Tag Archives: Retrospective

Nothing to fear except a lack of self-confidence itself!

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I am disappointed that I didn’t bring one of the others; that I didn’t fully-charge my phone; that I didn’t bring something to write with and on. I think, “I’ll write this down when I get back.” But, even as I think this, I know that I won’t. There’s too much ‘worry’. It is, of course, all made-up worry and, therefore, not real. It’s just in my head.

Later, as I’m walking out, I think that, if it wasn’t for my ‘worries’, my indecisiveness, my (and let me honest here) fears, I could be great. Maybe. It holds me back. It stops me from doing things or, rather, sometimes it stops me and I am annoyed with myself for being such a wuss.

My fears are my greatest obstacle. But they are not fears of normal people. Or, maybe they are? Maybe everyone has these fears? I just don’t think they do.

I think they come from my childhood. Or, perhaps, this is the way I am and so those ‘happenings’ that reinforce and prove my fears are correct are the only things that stick in my mind. They were huge happenings. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me or that I should die. They have a reoccurring theme, of course. It is not a fear of failure or a fear of disaster or a fear of danger or risk. No, it is a fear of embarrassment. I mean, FFS, just embarrassment!

These were things from as young as 5. They are the only things I remember from that age. Not good things but terrible things. Or, rather, terrible things for me. Things that make me squirm even as I think about them.

Every thing I do is a challenge. There is a fear attached which has to be overcome. Well, not every thing but a lot of things.

There was the drive. Less of a challenge now than it was, say, even a couple of years ago. Now I know the route and I’ve been driving enough to recognise the driving and the road signs. Once I was in the house though, I was ‘safe’. Then, the next day there was the beach. Again, not like it was last year and this year we have our own (shared) umbrella. Still, there’s all the other people. Too many people. And, yet, on Saturday, it wasn’t too bad as it was quite cloudy and there was a strong wind. But then there’s the water. But I decided not to do the water yet. That will have to wait until F is with me. Then there was (in random order) the ‘leaving’, the ‘smoking too many cigarettes’, the ‘getting a sandwich’, the ‘running out of things to immerse myself in’, the ‘putting on of sunscreen’. It’s almost comic – as long as you’re not me.

I look at the people around. All shapes, sizes and ages. No one looks at me, I tell myself. I have to believe that. As if I should be just see-through.

I think about the sunshine and wonder if I am burning. I can’t tell yet. It will come later, after I am away from the beach. I’ve rubbed suncream where I can – even over the lower part of my back and my shoulders. I notice that my left arm is peeling slightly. Well, I think, I can’t stop it now.

I think about the fact that sunbathing is so dangerous now. It’s not that it wasn’t dangerous before, it’s just that we didn’t know. I think about the fact that it’s unlikely to ‘get me’ since there are many other things that will, probably, ‘get me’ first. Like the smoking. It’s OK. It’s not like I was ever destined to live forever. It’s not that I ever wanted to live forever in the first place. And, in any case, what’s the point if you just live within safety. Safety is for wusses. I spot some brown moles on my arm and think “were they here before?” I worry that I would be a hypochondriac. Maybe that’s too much of my Father’s side in me? I would be a hypochondriac but I never voice the fears of that and say the opposite thing since people don’t really know what I’m thinking and so I can say anything I like. But I’m sure I would be a hypochondriac if I let it take control. Which I mustn’t. Which I won’t. Damn my head!

The book was ‘The Blind Assassin’. And not because they were discussing it on Twitter (#1book140) but because I hadn’t finished it from last year’s holiday. And, really, apart from being my favourite book of all time, I can read bits of it and leave it for ages. Well, obviously, almost a year, before finishing it. I toy with starting it again but I don’t. That will mean I won’t read the new one that I bought also by Margaret Attwood (Year of the Flood) or my other, 2nd favourite one – ‘We Need to Talk About Kevin’.

I order a cheese and lettuce sandwich because that’s a summer sandwich. They don’t have any black pepper though. Damn Italians with their limited taste buds! Maybe I should buy some and put some on myself. Also the cheese is not cheddar so not so tasty. But it’s OK.

I have promised to go to F’s Mum and Dad’s for dinner. He ‘set it up’ as a means (I am sure) of making me go down there without him. I leave the beach about 4 since I have to take the dogs out and, anyway, it feels like it might rain soon.

My Navigator is worth its weight in gold. Especially as the things were programmed in last time. F insisted so that I wouldn’t ‘lose my way’. I have the casina, the dog walk, the beach and F’s Mum. The man’s voice says the names in an English fashion, which is funny.

There’s no one at the dog area, the same as this morning. I play with Dino a bit but he gets a dirty beard and he will insist on shaking near me, spotting my shorts with mud from said beard. Bloody dog.

F has telephoned already. “Are you going to my Mum and Dad’s?”, he asks. But even I’m not stupid enough to think this is actually a question

I go back. I take a bath. Timing is everything. I had noticed on the beach that my nails were just a little long. I cut them. After all, I am going round to the parents-in-all-but-law’s place.

As I am cleaning the bath, I hear a voice outside. I grab the towel and go to see the uncle from upstairs. The uncle is in his eighties and doing very well, even for a man years younger than him. I go to the door, excusing myself for being dressed (undressed?) like this. He speaks to me. I understand some of it but he lacks some teeth and so it is more difficult for me. F’s Mum. Bicycle. Move. Somewhere at his house. The rain.

But, am I supposed to take it round? He repeats everything. It’s doesn’t make more sense than the last time. He is slightly frustrated. However, finally, I think that it must be him going to take it round and not me. He was just being polite. Later I learn that he didn’t even know I was there and didn’t see the dogs. Of course, that would be because, even if I went outside, the dogs tended to stay in the house. They are strange sometimes.

I get ready. I take many deep breaths. This will be difficult. There will be no English. The conversation will be limited. Or, worse still, non-existant.

I drive there with trepidation. On the way, I stop in the centre of the town. Well, not the town in which I am residing but the next one. The Marina. Where the dog walk and the beach are. I go to the tobacco shop to buy a certain type of cigar for his Dad. Then, next door for a tub of ice-cream for his Mum. I would feel guilty not taking anything now that, this time, I’m not taking them the best present of all – their son! F understands my need for wanting to take something and doesn’t tell me that it’s not necessary.

I arrive at the house and they welcome me as normal. They are sweet, as always, with me. We sit down for dinner. This is early. 7.30 p.m. but since his operation, F’s father has to eat earlier than they used to.

I give the ice-cream to his Mum. She makes all the things like ‘You shouldn’t have’ as all people do, even the English. But I think she is pleased. I give the packet of cigars to his Dad who is definitely surprised and pleased. Bless him.

Of course, they have made too much. They have bought some bresaola for me. None of them eat it but they must have asked F. There is a whole plate full. F’s Dad got up at 6 a.m. that morning to make frittata – for me, since neither of them eat any. There is tuna, tomato and potato salad. There is bread. There are the prawns that they did last time – cooked and in oil with parsley. There is a beer for me but I request wine (don’t forget my wine diet even if, as I suspected, ‘diet’ is not possible with F’s parents). It’s a ‘local’ ‘known’ wine without a label. And it’s red (my favourite) which is cold. I like the Italians approach to wine. No snobby breathing or room temperature crap. This is summer. Keep your red wine in the fridge!

Then there is some cheese. Soft pecorino. It’s very good. Again, not something bought in the supermarket. Then there’s fruit salad with an over-ripe banana. Then, of course, the ice-cream. His Dad doesn’t want any but she forces him to have a small cone (the cone being the size of a thumb and came with the ice-cream). He takes it because he is polite. But afterwards, he has another – this is not for politeness. I have some and his Mum has some. She gets out some special plastic dishes made to look like fat, squat, ice-cream cones. They came from S. I have realised that they loved S. I only hope I’m not compared. S is mentioned several times. “S bought us these”. “S, even if he was thin, used to have such heavy footsteps”. It’s OK. I am English. He is English. I am F’s boyfriend. S was F’s boyfriend. Obviously, we have a lot in common.

I text F during the meal saying there is a lot of stuff. He phones his Mum. She hands the phone to me. We talk. We say we’ll speak later. I miss him but it’s not been so bad. Not nearly as bad as it could have been. I say that everything is ‘buono’, which it is. She says ‘Mangia, mangia’ and I say no, stop, rubbing my full belly. She laughs.

His Dad goes off to smoke a cigar. Outside because it’s too smelly in the house. Conspiratorially, his Mum, whilst making me a coffee, tells me that she is going to bingo but that I should stay for a bit to be with F’s Dad. I say I have to go soon to be with the dogs. I have texted R (according to my instructions for what to do at the weekend) to ask if he is at the bar-for-this-season but he has not replied. F’s Dad and I watch a bit of telly. His Mum has gone. I know that B, F’s sister, is worried that this bingo lark is like some sort of drug for his Mum. But I know it’s a social event for her. I’m sure she isn’t spending a lot of money.

I go. R has not texted back. I drive past the bar but go home. I settle down with the new MA book. R texts me. ‘Yes I am here. Come’ it says. I briefly toy with saying that I am already at home with the dogs. But this is another fear. I don’t know these people. They’re not my friends. But I am under instruction. And like a good boy, I must do as I’m told. I go.

R speaks English. He is sitting with the couple that, last week, had brought their new puppy to the bar. This time they haven’t got the puppy. I’m asked if I understand Italian. I say it depends. Which it does. Then someone talks about me or asks me something and I say something back in Italian. After a few minutes the woman of the couple realise that I am speaking Italian and exclaims that I speak Italian perfectly. Of course, this is not true but it is, kind of, nice of her to say.

Eventually I leave and go back home, citing the dogs. I speak to F at home. He asks if I have been out with R. He would have been disappointed if I hadn’t gone, I think.

The next day I get up about half an hour later so miss the two lesbians with their dog. I am also later at the beach. F’s Dad said, the night before, that I should not park in the usual place as there was some fly-past or sir show happening and the roads would be closed. I briefly thought about not going to the beach at all. But now I’m getting the hang of the place so found somewhere to park, nearby. I go to the beach.

The place is heaving although nearly all the umbrellas immediately next to ours are empty. I half-expect B to come but she doesn’t. Or, rather, doesn’t before I leave.

I leave early. I have to have lunch at F’s Mum (because I can’t say no – saying no involves explanation – in Italian. It’s easier to say ‘yes’). Most of the stuff is as last night. She has also done some eggs. Kind of like egg and cheese on toast but without the toast. And with the cheese under the eggs. I have one. It’s nice but with runny yolks it would be nicer. I do like my runny yolks. The eggs are not supermarket eggs either. I’m beginning to understand where F gets some of his strangeness from. Whilst it’s not strange if you live there and have lived there all your life and know lots of people, etc., it’s more strange when you live in Milan and don’t. His Mum pulls a face when she compares these eggs to supermarket eggs. I can see F.

I leave soon after. I don’t have wine or beer, saying I have to drive.

Of course, I have another worry that evening. I get home quite reasonably. I check the address of the dinner. I wish F were coming with me but he’s working.

In the end it was lovely. New (or nearly new) people all. Wine, good food and all only ten minutes from my house. Very enjoyable.

And I realised on my second walk back from the beach that although it is a fear, it’s more a thing of self-confidence. And, it seems, I have none!

Eat dirt and die. Except it’s not true and I didn’t (die, that is).

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My parents found out, eventually. Well, I’m not sure they found out the whole truth. The problem was that I found it so tasty and apetising that I thought my sister may quite like it. So I fed her some. But I guess she was a bit messy and left bits around her mouth and in the pram.

I don’t think they ever found out that I used to eat it regularly. And, to be frank, I don’t think I would ever have admitted it (online or anywhere else, for that matter) were it not for this little piece.

Of course, it’s in the Daily Mail, not a renowned source for little things called ‘facts’ so it could be completely made up but I like that it’s ‘out there’ now. Perhaps the other people like me, wracked with a sense of guilt of carefully selecting lumps of earth from the garden before popping it in your mouth and eating it, can now ‘come out’ in the open without fear of recrimination?

And, trust me, I did carefully select these pieces. I can’t remember the taste but I do remember that it was rather good although I didn’t like the gritty bits so much. Also the texture as you ate it.

I think I ate it from about the age of 2 until I was about 6 or so.

Anyway, I didn’t die, obviously and, according to the report, it might have done me the power of good.

Mud pie for dinner, anyone?

Anyone?

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.

________________________________________________________________________

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.

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.

The Last Supper (the real one this time)

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Italy!

Sometimes, to be perfectly honest, it can be a real pain in the neck.

I was only chatting with R, last night, how, although everyone in Italy had mobile telephones the moment they were first introduced and a minimum of two when Britons were still umming and ahing about having their first, when it comes to the internet, they are a tad slow. So, whereas Facebook was a big hit in Britain, say, five years ago, it only really got a toe-hold in Italy in the last couple of years.

And web development is, to be frank, fairly crap here. It is almost as if they don’t really get the power of it. My colleague, S, for example, doesn’t like to book anything or buy anything over the net. So, using websites in Italy is quite hit and miss.

I needed to book tickets to see The Last Supper. If you haven’t been in the last 10 years or so, you really, really MUST. They have cleaned it up and it is, quite honestly, breathtaking. Any pictures you see of it really don’t do it justice.

But you should try to get tickets before you come. These days the viewing is strictly controlled. The number of people allowed in at one time is limited to about 20. You are only supposed to be in there for about 15 minutes.

It used to be quite difficult to get tickets anyway but now, with all the restrictions, it is definitely harder. You can book about 2/3 months in advance only. Even so, tickets are not that easy to get, especially if you are restricted to certain days.

So today, the tickets for July and August came on sale. And I learnt some interesting things that, should you be wishing to book, might help:

1. Getting through on the phone is almost impossible.
2. The website which shows available days, is updated ……… A LOT (so refresh the page as often as you can).
3. Pre-register with the booking site as, during the time you are trying to register, the tickets you thought were available will have been sold.
4. Do try the call centre again if you can’t find what you want on the site.

I had rung last month. The kind lady (there is an English section) told me that I couldn’t book for July, yet. Also, she told me not to worry as they always have tickets available in the call centre that are not shown on the site. I don’t rest easy with that sort of information. When people say ‘don’t worry’ in Italy, it’s usually the time to worry.

Anyway, this morning was the ‘time’ to get July tickets. I need them because D&S are coming over for their first anniversary. So it’s important that I get some for them. I suggested to F that, perhaps, I should also purchase a guided tour. He said, ‘No, I’ll do it’. ‘Really?’, I queried. But, apparently, yes. Well I guess he might know something about it since he did Art and stuff at college.

I got on the site. Until about 8.45 a.m. July and August were not even available as months to look at. Then July was there – but no days were available. Grrrr.

I try phoning the call centre. The line is engaged. I try again. The line is engaged. And again. Engaged. Engaged. Engaged. Engaged.

I get through. I press ‘2’ for English. They tell me, in Italian, that I have to be put through to an operator. I wait. They play a message apologising for the delay. I wait. They play another message apologising for the delay. I wait some more. They play a message that apologises for the delay but adds that the operators are all busy and so it is taking too long to wait. They cut me off.

THE BASTARDS! Having already spent money on the call, I want to wait more. Instead, I must phone again. The line is engaged. I try again. The line is engaged. Engaged, engaged, fucking ENGAGED! Bastards, bastards, BASTARDS!

I am now repeating the calls on both my mobile and landline. I get through! Hurrah!

The message about waiting for an operator comes on. I wait. I hear the ‘sorry for the delay’ message. I wait. I hear the same message again. I wait. I hear the same message plus the bit about ‘we’ve decided that rather than permit you to hold the line, we shall cut you off with no thought for you whatsoever and make you redial 6 million times until we get you get through to here, giving you false and unreasonable hope that you will actually get to speak to someone – but, at least, then, someone else can get through and they can have the false hope that they will get through. Anyway, it’s our joke because although this is called a ‘call centre’, in fact it is only one person sitting by a telephone’.

Bastards.

I go back to the website. I refresh. Well, you never know?

I didn’t know. This time, every day is available until the 13th July! WTF?

Ah, yes, of course, someone is just entering them by hand, right now! They are entering the available dates by hand because, well, this is Italy, and the thought of setting it up in a file beforehand so that the flick of a program makes them all appear at once is JUST NOT POSSIBLE!

Useless BASTARDS!

However, on a brighter note, it means that, if these dates have suddenly appeared, more dates will too. I hope. I sincerely hope.

I am now dialing the useless number that is always engaged and simultaneously, refreshing the page on the site.

The day I want comes up as available. Hurrah!

I select the date. Some times come up. I select a time. To continue I must register or sign on. Damn! I have signed up with this company before. I bought ballet tickets for V at La Scala. I can’t remember my username or password. Damn, damn! I try to register. I cannot. My email address is already taken.

I click on the forgotten login button. I will get an email. An email arrives. It has the username but the password is not there for security reasons. This is quite stupid. I wait for a moment for another email with the password. It’s not coming. I go back to the site. I go back a few pages – except I can’t. I am, in my head, screaming at ‘them’. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

This seems to have little effect. I go back to the original page. OK there’s even more dates available now. I click on the same date and the same time. Of the 7 tickets available, there is now only 1. BARSTEWARDS!

I try a different time. I try to log on with my username and say I have forgotten my password. I go back to the tab with the email and click on the inbox to refresh it, every few milliseconds. I fail to notice that the email has arrived and so click once again on inbox. This only slows everything down.

You might guess by now that I am a tad frustrated.

I copy the password and paste it in.

There is a message in Italian. I do not read it. I have no time for this. It is not letting me go any further. I try a different tab. The same thing happens. I go back to the first tab and try again. I reload the page from the beginning and try it all again. No dice still.

I read the message in Italian.

I am already logged on somewhere else and so must close the tabs and start again.

I close all tabs. I open a new tab. I start again.

The date and the time I want is still OK. They have seven tickets, still. I want four. I sign in again. They do not have all the details they would like. Anyway, the address is wrong. It’s the one that I used to have in the UK. I change it. I have to look up my codice fiscale on my phone. I ensure I have entered all the required fields. I tick the box to say I have read the Terms and Conditions. As with most people, I haven’t, of course.

I am not allowed to go further.

You utter, utter, fucking bastards!

There is a field they insist must be filled even if it is not marked as required. They do not need this information. It is not essential to this transaction. Am I a man or a woman? Why must you know this to allow me to purchase tickets from you (which, incidentally, are going to cost me an extra €1.50 EACH!!!! because I am booking in advance)?

I am tempted to say I am a woman.

I don’t.

I continue.

It lets me pay. But now there is this new thing with the credit card. I must enter my password. The one assigned to the card.

The last time, even if I know I entered the correct password, it didn’t work and I had loads of shit trying to get a new one, eventually having to phone a premium line from my mobile to get it working.

I enter the password, making sure it is 100% correct.

It starts processing. It is taking a long time. I am not hopeful. Eventually, a message appears. The transaction has not processed. For fuck’s sake! I re-read the message. The password is correct, the transaction is being processed now.

Oh!

I get the confirmation that I have four tickets. I print it, not really believing that after more than an hour of phone calls and messing about on the internet, I have actually got them.

F sends me an email with the picture of a dog, a picture of a shower-head, the date of Friday the 22nd and a picture of a clock at about 10 o’clock.

I reply with a picture of tickets, of the Last Supper, a poster with the date that I have booked the tickets and a clock with 1:15 on it.

Underneath I put a picture of a finger pointing out of the screen (you) and a picture of a tour guide with a flag.

We are done.

So, in case you wish to book to see the Last Supper, you can (maybe) book through this site. In fact, if you check right now, there are even a few dates that have become available in April, May and June that, previously, were all fully booked.

Failing that, you can try the telephone number on that site. But only phone on a day that is not the first day of sales. They say ‘Not to Worry’. Of course, I have lived here long enough to know you should. Still, it is worth a try, isn’t it?

Anyway, this was only my experience. I’m sure yours will be better ………….

Tea made richer

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Nothing beats a good mug of tea made with the Tetley Round Bags.  I can’t get them here but have to have willing ‘drug mules’ bring them from the UK or go and get them myself.

Well, now, I say that nothing beats it and I would be wrong.  It can be beaten by adding the appropriate biscuit.  It has to be a biscuit that can be dunked.  Therefore we’ll have none of your flaky type of biscuit nor, for me, anything added.  I don’t want bits dropping off or chocolate that is melted by the tea.  I need a biscuit that will go quite soft, quite quickly but remain in one place long enough for it to travel from the mug to my mouth.

For me there is only one type of biscuit that really does the job.

It’s Rich Tea. A boring biscuit to most people, I know but one that perfectly fits the bill.

What I never knew, until now, was that you can even make a cake with them although I’m not sure it would be my wedding cake, even if I were to have more than one!

Signs and remembering

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There are things. Things that remind me of the past or a person. Very occasionally a smell or some music. In this case there is no smell nor music but just a sight.

Sometimes it is unexpected. I catch my breath. Like this morning.

The sight was something like this:

OK so not quite as nice as this one pictured – but you get the idea.

My maternal grandmother loved Magnolia. I think it was her favourite and they had one in front of their bungalow, right outside the lounge windows. And it is still there, outside the bungalow. We passed by the bungalow when I was boring F to death with the ‘….and this was where…..’ stuff last year when we went to the UK for the wedding. I didn’t really understand, all that time ago, because it had no smell (and I liked flowers with smell). However, my last house in the UK had one because I put one in. You don’t see them so often and they only seem to flower for a few weeks but they are glorious. And they are, of course, a reminder that spring is here. The only problem in the UK was that you were as likely as not to have a frost which would kill the blooms immediately. Here it is much less likely.

And, so, I was reminded of both her and, by association, my maternal grandfather whom regular readers will know, I loved very much.

And it was a nice thought on this fine, slightly-not-cold, spring morning and I thought I would tell you.

Bloody people.

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It has to stop. No, really it does!

I don’t really get angry. I just feel disappointed. I should feel angry but, you know, there’s just too much effort in being angry. And, anyway, it doesn’t solve anything. However, I could be, shall we say, firmer. You could say ‘more of a bastard about it’. And that would be true ….. to some extent.

But, overall, I’m just disappointed – both with the people concerned and with the resulting situation for me.

I don’t know why I do it really. The ‘planning’ bit. Even as I’m doing it I think, ‘don’t do this ‘cos it won’t all work out like this at all’. Still, I do it.

In this case, I’m talking about my students – but, to be honest, it applies to most things. One of them, who has to complete this test before the end of this year or else he loses his degree that he worked so hard for. But he doesn’t work hard enough (in his own time). There are excuses, of course. They are reasonable excuses – he works full time, also runs a business (a nursery) with his wife, has a baby daughter and fights with his wife most evenings. Oh yes, and he’s just bought a new flat which needs work to be done. Not really a recipe for success when the English thing is difficult for him.

So, as he hasn’t worked hard enough, he wants to stop the lessons. This is fine by me. His Monday, hour-and-a-half lessons at 9 p.m. were a real killer for me. It meant not getting to sleep much before midnight, making me have a lack of sleep that is showing in my face as I rapidly approach old age. He says he wants to self-study. He won’t pass his exam ….. even if he does actually take it. But he has no intention of using his degree; it’s too difficult for him to get work in his field without working for a while as an intern (meaning no money – which with all his other commitments is impossible) and he’s unlikely to get an internship at his age (being a few years older than is normal). Anyway, his long-term plans means that he doesn’t really need a degree. He wants to open a tobacconist (he works for the one below my house). You don’t need to be an architect to do that.

And so, he cancelled a lesson a few weeks ago and said he didn’t want to do any more. But he had pre-paid. I said he had two lessons left. And so, he booked for last night and next Monday.

I sit in my kitchen. Everything is ready. Well, I say ‘ready’. I have no real lesson plan. I’m not sure what he wants from the last two lessons. I will play it by ear.

F is packing for Spain and trying to do the music (see post below). He knows the lesson is until 10.30 so he isn’t rushing. He ‘does beauty farm’, as he says. After he comes (which is always after the lesson), we will eat the remains of the Cottage Pie. It is too late, really, but the other option is to throw it away.

I had, previously, rushed round to his place to show him a ‘solution’ that didn’t really work and rushed back to be sitting in my kitchen, with a cup of tea, by nine.

It reaches two minutes past nine. I have a ‘sense’. It’s not a good sense. I decide to text my student. I attach his message which gave the dates and ask ‘Are you coming or have you forgotten?’. I already know he has forgotten or, if not forgotten, chosen not to come.

I wait for no answer and am rewarded.

Ten minutes later, I text again, this time putting a delivery receipt on the text. This one just asks ‘Are you there?’. He’s not. Or he’s ignoring me. Or his phone has been stolen. Or he’s arguing with his wife (again). Or he’s in hospital or dead or something. But his phone’s still working and there is a receipt to say the message was delivered.

I am a little pissed. At least have the decency to let me know you’re not coming? I had turned down a drink with A (who is away the rest of this week) because of my errant student.

I decide that I will charge him this anyway. Stuff him. Unless he has a really good excuse like he’s in hospital. Or his daughter is, or something. Then I couldn’t do it. There’ll be some excuse, for certain. Also I had told someone else they couldn’t have a lesson at that time. Goddamn them. Bloody people.

But this keeps happening. People cancel. At the last minute. Now I have to be upfront about this. I have to set rules. It will make me seem like I am a money-grabbing bastard. But so be it.

As I found when running a business before, rules only need to be brought in when people start taking the piss. And so it goes.

It’s bloody people that are the problem!

More or less, God

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In this case it was as I got out of the shower.

Usually, these crazy thoughts occur when I’m under the shower.

A realisation came to me. It was, kind of, about my father but it could be anyone. And, in some way, it was about me. No, not in some way. It WAS about me. It was a bit like a waking dream, dreaming whilst I am awake which, in any case, is a mute point since, at that time in the morning, there is a blurring between being fully awake and fully asleep.

Anyway, back to the point of this. I realised that, those people whom we put up on a pedestal and think that they ‘know’ everything are, in fact, like me. I mean to say, they may know something or some things really well and in depth – but they don’t, in spite of what we think, know everything.

When you are a child, your parents are like gods. They know everything. Except, of course, they don’t. They know more than you. That’s really not difficult. As you grow older and learn more, you start to question their knowledge, their experience. Or, at least, I did. I also questioned their values since my experiences and my knowledge suggested that their values weren’t shared by me, aren’t shared by me.

Their place is usurped by others – who, again, know more than you. Until your increased knowledge and experience makes you realise that, in fact, these new people don’t really know more than you, have not really experienced more than you. Or, rather, may have experienced more than you but in different ways or have different experiences. People’s knowledge on certain subjects may be more than yours. That doesn’t make them god-like.

And then you get to my age and you realise that no-one knows like you do. They may know more than you do about a thing but in something else they know less. They may have experience in some things but they don’t have your experience.

In fact, no-one has your knowledge and your experience. How can they? It doesn’t matter who they are.

This fact does not make you a god either. Unless we are all gods, in which case it does.

But, it’s an interesting change in perspective.

It doesn’t mean that other people don’t deserve your respect. Indeed, in my opinion, all people deserve your respect as they have knowledge that you don’t and have experienced a different life to you. It doesn’t mean they can’t lose that respect if they turn out to be idiots or jerks. But they deserve a reserved respect …… just in case.

Of course, as I stepped out of the shower and dried myself, all these thoughts I have written down didn’t fill my head, exactly.

No, what I started thinking was that I didn’t know everything and hadn’t experienced everything and that’s how it must have been for my father when, at the age of 5 or 6, I thought he DID know everything and HAD experienced everything. And I wondered if he thought the same as I, even when I was thinking he was, more or less, God?

Chainsaws in Milan.

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As I have probably mentioned before, I am a country lad at heart. OK, so less of the lad these days, unfortunately. Most of my life has been lived in the countryside and I truly adore the country living – although it is completely different from living in a city and you have to have a different mindset, for certain.

Quite often, when living in North-West Herefordshire, you would hear, in the distance, the sound of the chainsaw as they were cutting down some trees. That’s if the grackles weren’t making too much noise, of course. It was, particularly, a spring and autumn sound. It is a reassuring sound (to me).

This morning, I heard it again. In the country it lasts for several minutes. This morning it lasted for a few seconds. And then repeated a few seconds later. Of course, I don’t live in the countryside any more, so it was unlikely at before 7 a.m. I would be hearing this sound in the middle of Milan!

And, of course, it wasn’t a chainsaw at all.

Bless him, I thought, but it is really loud – perhaps it’s because he’s so old. After all, this gets worse as you get older – loosening of muscles (you might even say ‘saggy’, especially round the waist), a general ‘relaxing’ of everything. And then I thought that it was good that I had shut them in the kitchen whilst I carried out my morning ablutions and got dressed. If he had been in the bedroom, he would have woken F!

I moved from the lounge (where I was dressing) to the bathroom to do my tie and became aware that the sound was coming from the wrong place.

It wasn’t Rufus after all but F himself! It made me laugh.