No smoking in bed.

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It sits in the middle of one of the rugs in the hallway.

I have just woken up and it is quite dark, the weather being overcast. In my sleep-stupor, it looks like a roll of packing tape. “How the hell did he get that?”, I wonder.

I pick it up. It’s not a roll of packing tape. It’s a tin. An empty tin. A very clean, empty tin. A slightly chewed, clean, empty tin. It had elk pate until yesterday. Yesterday I finished it for lunch. I had put it in the bin. The bin is hidden behind the curtain that hangs in front of the sink. I expect to see the bin contents everywhere in the kitchen. An involuntary “Oh no!” escapes my lips. Probably followed by “bloody dog”.

As I turn into the kitchen, I see that, in fact, everything is just as it should be. The curtain is still there. There is no mess in the kitchen.

I had got up earlier in the night to find him sitting in his bed. He looked at me, almost daring me to come over. I didn’t. It seemed he was chewing a bone that he got from the toy basket. Obviously it wasn’t. It was the tin. No wonder he looked at me as if expecting me to take it from him.

Now that I’m up properly, I look in the bed. There are 5 cigarette butts. Hmm. It makes me laugh that he has managed to get the tin out without making a mess in the kitchen – no cigarette butts over the floor, just neatly in the bed. I can’t be angry but he really shouldn’t smoke in bed.

Here and there.

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He was happier last night, which was good.

I’m not so happy, though.

He’s not here. I’m not there. There’s the two or three hours distance.

It’s difficult to find interest. There’s many things I could do. You know, keep busy. Stop thinking. Stop being without or alone. Stop feeling.

A said it was stupid. I could have punched him in the face. Then, I thought, perhaps he never feels like that? That would explain a lot. In fact, it would explain everything. To never have that feeling would be much worse than having it.

He says it is looking good. There. Where he is and I am not. I look at the weather forecast for there and here. It’s not particularly good at either place. I try to tell myself that it would be dreadful being there, with the rain. And the decoration ‘in progress’. I would be in the way. We would be in the way, which is true. And we wouldn’t be able to do anything. Them for sure and me because I am, quite frankly, worse than crap at this sort of stuff. Not that anyone believes me. ‘How difficult can it be?’, they think. I know they think that. In theory it should be straight forward. But, even when I try so very hard, paint doesn’t seem to get onto the walls as much as me and the floor and other places where it should not be. And the stuff on the walls is streaked or globular or thick in places it should not be, running down. No, it doesn’t work for me.

He said, “You can come down if you want”, adding without a pause for breath, “but it will be a complete mess”. He doesn’t want me there whilst he is doing it. I will be a distraction. So will they. They, maybe, more than I. They, who demand attention from him without even demanding it. Because they are the ‘poverini’, of course. Unable to demand and by being unable to demand, demanding more and with greater urgency. At least for him.

I don’t let on that I’m not happy. After all, that would be unfair. It would be selfish. He is doing this for us. For me, he says but in reality, for the four of us. Or, maybe, mainly for him? Or, maybe, for me too. It is ‘More than Words’. And he had to have an injection for his back, last night. He ‘couldn’t move’, he said. I told him he should stop but he said that he wouldn’t. He’s very stubborn like that. It’s no good arguing with him. He won’t listen anyway or, rather, he will listen but then do what he wants. I don’t demand, I’m far too old for that!

I told him I was on holiday. He knew, of course. I just wanted him to know. So, I was being a bit selfish after all! He told me to relax and enjoy it. I said I would, even if I knew that I can’t as much since he’s there and I’m here.

So I sit here and write this. Rather than there and not. In a moment I will do something. Something else. Washing, cleaning, the dogs, sorting out English stuff, a box, some editing. Something. Or not. Not here nor there.

Damn!

Things change. Things happen.

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Of course, things change.

I feel sorry for him more than anything. He’s putting in so much effort, spending all this money, working so hard to get it nice for us.

But it’s shared with his brother. His brother, apparently, may want to come and live there. F is angry that he didn’t say anything before. He told his brother that he would have to go and live at their parents’. His brother doesn’t want to. He told his brother that he would have to leave when we were coming down and that we had got an umbrella and everything. He also told him that he was cleaning the place and expected the place to be just as clean when we arrived down here. He said his brother is not like him but, then, no one is like him!

I just feel so bad for him. He was looking forward to this summer as much as me, even if we didn’t tell each other. He is very angry, I can tell. He is continuing to do it but I can only imagine how disappointing it must be for him.

So now we don’t know. Or, rather, I don’t know. We can’t go and stay at his parents with the dogs, for certain. Especially with Rufus as old as he is and the occasional bouts of incontinence.

And, talking of Rufus. Poor thing has an abscess. It’s one of the anal glands which has become infected. It, maybe, explains some other things. He’s on antibiotics. He’s managed to lick all the hair from his back end. That’s how I noticed it. It looks sore and I expect it is. Poverino. Still, when we went to the vet’s last night, the vet was amazed at how well, in general, he is doing. Me too.

So, back to the summer, maybe things will change. Maybe not. We’ll see.

It does make me want to hug F and tell him it will all be OK. For it will all be OK. It’s just a matter of time. And a matter of acceptance when we really can’t change things. And these things do happen.

Summer Sunday Lunch; The House at the Sea Update; Please stop asking, I don’t really know.

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It is summer, after all. Summer requires salads and fruit and freshness.

I invited A & Fr over for Sunday lunch. I did some antipasto stuff (I seem to be coming almost Italian :-)) and then the Special Salad. Of course, Special Salad is not really so ‘special’ any more since, now, there is a dazzling array of salads that are different. But, ‘special’ is what this salad was known as, at least by our family, in the days that salad in the UK comprised of limp lettuce, tomatoes and salad cream. You see? This was in the days when there was no such thing as mayonnaise.

And, anyway, salad cream works best with this. I thought I had done it for them before but it seems not.

The ‘special’ ingredient is oranges but now that I’m in Italy, it also includes cheddar cheese and salad cream since you can’t get them here.

They said they liked it and I think they did.

Then I served up something that, I think, I’ve only ever made one time before, a long, long time ago. Summer Pudding. I made individual ones which was more of a risk in its own right. Still, I’m a little more adventurous these days, not bothering with trying stuff out first but just doing it. Maybe it’s a little more ‘couldn’t care less’ rather than ‘adventurous’. Oh well, whatever. the result is the same.

As it turned out they weren’t bad. But I need to find different bread than the stuff I used. And make more of the syrup. I’ll try it again soon and if I can make it as good as it should be then I’ll post it as a recipe.

Anyway, they seemed to like it.

And we drank. And then had cheddar cheese and port. And then went for a walk.

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F did the bathroom, apparently. R, his friend, wasn’t there, yesterday. The ceiling didn’t go well. He suggested that he may not finish by next Sunday. This means we (the dogs and I) won’t go down at the end of this week. He said that he would ask R to finish things off (mainly the cleaning) so we could all go down the weekend after.

I’m still hopeful for this weekend and I am pretty certain that he will want us to come down if it is possible. Obviously, it is possible – it’s just not possible for him if it isn’t in a perfect state. Oh well, we will see.

I wonder what his Mum and Dad think of his sudden interest in his house and decorating it and so on? I mean, I’m certain they are fully aware of the situation but as it is never discussed, it must be slightly bemusing for them. The last time he showed such interest in the house was when he was with S.

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Sometimes, I wish people would stop asking me about V.

It doesn’t seem to matter that I say that we are not in touch any more and that I don’t really know.

Probably the best summer.

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We have mentioned it before but this time it was a bit different.

As he knows we both like the peppers filled with (usually) cod, he decided to buy some and bring them back. He bought 8 tins!

Last night we had two of those tins for dinner. I love them. We talked about how good Spanish food was. We both like Spanish food. And then we talked about him getting a job there. He said that he thought the future was the model used by a well known Spanish fashion brand. He said he could try to get a job with them. I said I would teach English or something. I would do something. I said I would be happy to go.

We looked it up online. We talked about some of the Spanish food we liked. Now, I wouldn’t mind moving. Why not? My dream was to come and live here. My dream before that was to live in the countryside in Herefordshire. I’ve done these things. I can do something else now. I never thought I would want to move to Spain but now I really don’t mind. In fact, I think I might enjoy it. Of course, it’s another bloody language to try and learn although I shall, probably, learn it in the same way as Italian – so never, then! And we wouldn’t go to the British enclave areas, so that would be perfect. And the weather would be better. Yes, I could do this.

Interestingly, we were talking about it together. About moving together. It was different than before.

He says that the Spanish people are nicer. Not so stuck up as the Italians. Of course, for me, the Italians are fine. I like them and they seem to have a more relaxed attitude to life, even in Milan. To F, they seem restricted. It must be the same for everyone when they think of the people of their own country, I guess. The grass is always greener, etc., etc. He thinks the Spanish are happier. Given my last few posts, you will know that I think the Italians are happier than the English. I guess everyone from a different country seems happier than your own people. You know too much about your own people. They are part of you, I suppose.

This morning we woke up early. He has caught the train to go down and decorate and clean the house. He’s now talking about me coming down with the dogs on Thursday or Friday. Maybe. If the weather is going to be good. He says that he’s doing it for me. But that’s not really true. He’s doing it for us. He’s already talked to R, his best friend, about R picking up the dogs from the house and meeting us in the dog area in the pinetta (I don’t know if I’ve spelt it right. It’s the area under the pine trees. The cool areas, near the beach) about 6 so that we can come from the beach and collect the dogs from R, saving us the need of leaving the beach early, going to pick the dogs up and then going back near the beach to walk them. He’s going to give R some money for doing this, justifying it by the fact that it will ‘cost us that in petrol anyway and we don’t have to leave the beach so early’. I think many of the things he says are so he doesn’t have to say he’s doing it for both of us, together. He can justify it by logic even if, sometimes, his logic is not the same logic as mine.

Still, either way, we have our beach umbrella sorted and, by the end of this week, if not before, the house fixed up for us to go to.

Boy, I am really looking forward to this summer. It’s going to be glorious. Probably the best summer I’ve ever had.

I don’t think I’ll be going back to live.

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“I couldn’t hardly get up this morning, Jack”, the woman in the dirty-looking pink hoodie shouts.

She isn’t shouting because of the noise, even if we are at the airport. A little later she almost screams, “Bye, Jack”.

It takes me a moment to realise that she’s doing it because the obese man opposite her is the one that is actually speaking to Jack on his mobile phone.

I am not pleased to hear that she couldn’t hardly get up this morning. Not least because of the bad English but also because of the Birmingham accent which, now, this time, this trip, really grates. Apart from the cold and the rain and the wind (as if that wasn’t enough), my desire to tell her and many, many more of ‘these people’ to ‘just fucking shut up’ has made my mind up. Unless I really, really, REALLY have to, I shan’t ever be back to live in the UK with its greyness both in weather, place and people.

Mind you, with this weather and so much abysmal, unfresh food, well, it would be enough to make anyone miserable. Obviously it didn’t rain ALL the time. There were moments of no rain and, dare I say, sunshine. The same with the food really, as I have already posted.

Not all people have this affect. Best Mate, for example. T, the new, old friend of BM who, so I was told, really wanted to meet me. That’s not unusual. People have never really understood our relationship. For that matter, neither have we (and we talked about it so I know her feelings are the same).

Just the weather alone would be enough. The people are just dreadful. The people in Hereford. The people in the airport. Just the people. I listen to other conversations. Mostly Brummie accents which really doesn’t help.

They are going or arriving. The ones arriving are dressed in shorts and T-shirts and flip-flops or sandals. They’ve come from somewhere hot, obviously. They don’t look particularly happy. Neither do the ones that are going.

They may all be respectful of personal space in terms of physical closeness but not as far as noise is concerned. I can see why other nations have such a poor view of the British people. Of course, it’s all a generalisation, even by me. Not all people are like this. My friends, for example. But there are too many like this and I don’t think I could live with it, day after day.

As I said to someone here, it’s probably as well that I don’t really understand Italian. Maybe I would have the same feeling about people here if I did?

No, I don’t think I’ll be going back to live there any time soon.

It’s much better now.

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“It’s much better now”

He adds, “You can clean more easily”. In my head I say: “No, I won’t be cleaning but you and my cleaners can clean more easily”. I actually say, “Yes, it is much better”.

The reality is that, for me, it makes no real difference but I know that, for him, it is a significant improvement. There are some ‘bits and pieces’ to finish, of course.

Later he says, “You can go through the boxes to sort them out, one by one, maybe one each evening”. Yes, I suppose I could and there’s part of me that does want to do this but the actual reality is that I doubt it will ever get done. And I do mean ‘ever’. Ah well.

He’s right though. There are certainly things that can, now, be safely thrown away. Stuff from one of the companies I closed before I came here. I don’t need to keep that paperwork now.

Earlier he had told me that An (the Milanese friend who has, recently, returned to Milan) had come round. It was whilst I was in the UK. He said she wanted to come and see it. I smiled. Of course she did. “That’ll be because you cleaned and tidied everything – so now you’re happy for people [and by ‘people’ read ‘his friends’] to come.” “Yes”, he replied, smiling too.

Apparently she was enthusing about me doing a Sunday Lunch (with Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding). He was all for it. Apparently. Even if he won’t eat the meat.

It wasn’t a surprise but, as my blog has been offline for so long, you wouldn’t have had the build-up.

He had told me that he would ‘sort out’ the bedroom (the last room in the flat to be sorted – by him) if I bought the boxes. I went to Ikea and bought 20 of them. I have a lot of stuff.

And so, when I was away he did what he has wanted to do from the beginning. Make my place more like his place – or, rather, as close to his place as possible. And to do this, everything must be put away. Preferably in cupboards or wardrobes but, at least, in boxes.

He had said he would leave the things under the bed. He didn’t.

A bed is a useful thing. It has legs. there is a great deal of space beneath it. the space can be used for storage. He has nothing under his bed, of course. In his flat everything is away – in cupboards or boxes.

However, during the ‘tidy up’, almost everything got moved from under the bed and put into boxes that are now on top of the wardrobes.

It’s all very neat. It’s all very clean. He’s now, quite obviously, much, much happier about it all. Especially if he feels it’s OK to invite his friend round :-)

Now, sometime this weekend, he goes down to his house to do the same there. Also, on that front, we are, apparently, going to be ‘renting a place on the beach’ for the summer. It’s quite expensive but I said we should go for it. If we don’t use it enough this year then we don’t have to renew it next year!

So now, most weekends will probably be on the beach and (hopefully) under the Tuscan sun :-)

Of course, it’s much better now that he’s back from Spain. We haven’t seen each other for a whole week. Even if he’s going away again for another week. At least I know he’s here tonight. Yes, it’s much better now.

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!

Success – or how the mighty have fallen?

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This post was written whilst my blog was ‘off-line’. Probably around the 10th May.

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As you may have noticed, if you are a regular reader and not away in some God-forsaken hole in the middle of nowhere, my blog has been ‘offline’. This is supposed to be because my ISP are migrating to new servers. A message saying so would be nice. As I write this I don’t know if this post will be on a new server, a new ISP, if all the blog posts will be back, if I will have to recreate everything, etc., etc. Later, I find some details on another website. It says all accounts, blogs, everything will be deleted and please do a backup. The backup I find here is from January. I hope I find one from the last couple of weeks – otherwise months will be missing!

I’m actually quite grateful for this delay in being able to post this entry. What I would have posted yesterday (as I write this) is very, very different to what I am posting now. And, sometimes, having time to think things through is much better. And so, on with the post.

One wonders why people continue to base their ideas of ‘success’ on the material wealth and assets of others.

Worse still, success is measured on the ‘appearance’ of these assets or wealth. When, sometime after they are hailed as successful, it all comes crashing down by the slip of an infidelity or by manipulation of figures or the collapse of their business or, even, bad luck, these same people seem to take some joy in that collapse.

It’s a shame really. For those people.

But what is success? How do we measure it? Is it a large house in the country? A nice car, perhaps? A business that seems to be making a lot of money? The number of employees?

Well, I guess that success is measured in different ways by different people.

My maternal Grandfather, in hindsight, seems the only one of my family who had any real sense. To him, happiness and success were to be measured by one’s level of contentment. He advised me the same. I am grateful for that advice.

I ran a company for 20 years or more. Well, two, actually. People, in hindsight, seemed to think I was successful. To be frank, they are quite stupid. That wasn’t success. Yes, I had a nice house, a big car, etc. The outward appearance was one of success. The reality was that it was a success – but not at the time. It was a success because of what it led to.

In retrospect, I should have taken more money from the business. I should have been greedier. But, that’s not a very bright thing to say, really, for if I had done that, I would, in fact, not be me but would have been a different person.

I don’t envy those people that have a lot of money. If it makes them happy then I’m happy for them. If you want to go sailing round the world with your lesbian lover, it’s OK. I wish you the very best. I wouldn’t do it but it’s your choice.

If it gives you some pleasure that, by what I would consider your very warped and shallow thinking, I once was ‘something’ and now I am ‘nothing’, then nothing I can say will change your mind and nor is what you think very important – except to you, of course.

Although I have to say, that I have reached that level of overall contentment that Bampa told me was the secret of life.

And he was right. So, so right. I hope you all reach (or have reached) the same level.

It’s been a while, I know.

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Yes, it seems I am as back as I can be.

Lots of things to tidy up, of course. Lots learnt in the process of trying to get it back. Lots of help from Stef, so many thanks to him.

Lost posts coming back soon. Lost links likewise. Recreation of mods made to blog as well.

Lots to do.

But I am so happy to be back :-)