Tag Archives: Retrospective

Fashion, hair and worrying.

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“You don’t care about fashion.”

It was made as a statement. I didn’t try to correct it since, probably, it was a bit lost in translation.

It’s not true that I don’t “CARE”. It would be better to say that I’m not really too bothered about it. It doesn’t rule my life; I don’t have to have the latest things – even if I live in one of the world’s centres of fashion. But I was with people who work in fashion and, I guess, to them it seems that I don’t really care.

R (F’s friend who is up for the weekend) said that he liked my jeans. These are, probably, about 10 years old. I’m struggling to fit into them now, of course, but at least I can still fit in these. I also, last Tuesday night, got a lot of clothes that F was throwing out – to make room in his wardrobes for all the other clothes he has. That’s why R is up – to select a load of clothes for himself.

R also said that he liked my hair. I explained that I was only growing it because I didn’t know what to do with it. He said it looked really good as it was and I should keep growing it. That’s not really “fashion” either, I suppose but it explains why F has been reluctant to advise me on what to do ……… maybe. A colleague at work asked me if it was my real colour. It’s a kind of light, mousey brown. A nothing colour. But, compared to when I had it short and it was totally grey, it is completely different. I was amazed that it has gown with colour. It wasn’t what I had expected at all.

Some people seem to like my hair and they say so. Most people, I think, don’t really like it and so, say nothing. It’s not quite shoulder length but we’re getting there.

To be honest, it feels more ‘me’. Since I was about 11, I always liked long hair. And I wanted mine long. My parents weren’t so keen and it was always a bit of a fight come hair cutting time.

Maybe I am too old for this but, really, who cares. Who knows what will happen tomorrow so I might as well do what I like. And I like it long. And it’s a little bit rebellious and I like that too.

Finally, although I probably shouldn’t tell you this, especially to Gail and Lola, I have a sort of thing with my throat. And, in spite of myself, I am a bit hypochondriac – or I would be if I let myself be. I’ve had it for about three days now. Like it’s a bit swollen but in a particular place, making it a little uncomfortable. Maybe it’s a sort of cold. Of course, I keep thinking it’s cancer or something. It probably isn’t. But it’s a thought that crosses my mind knowing, as I do, that I am on borrowed time now. And, no, I won’t be going to a doctor, not least because I don’t have one and it’s too much hassle to go and get one here. It is, almost certainly, a bit of a sore throat now that the weather has changed. Everyone is having it right now. In a few days it will be gone and then I shall stop thinking about it. So, don’t worry.

But it did make me think for a moment about not being able to eat and, therefore not being able to taste. And that worried me quite a lot. See, I’ve done enough worrying about it for all of you ;-)

Books that should never have been written and films that should never have been made.

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Of course, it’s all a matter of personal taste.

But, you know, there’s some things that just should never have happened.

There was a book I read once, a long time ago. It was about a teenage boy who ‘kidnapped’ his babysitter and everything just got a ‘bit out of hand’. I don’t remember the title. I do remember that I truly hated it. Not because it wasn’t well-written (although I can’t remember if it was or wasn’t) and not because the book was horrific or anything – although it was.

No, the problem was that the things depicted in the book were such that, if you had imagined them in the first place, in my opinion, you had problems and should see someone to get them fixed.

Recently there was something in the newspapers about Human Caterpillar 2 (which, from what I understand, has now been banned in the UK). So I found a copy of Human Caterpillar (the first version – which the protagonist watched in the second version). I’m afraid, not only could I not watch it all the way through, but I had to skip through it, using fast forward most of the time.

Not only was it boring and (to me, remember) utterly stupid and pointless but it was also the product of a very sick mind. I don’t know that I could have acted in it (although, on second thoughts, no one has offered me money to act – so maybe I would for the right incentive – after all, it wasn’t actually real, was it?) At the end of it all, it wasn’t a good film but the story did not need to be filmed at all. In fact, should not be filmed at all.

Anyway, having seen HC (the first version), even in FF mode, I’m certainly NOT going to be going out to find a copy of HC2.

And where is this going, you are (maybe) saying to yourself?

Well, over our holidays it’s been mentioned during conversations with others how much F likes going to cinema and how we never do. Apparently this is because I don’t understand Italian and so we don’t go. I pointed out that I have no problem going and, in fact, would enjoy the experience, particularly if I have looked the film up online first so have a basic understanding (and, maybe, have seen some clips in English).

F is a BIG fan of the director Almodovar and so it was that, on Saturday night last, we went to see this:

Now, I looked at the trailer (as above), I read what synopsis I could find (and because no one would give the plot away, finding the actual important bits was difficult – but I found them) and looked at the book it was based on (online, of course).

I knew it would be a ‘difficult’ film and not only because it would all be in Italian!

I sat through it all. I’d paid for it, so of course I did.

I tried to enjoy the “beauty” of the filming but I was struck, overall, by the same feelings as reading that book and watching that other film.

Why?

I mean ‘Why make it’?

What made him think that this was either believable or good? I wasn’t shocked (although maybe that was because I knew the story beforehand), nor frightened, nor, even, disgusted. I was more than disgusted. It wasn’t a horrible film because it was gory. It wasn’t even a horrible film because of the story, as such. Whereas, for most of the film I kind of understood what was going on – I mean I could follow the idea of the film, even if I didn’t think it was an amazing story, in the last few scenes the whole thing became preposterous. I’d patiently waited for the big twist to happen and then, when it did, I felt that I’d been cheated by an atrocious (and sick and unbelievable) plot.

I don’t dislike Almodovar but I left the cinema wondering why he had made it. Worse still (if it is true), F said that he had wanted to make this for years!

Put it this way, not only will I not be buying it on DVD, I won’t be watching it ever again.

Sending something by email – you might as well whisper in the wind.

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Blogging in Italy is different. Or, rather, Italians blogging in Italy have to be more careful.

If the government have their way, they will have to be even more careful in future.

The government, here, having been trying, for some time now, to curb what they see as the excesses of the blogging world. Particularly when it comes to criticising or revealing embarrassing details about our beloved leader, Buzz Lightyear (Berlusconi).

Ideally, of course, he would like anything said about him to have passed through someone who can edit it properly. And, whilst with most of the media, this can be done easily (as he either owns the company or, as the Prime Minister, is responsible for it), the blogging world is a bit different.

I think (and I’m sure I’ll be corrected if I’m wrong), LA7 (a TV station) is also quite independent. I remember watching a debate on TV which was heavily critical of Buzz and he was obviously watching too because he phoned in to have a bit of a rant.

The trouble with bloggers is that they can say something and he doesn’t get the chance to phone in to say they are wrong. Instead, in a bill going through parliament, he wants to make it obligatory that the person who is defamed or whatever, gets the right to reply. If not, then the blogger is fined.

The Guardian’s take on it is here.

However, the really shocking thing is hidden away in the last paragraph and, to me, shows why Italy always seems to be a little bit behind the rest of the world when it comes to embracing the new world of technology fully.

Legally, “email has no validity”.

Let’s just put that again:

“email has no validity”

WHAT?

I remember when I first came here (and I’m talking 6 years ago – not 100), I was amused by the fact that, when someone sent an email, they would follow that up with a telephone call to ‘check that the person had received it’. How quaint and old-fashioned, I thought.

Mail, of the old kind, is fine. In fact, everything is done via mail. And, of course, if email has no validity, it has to be this way. But the fact that it is inadmissible in a court of law scares me quite a lot.

After all the ‘E’ of email stands for electronic. If mail is acceptable then an electronic version of it should be the same. Shouldn’t it? Yes, it damned well should!

However, since my email address is a .co.uk address and in the UK that IS admissible and Italy is in the EU and so is the UK, I wonder how that would be viewed?

Maybe I’ll find out one day.

Not now though. I’m still in a state of shock.

Musings from the beach

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They disliked or maybe, even, despised jewellery on a man. I wonder, then, what they would have thought of the old man at the umbrella before me, wearing his log gold chain with a square of gold dangling from the middle. Hardly a medalion but, then, he’s hardly a medalion man – being, as he is, about mid-70s, where everything is already on its way South and his small breasts in need of some support. I wonder if it all heads South as that is where the ground is and where he will lie sometime (soon?) – almost as if it points the way to his destination?

And then I thought about my parents disliking jewellery on a man and thought that, perhaps, they disliked me as much as I did them. I disliked them for their values – and mine are opposite, to the extreme. Did I get my ‘opposite values’ because I disliked them and theirs or did I get mine first and disliked them (my parents) because their values were not mine.

All this is lost in time. Never to be known. Such is life.

Families

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Just so you know, we have no Internet access at work – so no visiting of blogs and these posts have to be posted in the evening – and I have so little time. Hopefully, all will be back to normal soon.

In the meantime ……….

I had done a long piece about the falling out F had with his Mum. That was the weekend before last. There was a walk out, things were said and, afterwards I was told that now, he doesn’t feel obligated to go there.

Except I lived with V for over 20 years.

Let’s be honest, if I fall out with someone, I really fall out with them. It doesn’t go away. I guess that’s why, in the last 30 years or so, I don’t speak to my parents and have only seen them twice in that time.

It’s not that I bear grudges as such, it’s just that I don’t feel it can all be ignored. If there’s a problem then it remains a problem. I realize it’s my problem really but it’s the way I am. I tried to change when V left but V wouldn’t let me. Perhaps more of me rubbed off onto V than I had thought?

So, last weekend, I was, at once, surprised and unsurprised when, after we had arrived on Saturday, F phoned his Mum to say that we were down but we wouldn’t be going round for something to eat that evening.

On Sunday, he said he was sorry but we needed to go and see his Mum and Dad before going to the beach. He bought some cakes to have with coffee. I said it was fine (which it was). I may have a problem with forgiveness myself but I have no problem with other people being able to forgive – at least, between themselves.

And so we go. His Dad is on his own. He makes us coffee and he and F play cards, as normal. Hi Mum comes. She makes faces at me as if to ask ‘Is he OK now?’ or ‘He’s a strange one’ or something like that. I smile and raise my eyebrows and shrug my shoulders.

Finally, he and his Mum sit down (when his father has gone to the other room) to talk about a lunch at some restaurant to be arranged for his Dad’s birthday which is in a few weeks. I don’t suppose his brother will be there. But, who knows?

I don’t really understand families. Well, I understand my own – it’s everyone else’s that’s a mystery to me.

Lettuce and Cheese

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It’s a summer thing, really. It’s like raspberries and, now, sandals.

I always used to be reminded when Wimbledon was on. Wimbledon and lettuce and cheese sandwiches go together. Oh, yes, and strawberries and cream. My mother used to do the sandwiches. Now, thinking about it as I am writing this, she probably did them so that she didn’t have to interrupt her Wimbledon-watching too much.

There are things I ‘got’ from her. None of the rest of the family did but, even though I can’t say we were ever close, certain things remain as my favourites and were her favourites too. Things like Wimbledon, lettuce and cheese sandwiches, bread and butter pudding, rice pudding, etc., etc. Hmmm, now I look at it, it’s mostly food. I wonder why I have these things – my favourites were her favourites.

Of course, I developed some of these. I actually went to Wimbledon, twice and I don’t think she ever did.

And, lettuce and cheese sandwiches had black pepper added. Nowadays, as it’s harder to get salad cream (impossible here), I have to use mayonnaise. Salad cream has a more acidic flavor and compliments the other ingredients perfectly.

Here, of course, no cheddar either.

So, Saturday, on the beach, I ordered a lettuce, cheese (fontina), and mayonnaise sandwich. Because they don’t have black pepper (for some reason Italians don’t like it and think it’s bad for you – for me, it’s not only essential but it’s also good for you as it is supposed to improve your sex life (I heard that from someone and I’m a great believer in things I like to believe in)), I brought my own black pepper to add.

As I got it (and F’s sandwich) from the bar, the guy said that it was a strange combination. As usual, I replied that I’m English. That’s usually enough for Italians as they think we’re strange. He said that Italians would never choose this sandwich. They would never even think about it as a combination.

I took it back to our place and with the added black pepper it was almost as good as the real thing. Or, maybe that’s because I haven’t had them since, er, last summer?

It seemed a perfect thing to have on the beach, under the hot sun.

From hot and sunny Carrara to the Chicago rain.

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“I hate being in love”

“I always fall in love. I can’t stop it and I hate it”

“I fall in love and then I fall out of love. I’ve had enough of it”, the American girl behind me whined. I wanted to say something. I thought of turning round and saying “That’s life”, but I didn’t.

The morning was on the beach. The temperature was, probably, in the 30s (°C, of course). We had lunch, courtesy of F’s sister at which, because his sister and niece are both taking English lessons, there was an impromptu lesson.

Then we left. I could have stayed there all day but we had Chicago later.

It wasn’t supposed to rain. The forecast said no rain. Everyone’s forecast said no rain. The clouds in the distance were laden with rain. And the lightening, as always, was great to see – as a backdrop, of course. I don’t want it coming any closer. But it did. The spots of rain were large. Wearing sandals, a shirt and some linen trousers didn’t keep me dry.

On the plus side, it stopped the mosquitoes which, until then, had been on a feasting orgy and the smell of Autan was all around. I hate the smell of Autan and try my best never to use it. My thinking is that, if it’s potent enough to ward off mosquitoes, it can’t possibly be good for your skin. A couple of nibbles by the zanzare can’t be as bad. And, anyway, even the people who liberally spray themselves, seem to get bitten just the same.

There was another plus side. With the onset of the rain, many people started to get up and leave or, at least, try to find some shelter. Leaving a number (quite a sizeable number) who headed to the front. The front, for sometime, protected us from the rain but in the end it got us too.

I never did festivals. When you’re young, you can do this ‘staying in the rain’ for hours whilst you watch your favourite band. Firstly, this is NOT my favourite band and secondly, I only know a few of their songs and only one that I can sing along to. However, what was I to do? Everyone in my group was at the front and so, I followed.

To be honest, even without knowing all the songs (I knew about 5), the band were brilliant. Not only were they good but they obviously enjoyed themselves which makes a whole lot of difference. The trombone player was incredible – not only for his playing but also for his energy and enjoyment.

Once again, it was Milano Jazzin Festival and Chicago were great. It was worth the money and the rain to see them.

It’s only minutes but ………..

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When you’re a kid you’re always told not to wish your life away.

I thought this would have stopped by now.

It seems not.

The seconds drag like minutes and the minutes like hours. It’s like you’re stretching your fingers out as far as you can and only another inch would be enough.

F is at home and is ready. He waits only for me. Me and then me and the dogs. I wish I was, at least, on my way. It’s the sitting around thing that gets to me.

Ah well, there’s another minute closer ………..

I guess it’s official now.

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I guess I have reached the ‘I am an old codger’ stage of my life.

It’s not really my age, as such, it’s my attitude.

Saturday night was the ‘Notte Bianca’.  This is an Italian thing.  Once a year, roads are closed to traffic and the shops and bars stay open until late.  By late, I mean 2 or 3 or later.

There are often ‘discos in the street’, stalls and street traders selling tourist-type crap.  There are food and drink stalls.  And people wander about.

I suppose the reason it can be done here is the weather.  It’s warm and it lends itself to staying up till the early hours of the morning.

F apologised a number of times and checked I wasn’t bored.  St, an old friend of his, has been having problems with her 30+-year-old marriage.  Or rather her husband has been having problems, if you see what I mean.  She has lived in the town all her life and feels she cannot confide in anyone who lives there – so F was an obvious choice.  It seems a lot of people are having problems right now.

Anyway, obviously they were talking in Italian.  I suppose I could have tried to follow the conversation but it seemed rude to do so, me not being an old friend.  So, I didn’t.

We went to a bar and found a seat (which was lucky).  And they talked whilst I looked around.  And I catch myself wondering why the young people (especially the girls) think that wearing a pair of shorts or skirt that barely covers your bum when you have tree trunks for legs, think that it can possibly be attractive?

I suppose it is the same as when I was a teenager and I suppose the older generation thought much the same about us as I think about the youngsters of today.

But, that’s not entirely fair.  There are women of F’s age wearing the same sort of thing although it’s noticeable that the women of that age generally wear something that suits their figure.  Not always, of course, but mostly.

We left about midnight as F didn’t like a friend of R (his best friend who had joined us with his entourage later) who announced to everyone, and in front of her 10-year-old daughter, how she really needed a fuck tonight.  I only learnt later that was why we had left as I hadn’t understood.

Possibly it’s as well that I don’t understand sometimes but F and I do agree on stuff like that.  As we used to say in the UK – it’s not big and it’s not clever.

However, I did enjoy the evening.  Watching the people.  And St seems very nice.  Bless her, she’s still in love with her husband after almost 40 years of knowing him.  Shame he’s such a barsteward really.

Inexplicable procrastination

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It is, truly, incomprehensible.

On some things – I procrastinate – for no reason. Or, no ‘apparent’ reason.

On the other hand, some things that I could leave for a day or more, I do immediately.

So, all my editing work is done. Completed. Sent back to the authors.

Lessons are prepared.

Booking of a couple of restaurants – not done. The alarm goes off on my mobile phone calendar. I reset the alarm ‘for later’. Even as I do it, I wonder why. The call will take about 2 minutes. And, yet, I put it off again. I really don’t know why.

Well, writing this post has made me get the telephone numbers, at least. I suppose that’s something. It’s like ‘I’m getting there’ but oh, sooooo slowly.

The first is in a couple of weeks. Someone who had been my best friend for quite a number of years, is coming to Milan. With his wife. It could be nice or ‘strained’. I don’t know. I’m not even sure if I want F to be with us or not. In some way I do but in another way, I’m really not that bothered in ‘showing him off’.

It reminds me of a time, many, many years ago. A really good friend and I were always competing with each other. You know the sort of thing. “We’ve just moved to a new house”; “I’ve just got a new car”; “I’ve just been promoted”.

Except, for some strange reason I decided to ‘opt out’ of this competing game. I decided not to tell him that I had got a new car. When he and his wife arrived to stay for a weekend soon after, they saw the new car in the driveway. I got some sort of sadistic satisfaction from seeing his jaw drop. In a way, I was still competing. Just in a different way. As if, by NOT bragging about it, I was actually bragging more! If you see what I mean.

And so it is with this ex-best friend. If F doesn’t want to go, of course, then I’m certainly not going to push. I don’t know how awkward it will be. And, as he’s not English, it will be all the more difficult to follow, for him.

The next is a booking I must make for D&S. They are coming over for their first wedding anniversary. I have a restaurant I want to book for them which is ‘magic’ in terms of place and food (if not service). I think it is perfect for their first anniversary. We shan’t be with them that day as they want to spend it together – which is how it should be, of course. But I do want their evening meal to be a bit special.

And, yet, I still haven’t booked these restaurants. And I can’t possibly tell you why.

It’s completely inexplicable.