’t show me’, he said. And walked off with the money. I laughed. This would be a test of both my counting and the machine.

I could hear the coins being tipped into something. After a few minutes he returned. He wrote down the number and showed it to me. I showed him mine. They matched. We both laughed.

He gave me the money. F said I should have asked him why the other bank could not do it and yet they could. I explained that I didn’t know enough Italian. But, to be honest I didn’t care. OK, so I wasn’t so persistent with the other branch – but I did get it done in the end – and that’s the important bit, really.

The other branch just had lazy, good-for-nothing people!

They have two dogs.

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The differences between us and the Italians are many. I think we Brits like the idea of Italy so much because of these differences. They are little things; in themselves, of no importance but adding them together, there is a whole world waiting to be discovered or ready to trip up the unsuspecting ex-pat from the UK (and, probably, other places too).

Take one as an example. We have lunch – in the garden, in the gazebo, under the trees which are ten times the height of the small ‘holiday home’ but which help to lower the temperature to a very comfortable level. We spend nearly all the time in the garden. The dogs enjoy it and we enjoy it. We sit and chat (or, rather, they sit and chat – I sit and listen…mostly) or play cards or eat.

Lunch was what one would expect. Simple but beautiful food – slices of tomato with a slice of mozzarella on each, drizzled with good olive oil and sprinkled with parsley; slices of prosciutto and coppa; good bread and foccacia; lettuce leaves coated with the same olive oil – and my favourite – celery and parmigiana with some seasoning (I must find out what). All served with wine or beer and water, of course – siamo in Italia.

It wasn’t the meal that was different. Hell, in the UK we have similar, if not quite so good and fresh. No it was afterwards. And this bit I have never known happen in the UK – we got in the car to drive to a café for coffee! And, of course, not like you do it in the UK – it wasn’t a big thing in itself – we stood at the bar and drank it within a few minutes. The big thing was that it was run by the daughter of someone that F had gone to college with. But I’m not sure that’s the reason we went!

But we would never have gone out for coffee in the UK. It is strange but nice but always reminds me that I remain a stranger in a strange land.

Of course, no one knows that F is gay. Well, apart from his brother and sister-in-law. Oh and his sister (and, I presume, brother-in-law and nieces). But his parents ‘don’t know’, apparently.

So during the birthday lunch, his sister-in-law was talking to his sister. They were comparing animals.

“We’ve got two dogs and one cat and you have four cats”, she says, before adding “and they’ve got two dogs”.

F turns to me, excitedly, and says “You see, she said “they’ve got 2 dogs”” – meaning that everything was alright and everyone knows anyway, even his parents – which, of course, they do and on which I had very little doubt! And, also for him, the fact that he is included in the ‘ownership’ of the dogs is important. Which is fine by me!

Too fast? Too slow, more like

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“It’s all too fast”, he states.

“Not for me, it isn’t”, I reply.

“At our age you have to take things more slowly”.

“Really? Why?”

And I mean it. Really? Why? Why does one have to take it slowly? Surely, one should take it slowly when you’re very young – when there really IS enough time. Now, we should be rushing and going as fast as possible.

He suggests it is because of experience but concedes that that’s not in my experience – so outside my knowledge. Later, I think that I should have said that, more or less, when I was his age, I started a relationship with the guy I just spent over 20 years with – and, if I had my life over again, I would do exactly the same.

“But it’s been over nine months”, I attempt to justify to him. He has this habit of not looking at me. Of moving his head in such a way as to appear blind – like blind people do – looking into the air and moving their head from left to right – see Stevie Wonder, for example.

He doesn’t look at me when he says, “C’mon Andrew, 9 months is very short”.

I won’t argue with him. He doesn’t understand. To be, possibly, meeting the family after 9 months together is not fast. It’s slightly more than snail’s pace.

But then, as I pointed out to him, no one in the UK at the age of 30+ (or, even 20+) would consider spending the two/three weeks of their holiday at their parent’s house. Christmas, probably. Easter, maybe. But your summer holiday? Going home and spending all that time with your parents? Are you crazy?

So we may look the same but, mentally, we’re very, very different.

Even in little things. We got to the bar and there were empty tables at the far end, outside. I sat with my back to a huge fan they had going. A sat opposite me. The fan turned and, at one point in its cycle, the air blew, quite strongly, on to my back and the the back of my neck.

“I can’t sit here”, he says. “The fan will mean that I will get a [stiff] neck”, he says, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, the part not being affected by the wind from the fan. Still, he got the waiter to adjust it, all the same. I’ve only ever really seen that here. No one in the UK gets that bothered by a bit of air movement. How can we? It’s so windy so often!

And, talking of the UK, I’m wondering what to take F to see and what to avoid. Should I go to my parent’s house (just to look where it is, not for any other reason); or just stick to Worcester – walk round a bit – Hereford we can do after the wedding. I will go to my Grandfather’s grave – just for a few moments – he was/is still my hero.

But, I want him to see where I’ve ‘come from’, so to speak. I don’t know why. But it might be boring. I have to be careful. We shall, hopefully, meet up with the bride and groom the day before and some other friends just afterwards and then, I hope, providing she can do it, go and stay with Best Mate for a few days.

I would like to go and see V’s Dad – but probably won’t get the chance. I would like to see Corrine but, again, it might be a bit much for F.

Or, perhaps, we should just suck it and see?