The smell of dead things.

Of course, certain smells and sights remind you of times, of places, of people, etc.

And I was in conversation with a couple of people the other day. I was explaining how our Purchasing department (occupied by three women) have plants and flowers dotted around but that most of their plants and flowers are in various stages of death.

And how there was one flower that, even when alive, I detested as, when alive, it smelt like a dead thing. And when dead it stopped smelling but looked like a dead thing. It has no redeeming features.

The other people were Italian and I was told that the smell was wonderful because it reminded them of spring. Of course, since we don’t have it in the UK, it doesn’t have this recollection for me – to me it is quite horrible.

The flower (or is it shrub) is mimosa and today, being La Festa delle Donne (Women’s Day) it the flower of choice to give to a woman. I suppose, in the same way, the flower for St David’s Day is a daffodil (since it’s almost the only flower out in the UK on St David’s Day).

I don’t give it. I couldn’t bear to have it in the same space as me. Dreadful, dreadful stuff.

Also, as it happens, this is Pancake Day – but only in the UK, I fear. This is a shame as I really like pancakes. I could make my own but, somehow, this not being Pancake Day here takes all of the impetus out of it.

I suppose, as it’s Pancake Day, it must also mean it is Shrove Tuesday.

Wow! There’s a LOT of stuff going on today.

Are you doing pancakes or celebrating Women’s Day or doing some other wonderful thing for this very full Tuesday?

Floating

I can’t explain it at all.

I was out with A last night. You know, the ‘eating Mars Bars means your gay’ A. Luckily, he doesn’t get offended with what I write since he knows it’s mainly stuff in my head. Anyway, he wanted to know why I hadn’t bought a house/flat here.

I tried to explain that when I made the ‘life change’ of coming here, I decided that this included having a house/flat that I was buying. My life change was as mental as it was physical. I didn’t want to run my own company and I didn’t want a mortgage.

He said that things were different here. And he’s right, in a way. Job security is very high. So I could get a mortgage and know that I could pay it off without worrying about losing my job or anything. But that’s not really the point. I just didn’t want to be having a house/flat of my own. It’s not only the mortgage. It’s the problem of the permanence of it all. The ‘putting down roots’, etc. I just didn’t want that. I mean to say, I loved living in Herefordshire but, you know, the fixing of life – where you are, what you’re doing, etc? I didn’t want it anymore. I was, kind of, disappointed with it. I think because, by the end of the time in Herefordshire, I realised that none of anything was permanent – however much you think it is. It can all be taken away from you in a moment. And, if you’re ‘attached’ to something (house, place, job), when it all comes to an end, you cling on. And it’s the clinging on that really hurts. The letting it go is easy – or, rather, easier.

So I let go. I jumped off the cliff and found that although I couldn’t fly, exactly, I could sort of float. And floating is good. Floating is pleasant. Floating is gentle. Floating means you have the time and the inclination to look around, to enjoy the things you have without the feeling of pain that they might be taken away.

I like floating. I am grateful for the winds that drove me here and I like being here, in this place, at this time, with the people I like and love. And, if the winds take me somewhere else, then that’s fine too.

My goal is to be content. Like my grandfather. And I am content, most of the time. If I can reach the 100% contentment all the time then that will be perfect. 100% contentment doesn’t come with a house and mortgage, nor with a job (although it can help), nor through a person (although that can help too), nor with any one nor any thing.

Contentment comes from within.

Yes, I like floating.

Soon it will not be safe!

Well here’s something that annoys me enough to write about. Hurrah! Sort of. If you see what I mean.

Marciapiede. That’s pavement (or sidewalk for Gail) to you. You know, the things on the side of the streets that, in theory, permit people to walk around without dodging cars. Kinda useful in reducing the deaths of people. Of course, a car going 100 mph and mounting a pavement is bound to cause a bit of damage, especially to any warm soft bodies in the way.

However, here, in Milan, that’s less likely to happen. I.e. you’re probably in less danger of getting run over, walking down the pavement here, than, say, in any other city in the UK! Although I have no actual figures to back it up. So I could be wrong. But it seems highly likely to me.

Now, why would that be, you ask. Or should be asking. Because if you’re not asking then this post is pointless. So ask then and I will disclose why.

OK. You’re probably safer from getting run over by a car here because ………………………

…………….. there are already a lot of cars on the pavement. Parked, of course.

I wouldn’t want to be pushing a pram around in Milan though. Then I would spend half my time on the road because, often, there is not enough room between the parked car and the building for me to pass with a push chair.

Not EVERY bit of pavement is taken up with a parked car. Sometimes they have barriers put up – to, erm, stop people parking their car!

But, then, these areas can be full too. Not of people. No, no, no. Full of mopeds and motorbikes. Obviously, a bike can get and park where a car cannot.

Or, if not, then pushbikes.

But, on the positive side, I don’t have a pushchair. I only have two dogs and I secretly pray, every time that we go past one of the ‘parked’ cars, that they will cock their legs. And they do sometimes and I am filled with glee.

Normally (in fact, always, in my experience) if you are walking past and a car wants to park (on the pavement, where you are walking), they will have the decency to wait until you have gone past.

However, my experience is that this is not so with mopeds and motorbikes. And I find that annoying. But it doesn’t happen very often.

What DOES happen, quite often, when I’m walking the dogs, is that a cyclist (pushbike) will be on the pavement and expect you to move out of their way.

Now, in the same way that I must learn some Italian phrases for when I see someone allowing their dog to defaecate on the pavement and then the owner not picking it up – which in English would equate to something like – You disgusting dirty person! Pick up your dog’s shit! – I should learn something like – This is called a marciapiede (meaning something like foot way) because it is for FEET and not WHEELS. The road is for WHEELS so stop dinging your bloody bell at me to get me to move and move yourself to the street, where you should be!

But I haven’t learnt that yet. And so, I was both shocked, outraged and immensely amused by this. It seems someone has been looking at other cities (like London for example, where cycling on the pavement can get you a hefty fine as it illegal) and decided that some of our pavements here are large enough to allow a cycle lane on them.

I snorted.

These people are completely crazy! Do they not realise that the cycle lane would simply become a ‘legitimate’ place for car parking. But then ALL the cyclists will think that, as their lane is taken up by the car park, they will have justified use of the pavement (or foot way) and so things will be worse than before!

(Actually, Pietro tells me that the cyclists on pavements can be fined. It’s just that here, I guess, the police and traffic wardens don’t know that fact).

Chainsaws in Milan.

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.

Nope. This one I really, really couldn’t.

As you may remember I’m not very picky about food and am willing to try anything once.

Ice-cream I like, especially Italian ice-cream but this I could not eat under any circumstances.

I’m sorry but there it is. The very thought of it makes me want to retch. There’s one thing when it’s your own mother and you’re, say, 2 months old, another thing entirely when you’re an adult and it’s your mother or not! How can people eat this stuff? How can people sell it??

Italian or British? Who is which?

“Have you two had a fight?”

I explained that no, as yet, we’ve never really had a fight (apart from last summer, at the start of our holidays). I explain that he’s just stressed.

We had been there a little while, waiting for him. He had had to wait for his washing machine to finish. It leaks from a hose somewhere and so he has to stay to mop up from time to time. So, it was almost 9.30 before he arrived. And, when he arrived, he was on the phone and seemed angry and didn’t say anything to me and so they thought that we had fought.

But I know him well enough now and know he is not pissed with me. When he comes back to the table he tells me who was on the phone. They were talking about the funeral in the UK that will be held next Friday. He tells me he is not going to go. I have mixed feelings about this and none of them selfish. On the one hand, he should go as I think he may regret it later. This was, at least for 11 years, his father-in-law. On the other hand, he is so busy right now, that even a two-day trip to the UK will throw everything into disarray for him.

He tells me it is because S would feel like he would have to look after F and S will be busy himself, given that it’s his father’s funeral and so he will be unable to look after F as he would like. But it is more complicated than that.

Next week he has several places to go and one is Venice, so a night away. The following week is a full week in Germany. So a trip in the middle of this to the UK would just add to his feeling of stress.

In the lift, on the way back to my flat, he informs me that he is working both on Saturday and Sunday.

I say how sorry I am. Again, there is nothing selfish in this. I am sorry for him. He really needs the rest.

During the meal, last night, for some reason I now forget, it came up about the end of him and S. Apparently it was not a good ending. And it went on for some time. It’s part of the reason that he doesn’t want to ‘go there’ again. And I do ‘get it’ even if I don’t agree with it. And I don’t. But it explains some more things. It explains the way he is.

At one point he tells the colleague we are with that he keeps home and work seperate. He doesn’t talk to me about his work – good or bad. He doesn’t take his personal life into work, he says. Although, of course, he does, he just doesn’t realise it.

But I thought about him and how stressed and uptight he gets about things.

I thought, “but this isn’t what I expected from an Italian.

An Italian should be more relaxed and easy-going. An Italian shouldn’t get this uptight”.

And I wondered if, in fact, this uptightedness was more of a universal thing and not just confined to the British. Or if, with me being more laid back than he is, we hadn’t, somehow, got trapped in the wrong country when we were born. Is he Italian or British? I mean to say, is he more British than Italian? Am I more Italian than British?

As one could say he was a little more anally retentive than your average Italian (unless they are all like this and I just didn’t realise). But, perhaps, the British shouldn’t be portrayed as they are?

He says that “the problem with English people is that they don’t tell you the truth”. I am included in this. It’s not that we lie, it’s just that we don’t say it like it is and nor do we give our true feelings.

I think we call them white lies. These aren’t true lies, of course. These are things said so that you don’t hurt people’s feelings. Like – “you look lovely in that dress”, etc.

Perhaps they don’t have them in Italy? White lies, that is.

Do they?

There is no truth in any of this, whatsoever.

Warning: None of the following may be true, real or ever have happened. If you are incensed, angered or just slightly annoyed by it then STOP READING.

He had mentioned that he would like to go and see it. The problem, for me, was that I too wanted to see it but I didn’t want to spoil my enjoyment of it by watching it in Italian and understand little, to have to watch it again, in English.

So, someone gave me a copy ….. in English. I watched it over a few nights. Now, here, I should give you some background.

I don’t really like them. They are German, after all (with apologies to the Germans at least one of whom is a friend). I think it’s more that they are German and think they run the UK which they don’t, quite obviously. I mean, they even had to change their surname from Saxe-Coberg and Gotha so that people wouldn’t confuse them with Germans (which they were). This was the First World War.

By the second one, they were quite happy to court Hitler. ‘He seemed to have the right idea’!

When the old father died the succession passed to Edward. But Edward was having a not-so-secret affair with a married American woman. He loved her so much he gave up on ‘his duties’ and so his younger brother became George VI. His wife, so it is said, hated both Edward and ‘that woman’, Wallis. Not because they were horrible (although they might have been) but because they were the cause of her husband being put in an impossible position and, eventually, dying rather younger than he might have, ordinarily.

After George’s death, his eldest daughter was next. There was a small snag, however. His daughter would be Queen. His mother, still alive, was the Queen Mother (Mary, wife of George V). So what would the title of George VI’s wife be? You couldn’t really have two Queen Mothers, now could you? OK so officially she died of ‘gastric problems’, being an euphemism for lung cancer. Or, of course, given the scheming of Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, she could have had the old Queen Mary, the Queen Mother, done away with?

I plump for the last option.

So, I go to watch the film with a preconceived idea of QE, the Queen Mother (being played by Helena Bonham-Carter) as a rather wicked old witch who ruled her husband and, when he became King, the household, with quite an iron fist. Of her husband being a bit of a wimp. Of the politicians of the time being rather stupid, etc., etc.

But, this is a film. It is made ‘nice’. Actually, I found it quite heart-warming. HBC was wonderful as the Queen as was Colin Firth as Bertie. For me, Geoffrey Rush as Logue was the best of them all. Actually, it made me almost cry at the end (because I am such a softie and just love happy endings in films).

So now I have told F that I will be very happy to go and see the Italian-dubbed version of The King’s Speech (Il Discorso del Re) at the cinema. In fact, I said we just HAVE to go. The only thing that ‘worries’ me is that I like it so much because it is also a story of Britain (and a Britain we like to think of as ‘Great’) and a man overcoming all odds and a woman who loves him – and will an Italian think of it like this also or will missing the Great out of Britain mean that it is much less of a good story?

And, F replies that we should go this weekend. I am happy.

Weather, washing, whinging

“It was too hot”.

This was in reply to my “It was lovely weather but still too cold”.

Don’t ever think that as British, we hold the monopoly on complaining about the weather. We just have ‘more’ of it. Here, the weather is never right. It’s always too cold or too hot or too rainy or too much snow (well, this time last year, anyway). The only thing it rarely is (and so rarely complained about), is too windy.

I have a sneaking suspicion that every country is, more or less, the same.

When I replied that we still had to wear coats, the original quote was qualified with “Yes but it’s too hot for February”. There’s just no pleasing people.

And it was a rather splendid weekend (apart from the coats thing). The sun shone and it was almost too warm (outside my flat anyway) for a hat. Almost but not quite. If I was a truly British person I would, given the weather, have been out in shorts and a T-shirt!

_______________________________________________

It seems that my washing machine has all but had it. It doesn’t always spin. And, anyway, when it does spin it sounds like I also put a load of boulders in with the wash. It’s so loud that I am unable to hear anyone on the phone unless I move to the bedroom.

So I went to have a look for some over the weekend.

I was expecting to pay between €200 and €300 so I was a bit shocked when there really wasn’t anything below €400. Damn! But I AM NOT going back to hand washing and so, this week, I must just bite the bullet and get one. I don’t really want a crap one so you have to pay more than €400 but I could do without it right now. Damn again! And then, this year or next year I suppose, will be a fridge.

_______________________________________________

I feel better than I felt on Saturday.

Just thought you should know.

Perhaps I should apologise to A for being a miserable bastard when we went out on Friday night? We went to K2. I think I should revise my feelings about K2 as it really was quite good.

Could I possibly tempt you with a banana?

“Have a banana”. Actually, it was almost a question.

“No thanks, Bampa”, I would reply. Well, normally.

It was a thing he always said. It was after a meal and it was always a banana. I wonder if that’s why I like bananas?

I was reminded of this talking to Al, a colleague.

He said that his parents were at his house doing cleaning and stuff. They hadn’t told him they were going to get there early to do this stuff because he would have said no. And so it led on to the fact that often, when we say no, we mean yes but are just being polite.

Except that when my grandfather said it, I was usually full and could not have eaten a banana. I even wonder why it was always a banana?

The power of the [foreign] people …. it’s a good thing.

They’ve been on the streets, protesting. The police have been using tactics that are, at the least, undesirable. People have been in hospital as a result. They are protesting about the increase in tuition fees, the cuts in grant money, the large organisations that are avoiding paying too much tax. The government doesn’t like it; the police don’t like it.

Oh, hang on, our Deputy Prime Minister has something to say:

“It is incredibly exciting what is going on, it reminds me so much of the time when the Berlin Wall fell, the power of the people out on the streets, in a regime which ……… everybody thought was one of the most stable regimes in the region,” he told ITV Daybreak.

Ah but no. He isn’t talking about the protests in Britain, of course, but those in Egypt.

You see it’s perfectly OK for ‘the people’ protesting against the government ………. as long as it’s those foreigners doing it in their own foreign country, of course.