Tag Archives: Firsts

The ordeal of the beach

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One of the reasons I like this blog is it helps me to analyse things. Well, I mean to say that I actually analysed this whilst talking to F, to explain about ‘why’, but the blog and writing something means that I analyse it in a more structured and clear manner (although you may not think so).

So, in this case, we must go back (ahem) a few years to before I was 14. Every year, my parents would take us on holiday for a couple of weeks. We were a quite large family. 6 in total. These were the days before package holidays and before everyone flew off to become like lobsters on a beach where people resembled a tin of sardines in the south of Spain.

We were well-off but not so rich that my parents could afford a holiday abroad for them and four children. Instead we had a caravan. Originally a four-berth, when the two younger children were old enough, the caravan was ‘extended’ by means of an awning. There would be the ritual of ‘packing’ the caravan, trying to get the weight balanced so that it made towing easier; the packing of everything that would then be unpacked the other end and then repacked at the end of the holiday to be unpacked again at the journey’s end. The packing and unpacking seemed, to me, to take days. Then there was the ‘putting up’ of the awning. I never really worked well with my father. We never ‘connected’ when it came to doing things. If he wanted a screwdriver, you could be certain I was holding a spanner. If he wanted something holding, you could be certain I was holding the thing that wasn’t necessary. Instructions from him were a little like Italian is to me now – to my ears. The middle brother always got it right (when he was old enough) and I always got it wrong.

I hated the holidays. Well, that’s not entirely true. Some things I did like. I liked bacon for breakfast and the smell of it percolating through the caravan and outside; I liked it when we picked mussels from the sea-shore and brought them back and my father would cook them; I liked building, not just sand castles, but whole walled towns on the beach – well, until I was about 10 or so.

And talking about that, let’s talk about the beach. The beach was like a mini-caravan-holiday but in just one day. First there would be the preparation. We would be taking the deck chairs or sun loungers, the changing robe (made by my Mum so you can imagine it looked like an old curtain), swimming costumes and towels, the windbreak, food (in the form of bread, stuff for sandwiches, butter, knives, bread board, plates, etc., etc.), buckets, spades and so on. This would all have to be packed in the car, and then we would all squash into the available space in the car and be driven to the beach.

On arrival, we would enter the beach. For me, once we hit the beach I was thinking that we could stop just there. But no! My parents didn’t like being near all the other people. We would have to go where there were less people – some several miles and hours along the beach from the entrance. OK so I exaggerate a little – but when you are 10, five minutes seems like an hour. Worse still, I was the eldest boy. My siblings were my sister (18 months younger than me) and my two brothers who were several years younger than me. So, you can imagine, with all this stuff, I had to carry a lot – and I loathed it. Worse still, I knew this had to all be carried back at the end of the day!

Then, having picked somewhere out of the way of everyone else (now, of course, I realise this may not only have been for their benefit – maybe, having four kids who fought and squabbled, it was for the sake of the other beach users too!), we would have to put up the windbreak, put up the loungers or deck chairs and then wait as, one by one, we used the changing rode, to get changed – me having an absolute morbid fear of being seen naked by anyone (perhaps that’s worthy of another post sometime) and the idea of my naked body being only a curtain away from being seen by everyone at the beach was almost too much in itself.

And then, of course, this was the UK – so no guarantee that it would be sunny or, for that matter, even warm! No, apart from the sand towns that I built, I remember nothing really good about the beach.

Fast forward then to about 22 years ago.

Our first holiday together. V (only having been to Jamaica once) had never been on a holiday like the one I was taking him on. We had been together a few months. I chose Italy. I chose Sorrento. We had a glorious holiday. But, at that time, I really liked to get a tan. One day we went to ‘the beach’. I knew nothing, of course. Sorrento, being mostly built on high rock, bathing was by means of jetties at the bottom of the cliffs. To get to these one had to be staying at the hotel or to pay for the privilege. Since V couldn’t swim (and I wasn’t that good) it seemed a waste – and I had never paid to sit on a beach in my life! We traipsed to the only free beach that we could find, some half hour out of Sorrento.

We got to the beach and it was fairly quiet. Not too many people. I went for a swim. V didn’t. I sunbathed – V was covered head to toe (using my shirt to cover his head) as, at that time, he used lightening cream to lighten his skin colour and didn’t want the sun to make it darker. Aside from the fact that it made us look a weird couple, it wasn’t really that enjoyable. I don’t think we ever went to a beach again (although we probably did, just not in summer).

Fast forward, now, to the year before last or, maybe last year. Best Mate came over. She wanted beach. We went to the Ligurian coast. I really wasn’t keen. Firstly, it had been a lot of years since I had worn swimming trunks in public, secondly I wasn’t a good swimmer, thirdly I was as white as white can be and fourthly – being on the beach would be boring and I would get too hot. In addition to all that, I was aware, by now, that one had to pay to get on most beaches in Italy! Pay? Are you MAD?? I pay to lie somewhere that’s too hot; that I’m bored with, within about an hour; to lie next to (and I mean about 5 inches from) someone that I don’t even know??? NO WAY!!!!

We found one of the free beaches. Small, pebbly, uncomfortable, I did the bit for as long as I could take it. I didn’t go in the sea. I was ……. uncomfortable and hated it – but I did it for Best Mate – as one does. I was so grateful when we left the beach.

Fast forward again to last October. I met F. F’s idea of the perfect day was a day on the beach. This is a problem, I thought. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained and all that, I have to go with it. If I really hate it I can always say so ……. I suppose …… maybe.

I realised, when we got to Carrara the first time, why his perfect day was a day at the beach, in the same way that my perfect day is a day in the countryside, walking through woods and fields. It’s where we grew up and it’s what we remember or are used to.

I will be honest, I was filled with some fear. He had seen me naked and I have no problem being naked in front of him – but this would be naked in front of loads of other people, some of whom were his family. Well, not EXACTLY naked, but near enough.

In addition, it would be boring. And, as I can’t see without glasses, I wouldn’t be going to the sea; and I would get too hot; and everyone would be too close; and I wasn’t that bothered about being brown; and….. ; and…….

Should I wear my trunks or not? What about a towel? What about money and the mobile phone? What do I do, how should I be, what should I expect? There were many questions – mostly I didn’t ask them. Yes, I should wear my trunks; no, don’t take your wallet, just 50 Euro or so; yes, take your mobile phone, of course.

I wasn’t shaking but I was nervous. It was almost like going to the dentist.

We go to the beach on which his sister has a place. She has it for the season. She pays about 2K for it!! We walk down to the beach, through the car park. I’m sure the Italian coast is really lovely to see but you can’t see it from the land – not like in the UK where you have a promenade, overlooking the beach – to take in the sea air, to look out over the ocean. Here, jostling, side by side are the private beaches. You can’t see them from the road – the beach is behind a building – the building housing changing rooms; a bar/café/restaurant, shower block, bathrooms, etc.

We walk down the gravelled car park, past the toilets, the showers and the changing rooms (although we stop at his sister’s to drop off our shorts and T-shirts). I am naked or, rather, I feel naked. And white. It wouldn’t be so bad if I were see-through – then no one would see me. Now they will look at me, see this old man with this crap body and, probably, point and whisper and laugh and I SO want to run back.

I follow F down the footpath. We aren’t even at the beach yet. I just know that I am going to hate this day but I must do it – for F, for me, for us. We get to the bar. F asks if I want breakfast (it’s about 10 a.m.) and I say yes. Anything to delay the final bit of getting to the beach and it gives me time to observe. We get cappuccinos and a cream-filled doughnuts (our favourite breakfast). We go and sit down in the seated area. F explains that the area just behind us is where everyone goes to play cards later in the afternoon, after lunch. The area behind that is where people who’ve brought their own food, go to eat. This area is where the people who buy food from the café eat.

Everyone (there are not so many people but more than I would like) is brown. I feel more white than white. I do note, though, that not everyone is attractive with a great body. In fact, they are many shapes and sizes. I do feel a little better. My body isn’t THAT bad and, although white, for a 50-year-old man, at least it isn’t too saggy with too much ‘floppy skin’.

Apparently, there are no spare ‘umbrellas’ for hire. We shall have to go and use his sister’s. It’s OK. They won’t be there until the afternoon. I prepare myself to be bored to death. At least we won’t be paying for me to be bored, so that’s something! We walk down to the umbrella. Not just any umbrella but a specific umbrella. F knows where it is. They are not 5 inches apart, as I suspected but a reasonable couple of feet apart. Each umbrella has one lounger, one chair and one deckchair – except his sister’s where there is no deckchair but two loungers.

The umbrella is up. We arrange the loungers and chairs so that we can lie in the sun. I look around (but carefully, so no one sees me). Hmmm. OK, there is no one really near to us. the umbrellas near us are empty of people. I look at the people in the distance. Apart from being brown, as if they’ve been on the beach since May, I muse that people look better with clothes on.

I take some sun. After about half an hour, I am too hot. I have to do something about his, if we are to be here all day. I decide to go to the sea. I tell F. I walk down the wooden board walk thing to the beach. It is busy at the beach but not as bad as I had thought. I go in. the water is cold. I wade further. I note that there aren’t that many people actually ‘swimming’ which is good, since I am not a strong swimmer and, anyway, I can’t bear getting water in my eyes (even in the shower). I swim a little – breast stroke and on my back – before coming back out. I am cool now so can stand a bit in the sun. I get back to ‘our’ umbrella and stand there, being dried by the sun.

Don’t get me wrong. I like the sun. It provides heat and I love the heat, as you know. It’s just this boring bit of lying there like a pig roasting on a spit that I don’t really like – but, I have to admit, this isn’t so bad. We didn’t have to carry the loungers down and the umbrella was there and open for us.

F decides to go into the shade of the umbrella. I stay in the sun for a bit. I read my book. F listens to music on his iPod. We both go to the sea. He wants to stay as long as me – about 15 or 20 minutes. Suits me fine. We go back to the umbrella. He suggests a game of cards. He has taught me to play his favourite games. We play them. I read a bit more. I also go into the shade of the umbrella, being a little bit red.

Some woman comes to say hello to him. She is from two umbrellas down. They played cards together last year. She is about 60 or so. We play cards with her. Another woman comes; she is about 45. She joins us in playing cards. I think – it’s nice that all these old people want to play cards with us – that is, until I realise that I AM one of these old people!  His niece comes and talks to us. She doesn’t play cards. This beach, I learn, at least this area of the beach, not far from the sea, is used, mostly, by locals. These people are friends of his or his sister. It is very pleasant being on the beach, under the umbrella, playing cards and chatting (well, they’re chatting – I’m mostly listening).

B arrives (his sister). She talks. He has jokes to me that it takes her half a day to reach her umbrella as she has to talk with all the people on the way down. She continues to talk. We all go for a ‘swim’ in the sea. For most of them, this means wading out until you are neck high in the water and then chatting. This is quite enjoyable, I think. If this is what it is like, I can do this!

This is what it is like. I can do this. Actually, I like this. I had forgotten that I really like to be brown. It makes me feel good. I had forgotten that I like the sea. When I first met V, my solution to everything, every ailment was sun, sea and good food. Here, I am getting all of that. I feel good.

I now understand the reason for paying for the beach. Here you have all the facilities (including a shower by the water’s edge). There’s no lugging of stuff, no searching for your ‘own’ area, no traipsing miles just to get an ice-cream! People aren’t packed like sardines, they don’t stare at me because I am whiter than white (or not so as I notice).

A few days later I speak to Best Mate. I promise her that, next time, we go to a paid beach and that I’m cool with it now. The ordeal is over. Now beaches are for relaxing, reading, playing cards and talking with friends, interspersed with dips in the sea. It’s OK.

I don’t believe it! Well, OK then, maybe just a bit – but only for the things I like to hear!

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“You know that I don’t actually believe all this stuff, don’t you?”, I say.  Actually, I don’t believe much of anything, I think, as I write this.  Further, I never really have but, certainly, it’s taken me 50 years to get to the point where I believe less than I used to.

He doesn’t reply. Later I say “Oh, go on then, let’s see what she says”.

In the end, although I don’t believe it, I still want to know. It doesn’t even make any sense in my head either. I’m nervous – well, not exactly nervous but something lesser. It’s a kind of anticipation.

She holds both of my hands, palm upwards, F next to me to translate.

“You’re very sensible”, F translates to me. She says this a number of times. I agree that I am. Later, in the car, I say that I must be very boring. F doesn’t reply. Either he didn’t understand or he agrees. It’s not good. Perhaps I am too boring!

We had gone to the bar on the seafront again. This woman, someone that R & F used to be at school or college with, is there again with her daughter. Her daughter is a bigger version of her. She’s about 16 but looks older (the daughter, obviously). It’ll be the ‘goth’ look that she wears that will do it, I suppose.

They’re really nice. I forget names. Too many people that I met, really. The woman, I am told, reads hands. She reads someone’s hand. Another guy she takes away to read in ‘private’ at another table. That’s when I say that I will do it. I don’t believe it but I want to hear good things.

We sit at the same table when the other guy has left.

Apparently, I shall have a long life. This does surprise me given that I’ve been smoking for over 40 years! Ah well, I don’t believe it anyway. And, yet ……

F later says that we should cut down on smoking. I say why, since I will live a long life. He says that yes but I don’t want to spend the last 20 years in hospital. It makes me laugh but he has a good point.

See, my grandfather, whom I really loved and admired and everything, lived until he was 82 or 83 (in spite of my sister saying that he didn’t) and he smoked until he was in his sixties. So, although I don’t believe her, I want to believe her and it does fit in with my own theories.

She assures me that I am very sensible. This is true – to some extent. I want to say that whereas I may seem sensible on the outside, I did kind of leave everything to come here 6 years ago and that I am constantly pushing myself to NOT be sensible since being sensible doesn’t really let you experience anything. I did that for far too long.

She says I have come out of a very long and very painful relationship! Well, as my regular readers know, I have had two long-term relationships. the first for 10 years and the last for almost 21 years. I think OK but I didn’t think it was SO painful! But I can’t say that; F is doing the translation. I suppose that most long-term relationships can end bitterly or have years where one or both parties are very unhappy.

Apparently I started another long relationship. “That’ll be you”, I say, gleefully, to F. I know he is pleased by this.

>She says I am ‘transparent’.  ‘Yes’, I say to F, ‘everyone thinks there is something that I am hiding and I keep trying to say no, this is me and this is it!’.  I’m not sure he understood but I feel it’s a good thing that she’s told me – it means, maybe, to him, that he can trust me.

Again she says I am sensible. In the car, the next day, it suddenly hits me. Another of those bloody ‘false friends’. I say to him – “She didn’t mean sensible last night. She meant sensitive?”

He doesn’t know the difference. He tries to explain what it means. I explain what it means to him. “It’s someone who feels things more deeply. Someone who gets hurt very easily”. “Yes”, he replies.

So, it turns out I’m not as boring as I thought! Maybe that’s why he didn’t answer – he didn’t understand!

Of course, seeing as he’s met her before I was down and being as she’s a friend of R, who probably knows almost everything about F & I (at least, from F’s viewpoint), she may already know about the long-term relationship bit.

And saying you’re going to have a long life? Well, what am I going to do if she’s wrong? Ha!

And, I’m obviously with F and, since F’s previous relationships (except 1) haven’t lasted for more than 6 months, this would be quite a long-term relationship ….. for him. Perhaps she was telling him more than telling me.

On the other hand, if she wasn’t, then, maybe, it would help him to relax a bit more about ‘us’!

So, no, I don’t believe it. There was nothing bad. She ran out of things to say that were good, I think. Or, maybe, she saw me as the non-believer that I am and wanted shut of me? But the things she did say, although a bit general, made me feel good or confirmed my view. Maybe I should only believe the good bits?

Perhaps I’m giving the wrong impression?

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I realised, reading back, that the holiday doesn’t really come across in the right way.

True, the journey down, the first night and most of the following day were terrible – but, after that it was truly wonderful.

>For the first time that I can ever remember, arriving home did not give me that feeling of satisfaction at all. I wanted to stay. I wish I had been able to stay. F is down at his home town for another week – maybe it’s that he didn’t come back to Milan with me.

OK so, in short – after the first day, every day was really nice or, even wonderful. Most of it was relaxing. 4 days in Carrara and some new experiences for me. Taking Dino to the seaside and having a dog that really wanted to swim was one of them. Having an ice-cream sandwich was another (but that’s for another post).

The first few days in Carrara were a bit different, in that we were staying at Johnny’s place, so it wasn’t just us. Plus there were family to deal with – not in a bad sense – but we went to see the sister, the parents, etc. Another post will talk about going to the beach. It was fairly relaxing.

>On the Saturday we travelled to the place in Umbria. This place was in the hills but with a wonderful view. The flat we had was nice and much bigger than we had thought. There was a small terrace overlooking the woods and the valley. The sun shone (after the Saturday) and it was hot. We would, most days, spend the morning by the pool, have a simple lunch on the terrace and then play cards and/or go back to the pool. In short, we didn’t do much expect for the one day of visiting. But it was so peaceful, so relaxing. No computer, so reading (again, for the fifth or sixth time) ‘We Need To Talk About Kevin’ and starting (again for about the sixth time) ‘The Blind Assassin’ – my two favourite books of all time. We competed at cards and at sudoku – it was fun.

I got a bit of a tan – not that I’m particularly bothered with getting one – but now that I have one, I remember that I quite like it :-).

And we didn’t stay at the pool every day. We visited Todi, Orvieto, Città della Pieve and, on the way back, Pienza (which was glorious and a real gem) – go and buy the cheese there – it’s a specialty.

Saturday night, we returned to Carrara but stayed in the house that is empty but is shared by F and Johnny. His mother had cleaned it and his father had cleared the garden (for the dogs). It’s in a small village next to Carrara. As I’ve mentioned before, his parents don’t know that F is gay. Well, they don’t know officially – however, it was interesting that his mother had only cleaned the one bedroom (we were instructed not to go into the other one as it was not clean) and the double bed was made up for us.

Sunday morning was back at the beach and then lunch with the whole family again (except Johnny and A) and then back to the beach for a bit and then I came home – with both dogs as I decided the responsibility and stress for F to keep Dino would be too much.

F wanted me to take a day off on Friday (tomorrow) and come back down – so I am – and I am really looking forward to it. This time I won’t have F huffing and puffing about bags or anything and it will all be easy and clear – well, apart from traffic, maybe!

Disaster!

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Wednesday, 11th August, 2010

It’s 6 a.m. Actually, I’ve had less than four hours sleep. I wish I were back in Milan.

F, though adorable, is too stressed and angry with, well, everything and this is too much like V. This is both unexpected and unwelcome.

For me, a holiday is to be a relaxing thing – I would worry about getting to the airport on time, if we were flying somewhere – but, in general, it should be relaxing. Unless you have something to ‘catch’, then let’s not worry.

F had to work and the dogs had to go in for a haircut – he took them. He called me. The dogs would be ready before 1 p.m. and could I go and collect them. Of course I could.

I arrive a few minutes before, having received the text at 12.45. Not too bad. As it turns out there were other people collecting too and, as usual, they were not ready before 1 but more like 1.30.

F had pre-paid the haircut. This is a little annoying but not enough to spoil my holiday. He meets us as we’re walking back – it’s a surprise – I thought he would finish later. He hasn’t packed yet. That’s OK. Neither have I! Or, rather, I haven’t finished.

I am slow at packing – that is to say, I can be fast – but if there’s nothing to catch I just can’t be really quick.

Later I go to pick him up. We return to my place and load the car. He is unimpressed by how many bags there are! And, whilst I do understand, we’re going by car. Most of the bags are dog’s stuff.

He takes some stuff down to the car and I am to follow with the dogs and the last few bags. He phones, asking if I need help – I am taking longer because I have to close up the flat, take the rubbish out, etc. and this is all taking rather longer than expected and, certainly, rather longer than he would like.

The dogs are already driving me crazy. They know that something is happening and are constantly under my feet. I admit to being a little stressed by them but I know that once I have them in the car everything will be alright!

I get to the car, laden with stuff AND trying to keep the dogs under control. We get the dogs in (then I know they will be fine), then I start to put some bags behind my seat. And this is when it starts. He is frustrated, obviously, and starts taking it out on me – complaining that I have too much stuff (which is, probably true – a ‘dog-walking coat (in case it rains), shoes for walking in the rain, a jacket in the evenings(in case it gets chilly – we shall be in the mountains/hills, etc.).

He grabs some of the bags I have just arranged and puts them in the footwell, at his feet (which means he cannot sit properly), grumbling and complaining – “Why have you got 4 books?”, as an example.

I try to explain that there is room behind my seat but he’s not listening to me.

We go. Most of the journey is in silence except for the CDs he has made and his ‘baby talk’ to Dino.

I am not stressed but I am silent since I don’t know what to say and I am not stupid enough not to know that anything I might say may spark him off. I lived with V for 20 years. I know he hates me driving (but hates driving himself even more). He needs to chill out a bit – in general. Of course, I could suggest that but I’m not that stupid. Still, the journey is good with light traffic, so not stressful – at least, not for me!

We arrive at his brother’s place and everything seems good.

As we get our bags out of the car he says that we look like gypsies – so many bags. There is no point in arguing – and I can’t be bothered to argue with someone who won’t listen – this much I’ve learnt.

A, his sister-in-law, has prepared something to eat and we sit in the garden drinking and eating. It is lovely but although the weather is warmish, it is considerably colder here than it was in Milan! We go to bed – early. Johnny has to be up for work early in the morning and, anyway, we are tired (and some of us are fractious, it seems).

We discuss taking the dogs to the beach and decide to wait and see what time we get up in the morning. He watches some television and I start to sleep. He switches the TV off. Unfortunately, that’s when it all kicks off. Dino, having had his ears (I mean to say, ear hair, of course) trimmed, finds, as in the past, that it is tickley. Every minute or so, he shakes his head vigorously, causing his ears to slap, rather loudly, on the sides of his head. Or, he scratches them – again loudly. Or, because he can’t settle, wanders round the very small bedroom, bumping into things. Whatever it is he is doing – it is keeping us awake.

F suggests, after much ‘cazzoing’ and ‘va fan culoing’, that he will go and sleep in the car. I say (because it is true), that I had already thought of me taking Dino there and staying with him. He replies that if I do that he will go and get a train, in the morning, and go back to Milan because ‘I am crazy like that’. He is angry – but what can I do? I say ‘I guess’.

He is obviously looking for someone to fight with.

He starts. ‘You made me come down here’. ‘You wanted to come and forced me to bring you’. Blah, blah. I wait until he is finished.

‘That is neither true nor fair’, I reply.

He gets up and leaves, taking the car keys with him. Oh well, if he’s going to be a stupid arse then let him be.

Dino almost immediately stops most of the scratching and head shaking and moving around – of course.

I resolve: tomorrow, after breakfast, I and the dogs are going back to Milan!

I wake at 6 a.m.

An important ‘first’

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I had given them a stern warning – before we left the house and whilst we were in the lift going up. Not that it really made any difference and it was stupid really but, still………….

This morning, I caught Rufus on the sofa. When I told F via Facebook chat, this morning, his response was – ‘He’s not stupid’ – which, indeed, he’s not. Of course, Rufus, on seeing me come out of the bedroom was off the sofa almost immediately!

It took them a while to settle. All was new although, last night, on arrival, as we walked through the door, Dino was overly excited. After all, for him, the whole flat smelt of F and so he was looking round for him. F, meanwhile, was hiding behind the door.

Then they had to smell and investigate every corner. Rufus settling much earlier than Dino, which was to be expected.

It’s not really that dog-friendly. F moved a vase with a rose in it. A little too catchable by the odd tail wag. And, of course, F has wooden floors so the clip-clip of them walking through was a bit loud but we managed. And so, it’s done. The first time there and we stayed overnight. Providing F is still OK with it, it should be fine for the future.

Of course, I shall always be worried – well, at least, for a while. That is to be expected. It will be up to F now as to how often it all happens.

First Time

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It will be our first time away.  That is, away – together.< More importantly, it will be the first time that we shall actually spend 24 hours together or maybe 48 or maybe a little more. Best Mate said, last night, that I worry too much.  This is true, of course.  Will we be able to stand each other for all that time together?  Will he still love me tomorrow?

We are going to Pallanza on Lake Maggiore.  We shall be with a friend of mine, B and a friend of hers over from Canada – but we shall be together for the whole time.  Perhaps even Saturday morning through to Monday evening!  Normally we have quite a number of hours apart – in our respective homes; shopping; doing odd jobs, etc.  We’ve never spent this amount of time together – and we won’t have any other distractions.  Hmmm.

OK, but the thing is that I don’t need any other distractions, I will have him. I worry that he does need other distractions though. Anyway, I won’t be here for a couple/few days from Saturday morning, so in case I don’t get the chance to say before, have a very Happy Easter.

Pat Metheny plays Milan and, in spite of no vocals, I go and watch

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Even if I was good, in spite of what Gail might say, this cannot possibly describe how good it was.

But first, some background.  Music.  I like music but, with the exception of some songs/artists, I wouldn’t call myself a ‘music lover’.  I like what I like – some of it good and some of it, maybe, to you, bad.  I wasn’t brought up in a house full of music even if my paternal grandmother taught us to play the piano (well, “play” – I say play in the loosest sense).  Certainly it was not a household filled with classical music, my parents never really going in for record buying in a big way.

I found music at about the age of 13 when I was given a radio for Christmas and my maternal grandmother introduced me to Top of the Pops and, in particular, Mott the Hoople (because my mother used to sit on the same school bus as Mick Ralphs).  I listened to a crackly, distorted Radio Luxembourg, late at night, under the bedclothes.

My passion was voices and, especially, the more unusual, rougher, deep voices – ones that seemed to have something to say (or sing).

And then I started to go to concerts.  Many, many concerts.  I loved (still love) going to concerts.  There’s something about seeing someone ‘live’ that just cannot be captured by disc.

But, there was always a point in the concert (every concert) that I really disliked, almost hated.  This was the part where the musicians showed off their talent with whatever instrument they played.  I found (find) it boring.  Improvisation – just another word for making noise.  I mean I could tell they were talented but that didn’t make it enjoyable for me.  It’s noise without words and, for me, a song is all about the words and the singers voice.

We were going to see Pat Metheny.  F had played some tracks to me on several occasions.  But ours is a new relationship and I don’t want to say that I find it rubbish (which isn’t exactly true since I can tell he has great skill – it’s just boring).  He loves Pat Metheny and what he loves I love (but for entirely different reasons).  I bought the tickets.  €50 a pop!  And I wasn’t even going to enjoy it!

And so, it was last night.  At Teatro Smeraldo in Milan.  OK, so I would be bored but, at least, given he was away last week and we are both away this week, we would be together and maybe have a beer and pizza or something.

I wanted to go for a beer first but he was excited and wanted to go in and take our seats.  OK, I get it.  I would be the same for me with someone like Joan.  We go in and sit down.  I got the tickets late so we are near the back but, maybe, this will be better – at least for me.

The crowd is younger (not that young but younger than me) than I expected.  Full of nerdy-type people who listen to music without vocals.  Ah well, it will only be a couple of hours, I say to myself.

The lights dim and the crowd, whilst not exactly going wild, cheer and clap and are obviously keen to see ‘the man’.  I clap politely, as one does.  I am happy for F who is very excited about this.

The man comes on looking a little like a throw-back from the 60s.  He plays his guitar(s).  I try not to be bored.  I try to listen.  It’s OK, I suppose but I can’t help thinking that a bit of vocals never really hurt any song.  The songs he plays go on a little long for me.  About 3 minutes too long if I am honest.

And then…………

WARNING – if you intend to see him on his latest tour, I suggest you don’t read the rest of this as you will appreciate it so much more if it is a surprise.  If you’re one of those people not going to see him or who are but always find your Christmas presents before Christmas………..then carry on

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Yesterday, we became four.

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I am at the computer.  I’m standing but bent over.  It’s not the most comfortable position but, given the lack of anything I could use as a chair, it’s the best I can do.

The screen springs to life, suddenly showing the background at the same time as it makes the sound.  Great.  The usual Skype message comes up.  It should be upgraded but it’s not mine to do.  I tell it to continue anyway.  I select the Skype account I want to use.  Best Mate may be online.

I go type in the password but nothing happens when I type.  Then there is a new window that comes up.  I don’t really read the screen so don’t know what it says.  I am busy trying to get into Skype.  As I am closing this very annoying window, I notice something about Bluetooth.  As it closes, I realise that this keyboard has no connection lead to the computer and, therefore, must be Bluetooth.

I need to find this window again.  This utility.  I start searching.  the problem, other than I don’t really know Macs that well, is that it is an Italian machine and everything is in Italian, of course.  I go for Finder, since the icon I would use on my machine is not in the right place (or, rather, non-existent) on this computer. I look for the obvious thing.  Something called Bluetooth or Connections or something similar.

On the way to finding this I see some things that I have an urge to see.  Some photos; some other things.  I resist the urge.  It would be like spying; like looking into a private diary; like reading a blog that you’re not supposed to know about (whoops!).  I want to and don’t want to at the same time.  I don’t want to more than I want to and so I don’t.  I give myself a self-congratulatory pat on the back for being good.  It makes me feel good even if I am still intrigued.  But I have no reason to doubt and, therefore, this is something that should be left alone.  But, still……

I don’t find what I want.  I close down the computer.

I switch on the computer again.  The same window/utility appears…..eventually.  I am right!  The keyboard is not being ‘seen’.  I look at the keyboard.  I see that there is a screw thing at the side and open it to find batteries inside.  I know this was all working as he had used it a day or two before when he proved that the telephone line had been installed and everything (including ADSL) was functioning.  I decide that, maybe, one of the batteries is to blame.  But there are no more batteries that I know of.  And, so, I swap the two from the mouse (which IS working), taking two from the keyboard in exchange.

I try all again.  No difference, although the mouse still works.  It is unlikely to be one battery.  I look all over the keyboard, eventually pressing, by accident, the switch that turns the keyboard ‘on’.

Everything now works but a) I am standing and b) I have almost had enough and so, instead of writing a blog post, I play ‘the bloody game’.

The men arrive with the wardrobe and bed.  I don’t really like them.  I was hoping for the three that came to my place.  That would have been just fine.  I don’t really trust these guys.  I smoke and am aware that the smoke seems to fill the flat much more quickly than it does mine.  I think about the time, in the very near future, when we are here, at the computer together or watching a DVD or sitting on the brand-new, white, all-(simulated/something)-leather sofa – smoking and it being difficult.  This worries me.

The windows are slightly open, as they always are.  I notice that, the flat, seemingly so warm every time I have entered, seems quite cold after a couple of hours.  This may not be so good.

The men finish with the wardrobe.  Well, not quite.  I do not know what the man says but I think he says that he has another set of drawers and where should they go?  I don’t know.  I knew where the wardrobe was to go, I had asked F the night before but the second set of drawers?  I phone him and get no answer.  He is working, of course.  The men need an answer as they are now building the bed (which won’t take long).  I send a text explaining that I need an answer and hoping that he has the phone on him.

He calls me.  They should be shelves and not a set of drawers.  I realise I could have got it wrong.  I say yes they are shelves – hoping that I am right.  But where are they to go?  He tells me they are to go in the middle part, above the set of drawers, equally spaced.  I tell the guys.  They tell me what they can do.  I tell them that is OK.

They finish.  There is some discussion about the payment that is to be made.  I cannot pay him the exact money as I don’t have 33 cents.  He has no change.  I know that, in the UK, there would be no money given to the delivery/installer people and I wonder at how this can possibly work properly in Italy.

I change what I have given him.  Now all he has to do is give me 17 cents change.  He only has a 20 cent coin.  I explain that I don’t have the 3 cents to give him and that it’s my money we’re talking about (he already knows that it’s not my house, nor my furniture).

He huffs and puffs.  But, reluctantly gives me the 20 cents.  I don’t care.  I’ve noticed that the guy in the supermarket that I thought was a good guy regularly charges me for an extra plastic bag.  I don’t go to his till any more.  It’s only 4 cents but the Italians, with the old lira in mind, take less notice of the small coins.  I am English and I don’t.

When they have gone I decide that the room is really smokey.  I have only had about 5 cigarettes but I know that F won’t like it and so I open the window wide in the lounge and the bedroom to try and get rid of it.  There is no breeze and so no air through the flat and so it doesn’t disperse.

I get much colder though and, from a starting point that is quite cold, this is not pleasant.  I have texted F to say that everything is fine and that I would go and do some shopping and go home shortly.  I also added that I would come back to the flat whenever he wanted as, of course, I have the keys!

I close the windows and the shutters.  The smoke still seems to hang in the air.  I know my sense of smell is terrible.  I go out of the flat and come back in.  I can still smell it.  If I can smell it, I muse, then it will be a hundred times worse for him.

But I cannot stay.  Or, rather, I cannot stay and not smoke!

I leave.

Later he phones.  He is still at the office.  He has got the company car tonight.  He will go and collect his clothes and take them to the flat.  I offer my help.  He says that I have done enough already (having taken a day’s holiday to be at the flat for his wardrobe and bed).  I reply that it is really no problem and I really don’t mind.

All this is true.  All this is in my interest.  And, anyway, it means we are together and I am helping him and it makes me feel good.  And, also, I want to be there when he opens the flat door – to see the reaction to the smokey smell, for I feel as guilty as hell.  And I have weird thoughts that go through my mind like a) he won’t want me in the new flat or b) he will insist that I stop smoking or something along those lines.  If I were to be there I would know, immediately, if it were a problem.

I wait at home.  I am anxious.  I feel useless.

This is like those times when you were a kid.  You had done something wrong and you knew, as sure as night follows day, that your parents would know.  Perhaps they were out and would know when they came back.  Perhaps they were there and it was one of those things that they would find out about and you just didn’t know when.

And it’s the waiting that is the worst, of course.

And this is how I felt.  I also worried that, after a full day at work, he was going to be doing lots of moving stuff to the car and from the car and it would be so much better if I were there to help.  And it would be quicker.

And then I thought that, perhaps, he didn’t want me to be there because he wanted to spend the night at the old flat.  The previous night had been restless for him.  Apparently Dino had been restless and walking to and fro and playing and crying and other things.  And then I thought that perhaps he just wanted to have a night apart.  But why?

It got to 10 o’clock.  I had heard nothing.  I hadn’t taken a shower wanting to be ready, just in case he called for help.  But now it was time for the dogs to go out.  By now, after all my thinking, I had come to the conclusion that he was not going to be coming here for the night and didn’t want me to go to him and that was why he hadn’t phoned until now – leaving it too late for me to do anything – presented as a kind of fait accompli.

I decide to go out with the dogs; I won’t bother with a shower.

As I’m walking with the dogs I think about going to bed but staying fully dressed and lying on top of the bed so that, if he calls, I will be ready to go.  Maybe the flat stank of smoke?  Maybe he’s just had enough – with not having enough sleep the night before?  Maybe I’m just being too much for him?

I hear the phone ringing in my pocket.  My gloves mean that I can’t get the bloody thing out.  The phone stops ringing just as I get it out of my pocket.  I look at the missed call.  It was F, of course.  I phone him back.  It starts ringing.  Dino, just at this moment decides he must do the biggest poop ever.  This means I cannot hold the phone to my ear, put them on short leads, open up the bag AND pick it up and dispose of it all at the same time.  Something has to go.  It is the call.

Not because I want to but because the poop is more, shall we say, pressing.  Damn Dino!  I pick it up and, as we are only a few minutes from home decide to wait until I am in the lift before trying again.  We get in the lift and I take their leads off and try calling again.  He answers.

‘Can I call you back in 10 minutes?’, he asks.  Of course, I reply – I can tell he is carrying stuff.

He calls me back.  I explain I was out with the dogs and why I called but couldn’t wait for him to answer.  I ask him where he is.  He explains he is in the car and is trying to find somewhere to park and then he will be with me.

‘But I still need to take a shower’, he states.  I breathe a sigh of relief and tell him that I, too, must take a shower.

I finish my glass of wine.  I feel guilty about having a glass of wine (well, in honesty, two).  I don’t know why.  But it’s like when I eat a bar of chocolate.  It’s not that I’m lying about it and it’s not like it’s such a big deal that I feel I must tell him; it’s just like I don’t want his disapproval – like I am a child.  I wonder why this is.  It’s my house and my wine and I can drink it if I want.  Still, even that doesn’t stop the feeling.  It’s like I haven’t told him the whole truth – even if I have or had.  I rinse the glass and stop myself from washing it up.

I start to undress.  I notice that Dino and Rufus are making for the door.  They have heard something (or, rather, Dino has heard something and is very excited – Rufus is just going along with it in that confused kind of way that he has now – that old people have when they know something is going on but have no idea what it is).

Then I hear it too.  It is F, outside the door, making the slurping sounds that gets Dino so excited.  I laugh.

I go and open the door.  F is there, shirts on hangers in hand, a bag over one shoulder, with other bags and things. I keep Dino away from him so that the shirts will remain dry and not get wet from the Dino-slurp.  He explains that he thought he would bring a few shirts and stuff so that he doesn’t have to worry about it for the next few days.

In spite of all the crazy child-like thoughts that have been going through my head all night, at this point, the child inside of me is jumping up and down and clapping my hands and shouting in sheer happiness – whilst the Andy on the outside just smiles and says of course that’s fine and why don’t you hang those in the wardrobe – which is what he does.

I go over and hug him and give him a kiss.  He unpacks his bag.

‘This is for the bathroom’, he says as he hands me his washbag.  I cheerfully take it there, whilst feeling stupid.  Stupid for being so happy and stupid for having thought all those stupid thoughts all night.

Later I ask him about the smell in the flat and explain why.  He says there was no smell other than ‘new wardrobe and bed and paint’.  I am relieved, to say the least.

We have tea, showers and go to bed.  He is cold, he says, as he is in bed before me.

I cuddle him and take his hand and put it on my stomach.  He withdraws it and I ask why.  He explains that his hand is so cold (which it is) that he doesn’t like touching my stomach, knowing it is so cold.  I tell him it is fine and take it and hold it there, getting it warmer and making him feel better.

I resist the urge to tell him that I love him – even if it is true and even if I really want to tell him so that he knows.

And, he hasn’t moved in at all.  He’s just staying with me for a few days although, he said, it could be for all of next week too.  I think I curb my enthusiasm for this quite well.  Or, at least, to the outside world.  Or, rather, to him.

Late last night………………..

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…………….it came to me as I was lying there, in the dark and the heat, unable to sleep.

I had been asleep.  We had ‘made love’ earlier, in spite of us both being tired.  And it was good and he makes me feel good.  After, we lay on our sides, me with my back to him, he cuddling me – ‘spooning’ as it is called.  He likes that and it suits me fine.  I must have fallen asleep.

I wake up.  Suddenly.  Unexpectedly.  I don’t know why.  I know it is not just before the alarm but I am, almost, wide awake.  I turn over.  He is lying on his back.  I don’t put my arm across him both for his sake and mine.  I am too hot, half of me outside the bedclothes already.

He does the pfffff sound that Italians make.  It is peculiar to them.  They make it, it seems, to express displeasure or annoyance or exasperation at something.

I ask if he is OK.  He says he can’t sleep.  I ask if he has been awake all the time and he says yes.  I think (but do not say) that it is he who, probably, woke me up.  I turn over so as not to succumb to the urge to put my arm around him to say ‘everything is alright’.  I know the sound of the pfffff.  I know what that means.  He asks what time it is (as I have just looked).  I say it is a quarter to twelve.  He makes the pffff sound again.

He asks if we should go for a cigarette.  I say yes as I am not close to sleeping and, anyway, I quite like the idea of a glass of milk.  I get up.  He changes his mind and says he’s not coming.  That’s OK.

I have my milk and cigarette, taking my time, cooling down and hoping that, when I get back to bed, I will feel much better – more like sleep.  It is not a quarter to twelve.  I realised that as I was getting up.  Anyway, it cannot be a quarter to twelve.  We only switched the light off at 11.30 something and then we had sex.  No, it was a quarter to one.

I creep back to bed.  I am still too hot.  I burn, as normal.  His flat (well, S’s flat) is too hot.  He keeps the heat on overnight.  It’s a nice idea but with my metabolism, it plays havoc.  I lie as still as possible, not wanting to wake him if he is on the verge of sleep.  But you know how it is.  When you need to be quiet you feel the urge to cough, or scratch, or sneeze or move because it’s uncomfortable.  Even your breathing seems as loud as an express train going full belt.  I do all these things, except the sneezing.  We touch legs.  We both need that; some physical touch but just not too much.  We both suffer in the same way although I am, generally, hotter than him.  He didn’t know anyone could be as bad, let alone worse!

I turn over to face him.  His knee, crooked up, fine whilst my back is towards him, not so fine when I’m facing him.  I still cannot sleep.  I open my eyes and look at his face.  The dark not so total that I can’t see anything but, still, I see no detail.  But I know what it looks like.  I smile anyway.  I’m tired, exhausted really, but happy with this, with what I have, with what we have.  I try to figure out if his eyes are closed but I just can’t tell.  Not in this light.

Or, rather, lack of light.

I turn again.  and that’s when it suddenly comes to me about these life-changing moments.  And, for just a split second I wonder what they are.  Then I think of the camp.

I also think about the time when I promised to marry someone.  Her name was Gilly.  Gilly Gaskell or Gaskill or something like that.  I remember, holding hands in the garden.  Her garden, the bottom of the garden.  I remember it as if I am watching it on a film – I’m not there but here, behind the camera, watching – but I can’t see my features but I remember her hair.  Blonde.  The fringe tied back with a clip.  I promised her that I would marry her.

It should have been one of those life-changing moments/events.  But it’s not.  Nor was it then.

We were five.