Death Valley – UK High Street

It was so sad. So down-at-heel. So without inspiration or hope or anything. It could have been in one of the most run down suburbs of any large town. Some shops were closed. Some shops looked like they were about to close. The shops selling things for £1 or less were stacked to the gills with gaudiness and tackiness.

Everything seemed to be on sale. No, everything seemed to be cheap both in price and quality. Every building seemed like it needed a facelift.

Oh, there was no litter anywhere, nor any graffiti. People used the ashtrays provided so there wasn’t even a cigarette butt to see. So it SHOULD have looked better, shouldn’t it? But it didn’t. It looked shabby.

There weren’t many people around either. And those that were there looked burdened by poverty and miserableness and unhappiness and dread. People slouched and seemed to drag their feet. Like all hope had been sucked out of them. Like there had been a plague of Deatheaters (re: Harry Potter) seconds before.

But, then, it’s not a “quaint” town with “things to see” or, at least, not famous ones. No one I have ever known has said “Let’s go to Wolverhampton!”

It only took a few moments to feel as depressed by it as it all looked; as all the people looked! We walk along the street in order to ‘look around’ and, maybe, buy something but within those few moments, all I wanted to do was to go back to the hotel.

There is no ‘town centre’ any more – just ‘death valley’. I forced myself to buy some sandals. I looked at buying a T-shirt. But I really did want out of there. It makes it seem more unlikely I could go back.

It’s not to say there aren’t similar ‘dead’ zones in Italy, of course but not, I think, in what should be a major city. Nor is it to say that we don’t have closed and boarded up shops, nor that we don’t have the equivalent of Pound Shops or temporary stores – even on Corso Buenos Aries (a main shopping street in Milan – not far from my house)! But, somehow, it doesn’t seem depressing …….. yet!

They’ve got some woman in the UK government to try and ‘breathe life’ into the high streets of the UK but I think it’s too far late now. Now people are used to going to out-of-town shopping centres or mega superstores. These, in fact, are the new high street.

With the changes that Mr Monti wishes to make in Italy, I think we could have the same disaster here, in about 10 years, which would be such a shame. Some will survive – as long as they are tourist destinations – then the place will be full of gift shops and clothes shops and antiques shops.

No, it was sad to see and horrible to be walking there. I shan’t be doing that again in a hurry.

Villa Singer and a wedding.

Yesterday was a wedding.

An Italian wedding. But not like an Italian wedding at all. There weren’t a thousand and one guests; there wasn’t a wedding breakfast which had 100 courses; there wasn’t a white dress or top hats and tails. It was, in fact, more like a small, intimate party. And it was truly lovely.

This was one of F’s childhood friends, P, getting married to a banker, A, even though he looks nothing like a banker should look. I have never known P without A and, so, to me they are perfectly right for each other. She, apparently, was a bit wild in her youth (so was F) but can still be a little unexpected now.

The wedding ceremony took place in Piazza Reale, a stone’s throw from the Duomo. It was conducted by one of her ex-boyfriends.

Apart from the happy couple, and F and his friend R, I knew only one other person – L who bears a striking resemblance to Betty Boop! Only a tad older.

We were late for the ceremony (of course), arriving some few minutes after it all started. It had started at 10.

F took photographs. Lots of photographs.

The day was lovely but not too hot. The groom was dressed in white trousers with a white T-shirt and loose white scoop-neck top. The bride wore white trousers, similar top with an off-white jacket. She had had some braiding in her hair and looked lovely.

After the ceremony we went, by metro to Villa Singer (pronounced singe – er). We arrived about mid-day.

The first picture you see on the link was, more or less, how it was. It’s a not-so-big garden, next to one of Milan’s old canals. Tranquil, beautiful and the perfect setting for a wedding reception. It wasn’t many courses but, rather, a buffet that included fried courgette flowers, oysters, grilled green chilli-like peppers with anchovies, courgette mouse, vegetarian lasagne and a cake that was beautiful sponge covered with lashings of whipped cream and raspberries and strawberries. I had two slices :-)

There was prosecco (Italian champagne) and white wine or, for those who were not drinking, water and grapefruit juice. I wasn’t one of the last group.

We drank and ate and chatted and laughed. There were about 25 people so large enough not to get bored but small enough that you chatted to everyone and I met some really nice people (which is normal). It was all delightful.

Inside the house the rooms, full of antique furniture were open for you to walk round – and I did for a few moments.

But it was all so relaxed and, even if it is an overused word, nice. It was like being at a small garden party with friends, drinking in the afternoon sun (in both senses).

I watched F, from time to time, being the joker and centre of attention – but not in a bad way. Everyone loves him but I adore him. Someone (it may have been Betty Boop) asked if I would marry him and I said that I would. Of course I would.

And, if we did get married, I would want a wedding like this.

We left about 6. It was wonderful and I was really happy that I had been asked to go and that we went.

More Pieros than I know what to do with!

I went to choose Piero last night, straight from work.

Here is the man, holding the two possible Pieros so I could take a photograph:

Piero and, er Piero

I have to choose one! So difficult

They look the same, right? Well, yes, almost. They have slightly different markings. Maybe they’re still too young to choose?

This is one of the possible Pieros:

Piero, perhaps, maybe .....

Piero, perhaps, maybe …..

But, in the end, it is too difficult to choose. I did have a couple of videos here but now they either aren’t there or don’t seem to work :-(

In the end I couldn’t choose. The guy said (I think), not to worry and they would make sure I got the right one.

I hope. I tried to explain it will be difficult to come back in the next week or so. I hope they understood.

The Culture of Blame

It is the ‘thing to do’ these days. To blame someone (anyone) for something that has happened that is bad or, at least, not good.

Our place (of work) is full of it. It annoys the hell out of me.

But it’s a problem also, apparently, in the UK where those people claiming benefit blame others for their ‘bad luck’. Of course, the government wants to stamp out this ‘blame culture’ asap.

Well, nearly. Not completely. Otherwise, the Chancellor of the Exchequer would be unable to blame Europe for the fact that the UK is in another recession. And, if he couldn’t blame Europe then who could he blame? Well, not the last government – not now they’ve had chance to fix everything. And, anyway, that would still require blaming someone else.

So, then he would have to take responsibility for the recession.

Now that would be a bugger, wouldn’t it?

I’m going to take my toys away and not play any more.

[We are] sympathetic to those needs, we want to see a society in which gay people are fully included and their needs are fully provided for.

Except, of course, in this one case, where we don’t actually want them to be fully included at all.

In fact, if you do this, we’re going to take our toys away and sulk in the corner. And that’ll show you, won’t it!

Surprisingly, this is not a three-year-old child talking but some senior adult person in the Church of England.

They are, as you may have guessed, talking about marriage and the fact that by changing the law it will change the whole idea of marriage. Because marrying two people is not the same as marrying a man and a woman.

And, because they’re frightened that some of their powerbase will disappear and they will become irrelevant by virtue of some countries splitting from the CofE and becoming the Church of Nigeria or some other backward place.

However, what I didn’t know until now was that the CofE is obliged to marry a man and a woman (if they are residents of the UK) in their church, even if they are not of ‘the faith’. Apparently, it’s law. They have to do it. And they are worried that, for all the ‘safeguards’ from the government, the European Court of Human Rights might see things differently and determine that the current law should also apply to queer people.

Apparently, “Marriage benefits society in many ways, not only by promoting mutuality and fidelity [which, quite obviously it won’t be able to do once we allow gay people to marry], but also by acknowledging an underlying biological complementarity which, for many, includes the possibility of procreation.”
Hang on! Only 25% of people get married in Church anyway. So, that would be many (but not all) of that 25%, I guess. So, maybe 20% of the population!

And they say that gay people are a minority and trying to ride roughshod over these 20% of people’s views. So that’s a minority trying to tell another minority what to do? Whereas, the 20% that are saying we want everyone to be equal except in this case are NOT a minority trying to tell another minority what they can and can’t do?

Hmmmm.

If the church was fairly irrelevant before, it becomes more irrelevant with this kind of skewed argument.

But, didn’t they used to have all sorts of other ‘rules’ too? Like not marrying someone who was black to someone who was white? Did the change in law take anything away from the ‘institution of marriage’?

Not that I have a beef one way or another, since I won’t be getting married in or out of any church. But, really, what a hypocritical, bigoted bunch of w£$%&!rs they are. May their demise or revelation come quickly.

Quotes came from here

The positioning of the newspaper – an important decision!

I feel so guilty for not giving you many posts recently.

So, here is one.

It’s nearly time. The question was – ‘where to put the newspaper?’.

It can’t be in the hallway as I won’t be able to get in when I open the front door (the hallway being not so wide as the last place).

It can’t be in the kitchen as a) the kitchen isn’t that big and b) where to put it would be a problem too – I mean there’s nowhere big enough without furniture – unless I take out the dog’s bed, which I don’t really want to.

The bedroom is definitely out.

So that leaves the lounge. I had intended to leave the rug down (which is very large and in the centre) and fence off the lounge like I had done when Rufus got old. But, the most obvious place for the newspaper is near the French doors – which means crossing the rug – which means it has to be taken up.

Or I move the dog bed.

Ah well, it’s probably the best thing to do.

Of course, there will be other things to do. Like making sure that all things that can be chewed are not in reach. Some things might be more difficult than others.

Still, with F having a bad back, it is likely that we won’t go to Carrara this weekend and so, maybe, I can try and sort it out tomorrow and/or Sunday?

And it is likely to rain on Saturday so that may be a good day to do it!

I am in a Tim Burton film!

Nope! Still too much to do and not much time. And we have visitors here, at my ‘real’ job – so I’m just catching a few moments.

And tell you a story: but it may take more than one attempt.

It’s the Hay Festival going on right now. And, maybe that’s the key.

I’m not at the Festival, as such, but, rather near there. Or, at least, staying at the Crown. This is a pub/hotel. Even if this is not THE Crown, as in the one in Hay itself, it’s close by. I know this because the bar is packed with festival goers and authors and others. There are lots of people I know and I am fast becoming quite drunk. It feels as if it is my birthday or something. As if it’s a party for me, even if it’s not.

Then a ‘blast from the past’ walks in. A guy named Mike. He used to be one of the company’s trainers but I knew him when we were trainers well before that. He had a drink problem. A serious drink problem. We tried very hard to patch him up. The last I had heard was that he had finally solved the problem and the drink problem was no more.

It was unexpected, seeing him.

“Hi Mike!”, I said. I grinned because it was so nice to see him. However, he seemed a bit shifty. I asked him how he was. He evaded the question. I asked him again but he wasn’t giving an answer.

Then K walked in. Another surprise. We chatted for a bit.

Then someone rang the telephone at the bar and asked for me.

It was John. For some time we were owners of the company until one of the recessions took hold and John left to become a contractor. We had remained friends after that. Again, John had worked at the same company as Mike where I had been a trainer. So we all knew each other quite well.

“You’ll never believe it”, I exclaimed, “but both Mike and K are here”.

I went on to explain about Mike seeming a bit down and pondered whether it was that he had taken up drinking again.

The call ended.

I went back to the place where K and Mike were and told them that John had telephoned. I was really happy to have had the chance to speak to him. It had been many years.

Then, someone said:

“But, didn’t John die some years back?”

Ah yes, in both my drunken stupour and the happiness of this whole evening, I had forgotten that John was, in fact, dead, having died some years ago.

“How strange”, I said. It gave me a slightly weird feeling.

But I shrugged it off. It had certainly ‘been him’ on the phone and, yet, it couldn’t have been. Ah well.

The night carried on and I carried on drinking. At one point, I went to the toilet. As I walked in to an empty Gents, I heard someone coming in as well. I turned round. It was John!

“John”, I said, “What are you doing? Are you trying to scare me or something?”

He didn’t reply. That may have been because, although it was certainly him, dressed in a long raincoat, he didn’t have a head.

“C’mon John”, I asked, where’s your head?”. And I laughed.

I went back to the bar. There, sitting at a bar stool near to where I had been was P, John’s wife! I couldn’t believe after what had happened that she was here! Standing behind her was R, her (and John’s) eldest son.

“P”, I exclaimed, “how lovely to see you!”

I went on to tell her about the strange phone call and then seeing him, headless, in the bathroom. She started to weep. I know they were close. I turned for a moment at some distraction. When I turned back, she and R had gone. I went looking for them. I really didn’t want P to be upset over what I had told her. I couldn’t find them.

Later still, I was very drunk. I don’t remember going to my room but obviously I got there.

In the morning, on waking, I found that my room didn’t seem to have a bathroom. I went out of my room door which opened into the bar area where they were already serving breakfast. I went up to a waitress.

“Excuse me’, I said.

“I don’t have time now Sir. Please wait your turn”. She was abrupt. But I needed the bathroom. And I needed to shower. Today I was going home to F and I wanted to go home. I didn’t feel particularly bad (i.e. no bad headache, etc.) but my mouth was all ‘fuzzy’.

“Look”, I replied, tersely, “I don’t want breakfast but I do need the bathroom and there isn’t one in my room”.

“It’s the door round the corner of your room”, she replied, seemingly annoyed that I seemed so stupid.

I went back to the room. I went round a corner into a small area that I had failed to notice before and, sure enough was the door.

I went into the bathroom. I went to the mirror. I was looking at myself to see how I looked.

Except the mirror image wasn’t looking back at me but had its head down, so I could see the top of my head. I needed to force myself to lift my head. My forehead seemed abnormally large, more like an alien than a human. God, I thought, I must be feeling much rougher than I thought!

As I raised my head, my eyes came into view. A shockingly piercing but slightly dark blue set of irises looked back at me. Almost with malevolence. The blacks of the pupils seemed to be much blacker than usual and bigger – but this blue of the eyes was unreal.

I needed to shower. From the bathroom was another door. I didn’t want to go out and ask again. I found the door locked but one of the keys on the hotel key fob opened it.

I was outside. Into a garden. But the garden was also the shower. There were shower heads dotted around the garden with soap near each one. As I walked nearer to each shower, the shower started automatically. The temperature was perfect, some had aromatic smells, some plain water, some had coloured water. I started to shower.

Then some other people came into the garden. They wore swimming costumes. I didn’t know there were other people allowed. One of them said that I shouldn’t be naked. They had been told to always wear a costume. I explained that I hadn’t been told that and went to another shower to continue showering.

But this John thing was worrying me. I mean, what did it all mean? This was starting to resemble some sort of ghost story thing! I wanted to get home.

But what of John? And what the hell was I doing, naked, trying to shower in a GARDEN?

I woke up. It was, in fact, about half past midnight, last night!

As some of my weird dreams go, that has got to be one of the very strangest. As F said, when I told him a little of it this morning, it resembled a Tim Burton film!

A little uncertainty

I’ve got more to say about Vienna – but no time right now.

In the meantime, since we’ve been back, there’s a touch of uncertainty in the air. It seems F is looking for a change.

However, I have learnt that, just like V, he tends to say things that aren’t always followed through. I learnt, too, whilst in Vienna, that the problem with Brazil was that it was just too far away. Apparently. Obviously, for me it wasn’t a problem.

Now we are considering Vienna. And doing a B&B. He’s looking for a sponsor. He’s fed up with work. I’ve now heard this for three nights in a row, so maybe it’s true. We shall see. For me, it’s not a problem. I liked Vienna very much. Especially as they are a) more dog friendly; b) permit smoking in bars and restaurants (although, to be honest, I’ve got used to going outside); c) it’s cleaner than Italy (I mean no rubbish on the streets, etc.) and d) I can always teach English and do copy-editing.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve kind of ‘done’ Italy now – in that I’ve been here 7 years, more or less, and survived. Of course, I would be very happy to stay here but I’m equally happy to move now, even to the other side of the world and even at my advanced age. After all, new challenges might be fun.

But, as I said earlier, F can be a little like V sometimes. What he says will happen won’t always happen, so I won’t be holding my breath.

But, you know, Vienna might just be a nice place to live?