It’s like a party out there …… and here.

There are plenty of taxis – just none that are free for hire.

For that matter, there are plenty of cars too.

And there are plenty of people. In fact, in this street, normally fairly dead at this time of night. In spite of the fact that there are some nice hotels on the road, mostly it is shops, and the shops are closed.

And there aren’t any people, normally, since the road doesn’t really lead to anywhere to which people would want to go.

But not tonight. Or, rather, last night. Last night it was ‘buzzing’, in spite of the rain.

It is, of course, the week of the Furniture Fair – Salone Internazionali Del Mobili. Apart from the fashion weeks, one of the most important times for Milan (or maybe bigger than the fashion weeks), showcasing all that is good and great about Italian design.

Now, the main exhibition is at the Rho Fiera (the big, new exhibition centre) outside Milan.

And whilst, when it first moved, Milan became a bit dead, now there are many smaller exhibitions and parties and things around the centre of Milan. And so it was last night, the third (I think) night of the Furniture Fair.

F’s shop had a book launch and so there was a small party, of sorts. Of course, now, I must go. I like to watch him schmoozing the customers – and he is very, very good. Full of charm and jokes.

I know some people, of course, and get introduced to more by F, permitting F to go off and see other people. I chat a bit but I do find it more difficult. I’ve never really been that good at small talk. Still, I do my best and the party is nice.

I step outside sometimes for a cigarette – watching the taxis and cars and people in this unusually crowded street. Feeling kind of odd. I mean, I don’t feel like I really fit in but it seems nice and I want to fit in; to be part of this ‘world’ of art and design and ideas.

But it’s OK. I have a glass of prosecco in my hand and, after several, I’m more relaxed. I meet people that I recognise but can’t place. One is an author; another a buyer or something for Prada; some English woman who is a buyer for some shops out of Milan. But I am crap with names and crap remembering. Somehow I manage to get by, sometimes having to ask F quietly, who it was I have been talking to.

I mention the dog; the new puppy – but they all already know and most have seen the photographs. “Yes, I have seen you in the photographs with the dogs”. Of course they have. I say to one, “I don’t know whether he’s with me because of me or because of the dogs”, laughing as I do. In fact, both are true.

And I am tired. His colleague from Paris has gone (and she is really lovely) and two nights of going out, eating, getting back at half-past midnight have taken their toll. Tonight I would have preferred to go to bed immediately but it can’t be so. It’s part of the deal of a relationship. One does things for the other. And, anyway, F enjoys introducing me as his ‘fidanzato’, especially to people who have never met me. They always think I’m something in fashion or design and he delights in telling them that I’m not. It’s his thing.

We walk home, since there are no taxis. It’s not late but both of us are so tired it feels like it’s midnight anyway.

In the middle of the night, we both stir for some reason and, for no apparent reason at all, as he turns, he lifts himself up on his elbows and kisses my face. He doesn’t really show affection as such but sometimes I feel happy that I know he loves me.

Walking through the city that I love.

I must admit, it didn’t seem quite right. Of course, it had crossed my mind earlier, before I set out. And, so, I should have checked, I suppose. Still, I had mentioned ‘showroom’ and nothing was said to make me think otherwise.

In fact, when I had asked, earlier, if he would like to come with us for a walk, I had assumed he would be going that way anyway. He had said ‘no’ since he had many things to do. In a way, that was a shame, in that I would have found out that he wasn’t going to the showroom after all!

Unfortunately, I was a little late setting out. And there wasn’t a bus coming. But I knew that, if I walked, I could be there by about 7.30, so that was only half an hour after it started and that was OK. I walked. Eventually, at one of the stops I saw that the bus was coming and waited. Three stops later and I was off.

I don’t particularly like that part of town. It always seems so dark, so dead. I got to the gates – painted especially mimicking something that a graffiti artist would do, thereby making graffiti pointless. It works. Also it is quite stylish.

The gates were closed. I rang the bell. As I rang the bell, I thought that, quite obviously, I was at the wrong place. For certain, with something this important, the gate would be open and I would hear sounds of partying or, at least, sounds of people, etc.

I text him, asking if it was at the shop but not really expecting an answer since it would be unlikely he would have his phone on or with him. Still, if it were to be at the shop, then I would be very late and, maybe, he would check his phone and see where I was. Or where I had been.

I ring the bell a second time. There seem to be lights on, from what I can make out over the hight wall and gates – but, still, I am sure I am at the wrong place.

Now this is nowhere near the shop. The shop will take a while to get to. I think about a taxi but decide I can’t really justify the expense. If it had not been for him, at this point I would have just gone home. But I can’t let him down and I know he wanted me there.

Luckily, I have a general map of Milan in my head, including most public transport. I can get to the Duomo (cathedral), I think and from there I can walk – it’s not so far.

But first I need to walk back the way that I came – the other side of the park that Dino and I had been playing in a few hours before.

At first I was going to walk straight up the road then I realised it would be quicker to go diagonally, through the park. Well, when I say quicker, easier to catch a tram. I thought I would take a number 12 or 27 as I was sure they were the ones. They didn’t take me to the centre but it would do. It would have to do. It wasn’t so far to walk to the centre. Then I remembered that I could change and take a tram number 23 which would take me to a delightful little square just behind the Duomo. The park that I’m walking through is quite nice in the darkness (although there is no real darkness since we are in the city. So it is more shadows of darkness, some darker than others). There are few people about. A couple of couples, intertwined as young lovers often are in Italy – after all, they seem to have nowhere else to go! A few people walking their dogs. A group of three young lads one of whom is holding the lead to a rather small white fluffy dog which takes away from their swagger as it’s more of a lap dog. I smile. To myself, obviously.

But it’s beautiful in the park with its shades of darkness. It makes me think of Twilight (even if I’ve never seen the thing). It makes me think of summer (even if it’s not as warm so as to be wearing just a T-shirt). It’s that kind of smoky darkness you get at twilight in the summer. It’s why it’s also called dusk, I guess. Dusky.

I got to the stop. Earlier, when Dino and I were coming back from the park, there had been an accident. A tram had run into a car. I had heard the bang from the park and thought it must have been an accident. It doesn’t happen that often and still amazes me when it does. I don’t believe that the tram ran into the stationary car but that the car had tried to turn left, crossing in front of the tram, thinking that he could ‘get away with’ the manoeuvre – except he didn’t. Stupid.

Now there was no sign of the accident. I get to the tram stop and walk a little further down to check on the trams or buses that stop here. I am in luck! A number 73 bus, from Linate airport also stops here. I had forgotten about that option. This takes me right to San Babila and so is a much better choice.

And even more lucky! The bus is nearly here. The bus is packed as it always is, coming from the airport. I can’t believe it has taken them so long to make a metro from Linate. Well, it’s still not finished but at least now it’s under construction!

As we near San Babila, I look out of the window of the bus and see, above the buildings, the Duomo, there, in all it’s glory, floodlit and beautiful (well, if you take the plastic wrapping off the tower that holds the larger-than-life, golden Madonna). I catch my breath. It can still do that to me!

I get off the bus and walk over the square in San Babila. I think about V and how much we loved this city and realise that I still do. It fills me with an excitement that is impossible to describe. It has a beauty and a liveliness that I have found only in one other city, Istanbul (even San Babila with its modern buildings all around – its shops). There are people with bags – bags from designer shops, there are people making their way to dinner, or the cinema, or the theatre, or home, of course. The city is alive and I like it a lot.

I walk down Via Montenapoleone (one of the main designer shopping streets in Milan). I notice windows more now, given that it’s F’s job. I like the window in Louis Vuitton. They have large arrows as if on a target, in a circle, around a bag. The fletches are the same colour for each window, but a different colour between windows. I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean, as such, but it’s pretty and inspiring at the same time. Like a work of art.

I notice that some of the other shops are no longer impressive to me, with their window displays. I am affected (or should that be infected) by F and what he does. I am less interested in the actual clothes or bags than I am in the displays! I pause in front of Iceberg. They were my favourite designers. I quite like a jacket there. Sometimes, I wish I had the money to shop there like I used to but that’s just a fleeting thought. Clothes, after all, are not that important, it’s how you wear them that’s the key.

The street is not full but the people there are mostly tourists. Maybe they’re too frightened to come there during the day? Frightened they will be made to purchase something that’s too expensive or that they will look out of place walking down there when the shops are open?

Still, I enjoy walking down the street. I want to tell them that I live here, that this place is my home. I am happy to live here. No, even proud! I imagine their envy, even if it’s not for everyone (even for most Italians). Still, it’s a city that I love and I like to be reminded that I love it – and not just because I’m with F. And it does feel like home (which it is) even if I would happily live in the country again. But I may only have this short time here, in this city, so I have to savour every moment.

At the end of the street, I turn right and reach the shop. Even if F has not replied to my text, it is obviously right. Whilst all the shops are now closed, there are people outside this one, having a fag, talking, etc.

It’s a special thing to launch a range of spectacle and sunglasses frames. Of course, I know a lot of people there. Well, the people that work for the company. They are all, of course, very nice to me. F is pleased to see me and I explain what happened.

It’s like an upmarket cocktail party. There are drinks (prosecco and wine) and nibbles, being served around the shop by waiters. Finger food, aperitivo food. When I try some, eventually, it’s nice. As I would expect, really.

I wander about a bit, not wanting to be in F’s way as he is, or should be, working. Saying hello and chatting with clients many of whom he knows, of course.

Someone comments on the jumper he’s wearing. It’s a simple grey v-neck. He tells them it’s from Zara and that I had bought it for Christmas. This is true but I only recognise it now, when he’s said it. He did seem particularly pleased with it and, obviously, he really is. That makes me happy. Also, I am happy that, even if I’m not in this business, I can do something so right.

He finds me a little later. He puts frames on me. He favours one that is a pale grey. I prefer one that is a dark blue. He says that the lighter one suits me. This time, I think, I shall listen to advice since I am always better pleased later.

But since I like the darker frames, later still, with a group of colleagues around me, we have the frames put on me again and people nodding their heads or shaking it giving their sage advice as to what looks best.

Apart from me and one other person, they side with F. I guess my next pair will be light grey frames then?

The party finishes and most people leave. F had told me that he has to re-do the shop for tomorrow. It has to be done now because tomorrow (today as I write this) he is in Germany for a week. I thought it was going to take a long time but before 10 he is finished and we go home.

As soon as I got home, I took off my shoes since my feet were killing me. I had done a lot of walking in shoes that I don’t wear so much now. Still, the walk both through the park and the city itself were worth it, reaffirming as it did, my feeling for this city. And I’m not even a city person!

Traffic – less: Milan Congestion Charge; Fuel Increases; Fashion Week

Perhaps it’s just me?

I’ve noticed or, should I say, it seems, that, in general, there’s less traffic in Milan. And, even with this being Men’s Fashion Week, the usual nightmares with traffic on my way home are absent.

If I’m not wrong there are a number of factors at play that could make it less.

One is the new Congestion Charge in Milan that was introduced on 16th January. Now, to go into the centre of Milan, almost everyone has to pay €5 per day. The previous charges allowed many (of the newer) cars to go in for free. Now, no. I am outside the ‘Area C’ as it is called. In fact, I never drive into this area anyway. But I’m only just outside and I did wonder if this new set of charges would mean that all the car parking in my area would be taken. It seems not. It seems that people are either leaving their cars at home or travelling to a tube station and taking public transport.

I know not everyone likes the charge and I wouldn’t be ecstatic about it should it cover my area – but it is so much nicer with less traffic.

The other reason could be the sharp increases in the cost of petrol. Last summer I was filling up the car for about €50. Last night it cost me nearly €70! That’s a hefty increase. The increase is down to the austerity measures brought in by the new government of Italy. It’s another of those ‘let the ordinary people pay for the stupidity of the very rich banks’ rule.

I keep thinking that, sooner or later, people will wake up but it seems not just yet.

Perhaps, also, because of the crisis in general, there are not so many people at this year’s fashion week?

However, whatever the reason, it does make Milan more pleasant to live in and I’m not complaining.

Gnocchi Fritti and the Tree

He couldn’t wait until Sunday.

Friday evening we had been out at one of the shops’ Christmas ‘do’. His colleague insisted she take her partner so I was invited too. We went to a place a long way out of Milan, near the shop. It was fabulous. Gnocchi Fritti is one of those wonderful Italian foods that I had never heard of until I had lived here for a while. Pronounced knockey free-tee, it is a thin, deep fried dough so that it puffs up with air and resembles a very small cushion – a few centimetres square. They are deep fried and served hot. Once you have one you slice or pull it open and put in some lardo, salami or other meat and then eat it.

Whereas that might not sound particularly appetising it is one of the best ‘comfort foods’ I can think of. And, if the meat is particularly good, so much the better. In this case we were at the Trattoria Campanini, a delightful restaurant in Busseto. This was a special Christmas do and, therefore, menu. It included the gnocchi fritti (seemingly without end), three different pasta dishes, wine, water and desert. Mine was some chocolate mouse thing and was the best of all the sweets, although they were all good.

It had been planned that we would stay at a local hotel. Unfortunately, Milan had a traffic block on both Friday and Saturday so we had to return that night. However, it was a lovely evening and the guys and girls from the shop were really nice – a good crowd.

The next day, even if we had arrived home very late, we weren’t up so late at all. After the dogs and breakfast, F was itching to put up the tree. On the way home from walking the dogs he had bought some red crepe paper to cover the bucket.

So, the tree was put up. It’s a nice (actually perfect) size for the table it is on and the room in general. Then came the decorating of the tree. F, being a visual merchandiser (it used to be called window dresser – although he does more than that, of course), had already decided how it would look. It was to be, basically, red. The lights he had bought were white, the decorations mainly red. I had one set of red lights so they went on too. Then came the ornaments. He had bought special red ribbon to use to hang the ornaments. I did the threading of the ribbon for the ornaments – I’m not so stupid that I thought I could actually hang anything! :-D

There seemed (to me) to be an awful lot of ornaments going on – but in the end it did look beautiful. You can see why he does the job he does. Then there were lights (white again) to be fitted round doorways.

He used some of my (gold) stuff for the hallway – which had to be thoroughly cleaned first.

The flat really does look wonderful and is very festive. I am really looking forward to Christmas. He too as, not only is he pleased with the decorations, he is also planning the Christmas day menu! I tried to take photos of the decorations but have lost the cable to my camera. I will try to find it and post at least a picture of our glorious tree.

A pin in the neck.

It’s new.

Well, it’s been in my wardrobe for a few weeks, maybe months but, yesterday, as there were customers and I was wearing a suit, I wore it because I hadn’t worn it before now and it’s a nice shirt. F had got it for me so it was one of the designer ones. It was nice too, and comfortable and slightly ‘green’ so that caused me a bit of a problem since I didn’t really have a green tie. So I wore a blue and grey striped one. Of course. Especially since I was wearing a brownish suit. It all fitted together perfectly. I work on the basis that if the colours don’t match then you might as well go for contrasts. Hah!

I got up early, as is normal, since F was going out of Milan and, therefore, for him, getting up early – about 2 (nearly 3) hours later than me.

So I walked Rufus and Dino. Rufus now is so slow that it can’t really be called ‘a walk’ but more of ‘a saunter’. Hence I now get up five minutes earlier to (try to) give him enough time to pooh outside rather than inside. Not that it actually works so I don’t know why I bother. I think the only solution to that is to get up at 5 and have at least one hour’s sauntering.

So, I get home and get ready and put on my new greenish striped shirt. It’s nice. It’s been washed, obviously. And ironed (by my new super-cleaning lady).

I go to work. I am a little early since the customers want to be here earlier than I would like. It’s OK. They go away today.

We continue our meeting from the day before. There are a load of pictures they have taken and changes that they want done. To be honest, I fucking hate them and their pickiness even if, sometimes, they are right.

We move, later in the morning to the shop floor to view the part and the changes they want.

My shirt is feeling less comfortable now. It’s the collar, It’s a bit like it’s rubbing which is strange because it’s not too small with plenty of room but there is something. Of course, I don’t actually think about that too much, I just rub my finger round the collar, pulling it away from my neck.

It doesn’t make much difference. It’s not at all painful – just slightly uncomfortable.

The discussions on the shop floor continue. I wish there was a way to tell them ‘No – we’re not doing it’. I’ve been searching for that. But I know it won’t happen, really.

My shirt collar is still a pain in the neck, so to speak.

Again, I rub around the collar.

And, this time I find out why it is a pain in the neck.

It should be, quite literally, a pain in the neck since it still has one of the pins in it – the one that they put near the top button on new shirts. It is sticking out of the shirt straight into my neck. It IS a pin in the neck.

I worry about two things:

1. How can I get this out of the shirt without attracting attention and
2. Does this mean that there is blood all over the shirt.

On point 2, I can’t really do much. Point 1 has my full attention. Since, apart from potentially stopping any more of point 2, it has the added advantage of potentially making the collar less uncomfortable.

Sometimes these pins are difficult to take out having been inserted in the thick part of the area near the button.

As it is, once I have the right end of the pin (now I may have blood on my finger!), luckily, it is an easy pull and it is out.

Now I have point 3 to worry about.

Point 3. Where to put the pin.

I think about putting it in my pocket but:

a) the outside pockets of the jacket are sewn up (it helps the suit to retain it’s shape),
b) the inside pockets of the jacket are not really an option as the pin would be difficult to retrieve later and,
c) the pockets of my trousers are not really an option since the pin, sticking through my pockets and into my legs would be worse and I use those pockets to put my hands in so they might also get lacerated at some point during the day when I had forgotten about the pin I had placed in them.

I have to find a bin.

I find a bin.

I casually (when no one is looking) drop it into the bin.

My pin in the neck has gone.

Later I see there is no bloody mess on my shirt.

Today (for this was yesterday), as I write this, I keep fingering my collar as if this shirt has the same problem. Also, as I write this, I wonder how I missed it when I took the shirt out of its packaging and think that I am sure I checked. Perhaps there were two pins? Having found one and taken it out it wouldn’t have crossed my mind to look for another. I also wonder how my super-cleaning lady could have missed it when ironing the shirt!

Fashion, hair and worrying.

“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 ;-)

I’m back

I’m back!

J has been here for a few days and I really didn’t get the chance to write anything.

And, after 5 days of eating, eating, eating, I am VERY fat. Last night I went to try on stuff that F was getting rid of from his wardrobe. It was distressing that many shirts did not really fit. I HAVE TO get rid of my paunch. It’s not good. And, next summer, I MUST remember not to eat as much.

Anyway, it’s cold now and miserable and, well, like winter. Did I ever mention that I hate winter?

Rice Pudding with anchovy sauce.

It looked like rice pudding. It had the right, creamy texture and when I took the first mouthful it was sweet and, really, like rice pudding.

Of course, the anchovy sauce and mozzarella made it risotto and not rice pudding at all. Still, in my head it had been rice pudding and not risotto and so, it tasted strange. Not unpleasant, just not what I thought.

I was introduced to customers and staff (that I didn’t know) as his boyfriend. Apparently, some people didn’t really believe that. He is proud of that fact even if he did say that I was lucky to have him as my boyfriend – which is true, in any event.

The people are nice, even if they are in the fashion world.

The food was mountainous. Too much even for the hundreds of people there. I didn’t eat much. I’d eaten lunch and had been stuffed full last weekend.

I had a glass of prossecco but then saw they had a bar with Campari and Cinzano – so, from then on it was Americanas. I probably should have stopped at the fourth – but didn’t. F told me he was quite drunk. Then the next time I saw him was with a very full glass of wine. I guess he was going to enjoy himself.

Some people went outside to smoke a joint. Outside – on the pavement, on a busy road. In the UK I’m sure (but I really don’t know), they would have been hiding away. Here, it seems better to do it out in the open.

There was dancing by the end. All a little bit crazy. All a little bit drunk. We got to bed about 12.30, completely shattered – and we had to be up early this morning as F was going away and I was taking him to the airport. He’s gone until Thursday.

During the evening, I looked at him doing his thing and thought how much I truly loved him.

It was a great evening with the designer, at one stage, cycling round the showroom whilst a photographer took some pics and, afterwards, dancing with the ‘girls’ some of whom are, of course, not really young enough to be called girls (and I’m being quite polite here).

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

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!

Probably the best summer.

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.