Tag Archives: Friends and Inimies

Hang on in there!

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Hang on in there!

I am exhausted, to be honest. The holiday, in a little more than 4 weeks, can’t come soon enough. It seems I never stop.

Take last night. I rush home from work, park the car, walk to the supermarket, momentarily forgetting that it’s about 34°C and therefore walking down the street with full sun on my back rather than a slightly longer way, mostly in the shade. I buy the minimum of stuff and walk back home down the shady streets.

Arriving home, as soon as I step through the door, having stopped “doing something”, I do my Niagara Falls impression. I put away the milk and stuff, change out of my suit (I had customers at work), put on shorts and a T-shirt. Within a second my T-shirt is soaked but there’s not really much I can do. I need to take the dogs out as I need to be back by 7.

I take them out. We do a slightly shorter walk in the heat. It’s too hot for them. I get home and Niagara starts again. Half an hour later, I change my T-shirt as the Falls have stopped (thank God) but the T-shirt is completely soaked. I could manage it better if I didn’t have to rush – but I have no choice but to rush.

After my appointment, I get to read the document that someone has sent me to look at. It seems serious. I text to say that we need to talk. She asks if now is possible and I agree (I shall be busy tomorrow and I want to pack for the weekend) so we meet at Bar Blanco, the nearest bar to my house. I tell her how bad it could be but that I’ve managed to find someone who may be able to help. It’s going to cost her anyway. She is grateful, for sure, but we end up having a drink which means I’m late taking the dogs out and so late to bed.

With less that 5 hours sleep, I feel like shit. But, I feel I have to help her and cannot just walk away.

But, it costs. The cost being my tiredness.

I don’t really need the appointment tonight but it has to be. Then pack. Then the dogs. Then bed – early, I really hope. I don’t want to drive all the way down there and then spend the whole of the weekend asleep! Not that I CAN sleep on the beach, but “sleepy mode”, if I’m tired, can mean a subdued and exhausting weekend.

But, F is being “made” to take 2 weeks holiday. That’s fair enough, since for over a month he has been home for about 4 days in total. He, too, is exhausted. He is with his mother for this time, with us going down for this weekend and next.

But it’s hard for me too. I have to do everything and there’s no time and the heat means I can’t take my time – although I much prefer this heat to the cold and, if I could just take things more slowly, I’d be fine!

But, only just over a week to go before he’s back home and we can share the dog walking. And just over 4 weeks an I shall be with Best Mate AND on holiday.

Hang on in there, I tell myself.

A night at Blue Note and the thoughts in my head; downloading a video from Facebook

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I can’t help but stare at him.

He’s young, probably about 25. He has that “floppy” hair that seems in favour, certainly with the gay people, here, in Milan, and he has a “kind of” beard. He plays the violin.

I stare at him because of the thoughts in my head. They race through, from one thing to another.

How lives are different; when I was his age; I could have been in this world; I’m envious that I’m not in this world; how fascinating to be creative; I wonder how much he practices; assuming he’s gay, I wonder what his boyfriend’s like; or maybe he has no time for that; always practising; up late every night performing; no money; no, I couldn’t have done that – no willpower to keep practising; how much do the whole band practise; he doesn’t really fit in with the rest of the band, they are much older, like “this is where not-famous musicians go to die”; but he’s too young for that – he has still to “make it”; so why is he here on stage with the oldies (none of them will be under 40); I wonder what his life’s really like; does he really have another job and this is only a hobby he wishes were something more; I wish I could do something creative; but I’m good with people; but that’s not really creative, is it; I wonder if I could do something creative with that skill; I would like to be on stage again; how did I get here – listening to this, in a foreign land, in a foreign tongue; am I lucky and will it always feel strange?

And so on, and so on.

That’s one thing.

There’s another.

We are at the concert of a “friend”. I mean, she’s not really a close friend but a friend of one of F’s colleagues, I. And she is a florist. And she sings. Good enough to have the stage at Blue Note in Milan – the kind of jazz/blues venue. And she was a student of mine once, for about 6 lessons.

We, in the audience, are a group of 5. There’s I, another girl, S, who is a very close friend and also works in one of the shops, and E who I’ve never met before. But they all know R, the singer. We don’t have a great place to see, being at the side of the stage but R has to walk past us to the stage and gives F her mobile asking him to take some pictures.

So, during the whole thing, F, E, S and I are taking videos and photos with her phone and theirs and then checking the photos and checking with each other for the best photos.

About the second song into the set, I am struck by the fact that, if I look around the place, everyone is watching R sing – except all the people in our group, who are, instead, checking their phones. OK, so R asked them for some photos but, really, even if all these people are friends of R, how come our world is now only really seen through the small screen of a telephone?

I find it a shame, really. People, as last night, are so busy with the technology, they forget to enjoy the experience.

I ate almost the whole plate of chips. And had two beers. And, after the concert, we went for an Indian. And, after a while, R and the entourage came too. But without the guy I mentioned at the beginning.

Of course.

Anyway, I’ve found out how to download a video from Facebook – that is, 1. Open the video in a new tab; 2. Change the part of the url from “www” to “m” and press enter; 3. As the video is playing, right click and “Save target as …..” which will save a copy to your hard disk.

Unfortunately, it seems the video doesn’t work (on this page – although I can play it on my desktop).  Damn the problem with browsers not supporting certain formats, etc.  Still working on it though.

Lies, damned lies or much, much worse.

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Another of those draft posts written but never published. This from July 2014. Maybe now the blog is more “secret” I feel better about posting it?

_________________________________________________________________

Of course, you never really know anyone, do you?

You have to trust. Or not.

And, then, there’s what someone tells you. Is it always true? If not, is it because they’re trying not to hurt your feelings – a “white” lie. Or, sometimes, is it more sinister than that.

There’ve been cases recently, in the newspapers, for example the girl who accused her boyfriend of rape and later admitted she had made it up just for attention.

Sometimes, it’s for attention. Sometimes, it’s because someone lives in their created world.

I employed a salesman who was like that, once. Later, when we learnt that everything had been a complete fabrication, everything started to fit into place. Unfortunately, by then, he had married one of our other employees and she ended up being taken for a ride too. But she was a strong lady and now lives happily (I think) with their rather delightful son. He, on the other hand, continues on separately from them.

Sometimes, I think it’s malicious. And those are the worst kind of people. They do it for spite, for jealousy, or just to be evil.

So, if, years later, you find out that something you had been told had been a fabrication but, as a result of that something, it had taken you down a road that affected, not only you but others as well, what should you do? How can that purposeful, vicious lie be undone?

Of course, first things first – maybe it wasn’t a lie? Maybe the lies are being told now? How the hell do you find out? Should you find out?

Or, perhaps, in any event, it’s better to leave things as they are? After all, many years have passed, many rivers crossed, many mountains climbed. And what possible good would it do to try and repair something broken by the vindictiveness of someone who’s now dead? What purpose would it serve?

The end is nigh

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This was a draft post from June 2013. It still applies. I don’t think it was properly finished but, no matter. This (and I wish to make it clear in case it is read by someone going through some issues now, in May of 2015) is not about you but about someone else. Remember this post was written in June of 2013 – 2 years ago!

Of course, there’s got to be give and take.

It’s a trade-off, really. One doesn’t get everything one wants – or, not usually.

You may think that you have the same goals but, often, we project the goals we want to on our partner and only look for the signs of confirmation, ignoring those that go against what we think.

Let’s get this straight. I’m not talking about me, here. Although what I’ve said is, in fact, true for me also, the rest of this post is not. Part of the problem is that I don’t really have any goals to project. I leave that to F. He has plans. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know, for certain, that any of those plans include me although there are hints that some of them do. But, it’s not really important to me. I have this “fatalist gene”, of which I am aware and which, in reality, suits me just fine, thanks. Sure, as time passes, I think more of the future – the future together – but I’m not talking about a future as far as, say, when I reach 70 but rather the future as far as, say, Christmas. This future involves the presents I will get him since he is so difficult to buy for. So, I am working on the present for our anniversary (in October) and I have the plan for one of the presents for Christmas. And that’s it. It doesn’t worry me, it’s just the way I think.

So, back to the purpose of this post.

In two days, two different people’s world has been turned a little upside down. And the problem is their relationship with their partner.

But, I have a little experience in relationships and what happens. I give my advice, unasked for, knowing that they will, almost certainly, ignore it but knowing that it is valid and clear advice.

For one person, I suggested that they not search for something on the basis that eventually you will find something and it won’t make things better. Search, by all means but know that it is the end of the relationship as you know it. In fact, the very act of the searching means that the relationship is doomed. It may not result in being single but it will change the relationship to a point that is irrecoverable. Of course, what may then happen is that “a relationship” continues but it is not the same as the relationship you had. There is no “going back” and “undiscovering” the facts that have changed everything.

So, I advised against it but said that, if she were to continue, be aware of the fact that it will all change ……. forever.

She ignored that advice and continued to search and, unsurprisingly, find the facts and was, on Friday, just about holding it together. But that won’t last. And I felt sorry for her even though I knew that the very act of searching could only lead to this result.

The future for her is uncertain. It will depend upon how she and he react. At the moment, he doesn’t know that she has evidence. Or, rather, on Friday he didn’t know. But it’s hard to keep the evidence hidden and not to say something. And then what? Even if there are promises made and a reconciliation done, if it lasts, it won’t be what she had. And will she be happy enough with that?

If I close my eyes, I hurtle back to 1975

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Once or twice I noticed the smile that he has. It comes with a twinkle in his eye. But the twinkle is a real twinkle – a bit cheeky but it always really sparkled.

And, suddenly, it really really is him.

And, sometimes, I could hear it in his voice. If I had closed me eyes then, I could have transported myself back to those days.

I had picked them up at the airport. I was a bit worried I wouldn’t recognise them. And I was right to be worried. Their eldest daughter is 26 so we knew it was more than 26 years since I had seen them. And, 26 years is a long, long time.

I remember him as the same sort of build as me but taller. I knew he had no hair. T, his wife, had black hair.

So, I didn’t recognise them at all. He looked a little like my grandfather! They had both gained a “little weight”, she had blondish hair.

But later, over a meal, he did that thing with his smile and the twinkle thing and then, for a split second, it was him.

I could tell you all about the weekend but it would be slightly boring. Instead, he remembered things about me that I don’t remember. I was, in fact, a bit of a tearaway between the ages of 14 and 18 (and, possibly, beyond that.) He told me that he used to hang around me hoping that my “natural wit and charm” with the ladies would rub off on him – or that, by hanging out with me, he would attract the girls – apparently.

He would ferry me around to parties, etc. so that he would be included.

I don’t remember. He used to wait for me at my parents’ house whilst I “came back from somewhere” for us to go out. Apart from parties, our “going out” was mainly to pubs.

And, as I have said before, I never understood that I was good looking. But here is a photo that was taken in 1975. I am on the right, with the purple shirt.

Andy and Harry Aug 1975

And this is them at the top of the Duomo, this weekend.

Harry ad Tracey Duomo Roof 2015

I think you can agree, he’s changed a bit. They’ve changed a bit! Or not? But, then, there’s 40 years between the two photos!

IKEA is NOT a Modern Art Museum!

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IKEA is NOT a Modern Art Museum!

“Where are we going?” I had to ask twice or, maybe, three times.

“To the opening of a modern art museum.”

Oh, OK. After all, I like modern art. It was in the Navigli area of Milan. We were in the taxi – I was in the back with Fi, F’s crazy friend from Austria, next to me and, next to her, M, a wealthy Russian who now lives in London (I found out later). Fi had come over for one night to meet up with M.

The roads were closed. We got out of the taxi and walked up at the top of the canals, where they come almost together and join in a basin called the Darsena. I remember now that this was the official opening of the Darsena – they’ve finally made it something of a place to go, creating walkways and parks. In fact, the whole of the Navigli is being “done up”. It will be lovely when they’ve finished. It should have been done years ago.

But there are so many people! The place is heaving.

Suddenly we meet some people. I kind of recognise some of them. F reminds me from where. For some it was Fi’s birthday bash in Vienna and for others the time we went to a sea-food restaurant (with about 30 people that Fi had invited (her dinners are rarely less than 10 people at a time).

F reminds me they are rich or “super-rich”.

To be honest, they look more like street people. Later, someone tells one of the blokes (who is in the “super rich” category that his trousers look good. At first I thought this was a joke. Thank God I didn’t laugh out loud!) They are black and loose, like a pair of jogging bottoms but with some 5 or 6 inches of rubber-like elastic bottoms. Underneath them he’s sporting a pair of “fashion” wellington boots. They look bloody dreadful. I wouldn’t wear something like that even if I was only slobbing out at home!

In fact, almost all the clothes they are wearing look as if they got them from a second-hand store. This is rich people for you!

Anyway, it seems that these people are the people we are supposed to be meeting up with. I wish that F had given me some forewarning as to who they were. Then I would have feigned remembering them which would have looked better, at least.

We wander down the street towards the station. There is a “temporary” IKEA store. Everyone goes in. It is IKEA but, given that Expo is opening in Milan in a few days time, it isn’t a normal IKEA store but just about kitchens and food – so at least the more interesting part of IKEA, I suppose.

We wander about for a bit and then go out. It seems the other rich guy, who looks similar to the super rich guy with the jogging bottoms, needs alcohol. I remember now, he drinks like a fish. They look the same – big noses which are red (from too much alcohol), short with particularly rotund bellies (probably from too much alcohol) and both wearing black. But they’re nice enough. And, apparently very rich. But, then everyone is very rich except us. They talk about going for an aperitivo (it is about 1 p.m. – whereas aperitivo time is after 5 p.m.)

We wander across the street and into a place that looks like a restaurant. Exposed brick inside to give it a rustic feel. We are shown to a table in the back room which is set out for 10 people or so. It seems this is what we were coming for. I don’t understand why someone didn’t say!

We sit down. 2 of the rich people (husband and wife – the husband being the one who drinks like a fish) are not staying more than a few minutes. They’re just having a glass or two of prosecco (well, in fact, she’s not drinking at all – he has a couple and then another from someone else.) They go and we start to look at the menu.

The prices are really steep. €20+ for a plate (not that big either) of pasta and €30 or more for a main dish.

It seems most people are having pasta. There are five people having that. The super rich wife is having two antipasti. I’m having the lamb. Of course, it is said that after the pasta they may take a main course. That will make me look rather foolish but, again, I didn’t know and F doesn’t tell me.

A guy has joined us a few minutes before. A tall guy bringing his small black dog. He also has a pot belly. Grey hair but thinning with some missing just above his forehead, the remainder tied in a small pony tail at the back. He’s loud and tends to dominate the conversation. He’s one of those who has ordered one of the five pasta dishes but he’s already says he’s going to have lamb afterwards.

We have to wait because, as stated on the menu, this particular pasta dish takes 16 minutes to prepare. They ask if it can be hurried along because M has to catch a flight back to London and has to leave by 2.30 p.m.

We have wine after the prosecco. There is no discussion on the wine. Super rich guy knows the people who own the restaurant. I don’t really care. I’ve been talking to M who doesn’t speak Italian but does speak English.

Eventually (but a LOT longer than the 16 minutes quoted) the pasta, the antipasti and my lamb arrive.

Except there’s a problem. We’re short of one of the pasta dishes. There is a general “no, share with me”, etc. But it seems the guy with the ponytail is the one without.

He refuses to share.

But he has a tantrum. Really, he’s about my age but he starts acting up like he’s a 3-year-old child. Shouting about how he was hungry but now won’t eat anything. How they should cancel his order for the lamb (which he hadn’t made anyway). Not only is he cutting off his nose to spite his face, but he is making everyone uncomfortable. Many offers are made to give him their pasta dish. He refuses. Offers are made to give him a whole pasta dish. He refuses. He just gets louder and more obnoxious. Fi, who is sitting next to him, suggests he “lighten up” which enrages him further.

I keep my head down and enjoy my lamb which is, quite possibly, the best I’ve ever tasted in Milan. It comes with a small amount of minted bread (bread soaked in a mint sauce) and microscopic amounts of a thyme sauce. It’s beautiful, but it’s not a lot. I’m not sure it’s worth €30. I don’t think we’ll be taking anyone there, to be honest. Yet the place is busy, every table being taken.

Pony-tail guy eventually calms down a bit. Another bottle of wine comes. Everyone decides they have had enough. M leaves to get a taxi to the airport. More wine is drunk. Pony-tail guy hasn’t eaten a thing! Yet he’s been drinking. He’s calm now and back to being the centre of attention.

I go outside with super-rich wife as she smokes. We talk about (or, rather, she talks about) how Berlusconi stole from everyone and how he destroyed Italy. F comes out later holding sweet menus and tells me which one I should have. She tells F that it was her husbands fault. He wound up pony-tail guy by starting to eat his pasta before making sure everyone had some. I’m not sure why this should wind up PTG in particular but I can believe it.

We go back in and have sweets – except PTG, of course, although he does taste a bit of everyone else’s. We have coffees and a digestivo. Fi pays for everyone, as usual.

We say our goodbyes.

It should have all been lovely. Obviously, there was no museum involved so I’m unsure why it was even mentioned. PTG was a bit of an arse, to be honest. All the childish stuff was really not necessary.

Later he comes to our flat to pick up Fi to take her to the airport, which is nice. I don’t see him as I am busy. But I hear him. Fi comes in quickly to say goodbye to me. She’ll be back. She says so :-D

Is there no escape?

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I had a post from someone on Facebook.

In fact, this woman isn’t the sharpest knife in the box so, in fact, I had the same post about 6 times in about 6 seconds!

“Could you call me Please xx”

She remains a Facebook friend for reasons that are unfathomable, even to me. I was never really her friend. Nor that of her husband. These were colleagues of V’s. They also thought that he was a friend of theirs which I knew was really false but it’s not for me to tell other people what they should think. Anyway, I’ve found that people don’t really understand (him or the way he works).

Just like when I told my friends that my father was a real bastard. They used to think he was so charming.

And, now, at this moment, I wonder if that’s why I was with V for so long? They both hid their real personalities so very well. Except that I know my father was a real bastard whereas V is a nice guy really – you just mustn’t take anything he says too seriously for it may or may not have elements of truth in it.

Anyway, immediately my heart sank. Usually, she is drunk when she talks to me. Or seems drunk. I’ve seen her drunk a few times. And she gets quite maudlin when she’s drunk. And goes on and on.
Before I had time to react (apart from the sinking heart) she was phoning me.

I debated whether to answer or not but decided to anyway. I knew what this conversation was going to be about. V is set to haunt me even if he has left the country.

There was a cursory “How are you?” followed by a quick, “I hope you don’t mind me phoning.”

Let’s get on with it – I thought. And she did.

“Do you know where V is?” she asks me. Is she drunk? I can’t quite tell. But I know she has a serious problem with alcohol.

“Yes,” I reply. I mean, why wouldn’t I tell the truth? I then think that perhaps I should not have said this. I think about the fact that she might ask for contact details. But I decide that I’m not giving contact details to anyone. It’s not my business and I refuse to get drawn in ………..

Except that, by saying I know where he is, already draws me in, doesn’t it?

Oh, well.

She asks me where he is and I tell her (in general terms).

She calls him a bastard and I understand why she would. V was always borrowing money from her husband (who had/will have plenty of money because his parents are very, very rich.) I would have put money on it that he owed M some money, if you see what I mean. And I would have won that bet, it seems.

Then she told me other things. I was right about the money – €3K. Plus, he had taken advance payment from a private student which, quite obviously, he will never be able to do lessons for – unless they travel to the UK. Also, she is worried about the fact that she recommended him for the “school” in which she teaches and for which, until 3 weeks ago, V also taught. It’s a big thing here, if you recommend someone for a job. It’s a big minus against you if they “fuck up”. And, of course, V had not given any notice so the first the school knew was when he didn’t turn up for his lesson (on the Monday, I guess.)

“And what about his flat?” she asks.

I explain that he appears to have abandoned everything – flat, job, life and, most importantly, debt and “done a runner.”

I give her a brief summary of what happened. Leaving out certain details – like the fact that I had bought some things from him and had seen him a few times, etc., etc.

She informs me that, unbeknown to me, a lot of things in the flat are actually theirs (or rather her husband’s) in that they bought him the fridge (and, I guess, the kitchen, the TV system, etc., etc.) – all things that he implied to me that either he had bought or had been donated by his then-boyfriend.
Seems it ain’t so (but I am shocked that I am even really surprised – and in a way, I’m not!)

I did say that there were also a lot of things of mine in there (in that I had bought and paid for almost everything he took/I gave him when we split) that I couldn’t get. I added that, as far as I was concerned, I had already let go of the stuff over 5 years ago and so there was no point worrying about it. I didn’t add that I had paid for some things and got them before he left.

She said that her husband had said the same thing. She said that they had even paid his electricity bill (but obviously not the most recent bills?) She said that she met him for lunch in January which he said he would pay for but then his card “didn’t work” and so she paid. Even she realized that, with V, that was the way it was.

She had been trying to phone him for the last 3 weeks or more but he didn’t answer and now the result was that the “person you’re phoning isn’t available”. She called him a bastard again. I suppose she had justification but, despite myself, I felt a little sorry for him. After all, he was always like this. I caught myself thinking that it was their fault, really. They are adults and should have really known better.

But, like my father, he oozes charm and fun and, yes, love, when he wants to (well, a kind of love). He hides his true self and, it seems, got much better after we split. Or, perhaps, he had been honing those skills whilst with me. Maybe I was good to practice on.

And, yet, I “gave” money to him in the final weeks – although I’m grateful I got what I did.
I tell her that I think it’s unlikely that she will ever see the money, things or, in fact, V again. She agrees.

She then wants to agree to meet up for an aperitivo. I agree, though my heart isn’t in it. They aren’t really “my sort of people” and he is incredibly boring, whilst she is a drunk. And also a bit boring. And also she keeps calling everyone “lovey” which I truly hate. I explain how lovely that would be but to bear in mind that I am very, very busy right now with hardly an evening free – which is also true.
We don’t set a date but she says “Keep in touch.”

We finish the call. I feel uncomfortable again. It’s not as if I want or need to protect him in any way. But, still, it’s only a matter of time before someone asks me to give them contact details. Which I won’t. But, still, refusal is not really good. It won’t make me happy but it will be necessary.
I suppose I should be grateful that I got lumbered with so little by his leaving so abruptly and, certainly, without him “owing” me so much. I do feel a bit sorry for his “victims” but, once again, they are adults and such is life.

I’m also quite grateful that I have stifled the urge to find out more from his family. I’ll get to know soon enough but I don’t want to pry. And, yet, I really want to know – but this feeling will pass. Anyway, some things are better not known, I think. Particularly when it comes to V.

Confusing “being” with “one way of living”

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There are some things that, still, in this day and age, cannot be changed.

For example, I could change my sex, my hair colour, even have replacement limbs should I be careless enough to lose one. There is talk about being able to replace heads, soon.

But, until that day comes, I guess, there is no way that you can change your sexual orientation.

In spite of the fact that there are people who believe you can, you really can’t.

So, when I came across this article the other day, my first thought was to dismiss the guy as either a) a nutter, b) a religious nutter or, c) stupid.

I was quite prepared to be angry. In fact, before I even read it, I was angry. It’s similar to the occasions when I read how people can be “cured” of being the way they are. In fact, I’ve read it twice now. The first time I was angry and couldn’t take it all in and then I realised that, in fact, the title didn’t tell the truth.

And, so, I was able to read it again. And, this time, I had an understanding of what he was talking about.

The clues came in simple sentences, such as “[Being gay] has outlived its usefulness” and “I have experienced all aspects of the life“.

You see, being gay is not something that can outlive its usefulness. It is just “being”. The only way of not “being” is to be no longer alive. And, as I get older, I realise that it is quite impossible to experience all aspects of any “life” since you can never be someone else other than who you are and someone else’s experiences are, most definitely, different than yours and, therefore, you can never experience them. It is only right at the second that you die that you can say that you have experienced all aspects of your life – but, still, that’s not quite the same, is it?

And, then, in the very next paragraph, came the mistake the guy had made. “I came to this community” was the problem. Being gay … or straight, or transgender, or white, or brown, or black, or a woman, or a man, or short-sighted, or intelligent, etc. is not a community. They are states of “being”.

So, in fact, I realised, he wasn’t talking about “being gay” but, rather, being surrounded by gay people in, what is known as, the “gay community”.

He goes on to say that he’s been “open” for 7 years and it’s been painful and miserable which he masked with “with alcohol, drugs, sex and parties”. Yes, so we’ve all been through painful and miserable times – that’s not exclusive to being gay, you know? People I know are still going through painful and miserable times – but they aren’t gay. They’ve also tried to mask it through alcohol and drugs and, very occasionally, sex but found that it doesn’t really work. In general this is called “growing up” and “becoming an adult with the wisdom that comes with it”. This has absolutely nothing to do with being gay, even if, on the surface, it may seem so.

Further, I agree that love is sacrifice and so does my partner. So there’s two of us that agree with you on that. Once again, the idea that it’s only gay men that are not “willing to sacrifice” is utter tosh. These days, with our desire for instant gratification (whether you be gay or straight or anything in between), most people seem to have a problem with “sacrifice”.

But, in the same paragraph, he confuses “love” with the “community”. I’m sorry, but making you “gay” does not mean that I can identify with you. The “gay” tag doesn’t mean that I have anything in common with you – apart from the “gayness” – and just like if I was a woman, I wouldn’t like all the other women in the world. In fact, I would only really like (and make any sacrifice) for a very tiny number. So it is with the “gay community”.

I find I don’t actually like a lot of gay men very much. But, once again, that has nothing to do with their “gayness” but all to do with their character, their morals, their interests and their ambitions. In the same way, I don’t actually like that many straight men or women – and, again, that has nothing to do with their being straight.

As with all “communities” (or groups of friends, colleagues, etc.), you grow out of them as you grow up. It’s unlikely that your best friends, when you were five, are still your best friends when you’re 25!

I’ve never really been a part of the “gay community” or, as we used to call it, possibly before you were born, “on the scene”. I have been on a couple of Gay Pride marches through London – but long after there was any real need to have these marches (to my shame). I have great admiration for those activists within the gay community who have helped to make it easier for gay people to live completely openly. They deserve our praise and support. Sadly, I wasn’t with them in their struggle for, unfortunately, I didn’t (and still don’t) identify with them.

I am, in the end, an individual. I have blue eyes and am of average height. I have brown hair that’s going grey. I work in the engineering industry (not particularly by choice). I am, apparently, reasonably attractive. I have the right number of friends (for me). Oh, yes, and I do happen to be gay. But my gayness does not, in any way, define me as a person. It remains with me every day just as my need to sleep. It won’t go away and nor do I want it to. I like being gay. I like the fact that I find men attractive. It makes me feel luckier than straight men. I like the fact that I have a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend or wife. I like the gay friends I have and some of the gay people that I know (but who I wouldn’t call friends). I like my straight friends too but the fact that they aren’t gay certainly doesn’t make them second-class friends. My best friend is straight – and my best friends have always been straight – sometimes male and sometimes female. They become my best friends because we have similar characters and not because of our sexual orientation.

For me, the author is very confused. He’s confusing the gay community with life. He’s assuming that, to be happy, he has to be part of the community of like-sexually-oriented people rather than a group of like-minded people. He needs to get out more (and by this I don’t mean going to gay clubs and bars) and find some friends that are loyal, have the same moral values as he does, etc., etc. He will have to look outside the gay community and he will be surprised. There are all sorts of very nice people in this world. A lot may be very superficial – but then, he’s used to that. These nice people exist. I can assure him. Some of them could turn out to be gay but, given the percentage of gay people within a population, most of them will probably NOT be gay. Don’t be afraid. They won’t bite.

And, for fuck’s sake, don’t push your gayness on to these friends that you might find – they’re about as interested in your being gay as you are in them being straight.

It doesn’t define you, it’s just a small part of who you are. And you will always “be” gay because it’s not as simple as changing your style of clothes.

A night at the opera – Aida.

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The last two posts were about Friday.

It was a rather “full” day in terms of emotions.

But, I had J staying and, on Sunday, as her birthday/Christmas present we had tickets for the opera. She had told me, on her last visit, that, as a teenager, she had got a scholarship for singing at the Royal School of Music in London but that her parents thought it would be waste of time and, instead, had forced her to go to secretarial college. She had wanted to sing opera.

I had bought three tickets. It was going to be her, me and, of course, F. But the gods did not smile on us and, very unfortunately, F couldn’t be there. I decided to offer the spare ticket to FfC, who has been going through a rather rough time of it, as of late.

This was at La Scala, Milan. I’d been once before, having bought V to the ballet. We’d had seats in one of the boxes. He had the seat in the front and I right behind. But, should you be getting tickets, don’t ever get a box unless you’re right at the front. From the second row, you only get (in my case) a view of half the stage. For a concert or, even, I suppose, an opera, it’s not so bad. But, for a ballet, it’s truly disastrous.

Anyway, to be safe, this time I had bought tickets in the stalls, just about half way back from the stage.

F had said that you didn’t need to dress up. But, that didn’t stop some people. Next time I’ll know – dress up as much as you like! We were smart but you could have gone all the way.

We arrived about 4.30 and met up with FfC. We went in and I bought two programmes – one for J and one for FfC.

Just after we sat down, it started.

And then, just as you start enjoying the singing and the spectacle, someone coughs. And then again. They’ve got that awful, irritating cough. The one that won’t stop. I half expect the singers on stage to stop and wait for the person to finish coughing. The coughing stops. And then starts again. Obviously, this person has a problem. Every few seconds, the cough comes. I try to ignore it and I may have been able to but for one important thing. The coughing is from the person next to me. And the person next to me is FfC!

I feel two things. The first is that I feel so sorry for her. She’s been looking forward to this and it’s a really nice treat when she’s going through such shit – to be ruined by coughing. Of course, once you start, knowing that you shouldn’t, you cannot stop! And she can’t. I offer her a gum. She drinks some cough medicine. But it is being persistent. She just can’t shake it off. The other thing I think is that I’ve paid €300 for her ticket and, although she feels terrible, I don’t want her to leave!

Eventually, she decides she will have to leave the auditorium. She is told she “won’t be let back in” – but I can’t believe that!

Meanwhile, the opera continues.

It is glorious. It is spectacular. A translation of the songs, in English, is available from a little screen attached the the back of the seat in front of you. The set was minimalist but, to me, just perfect. I didn’t know the opera work but I had read a synopsis and it was a typical “tragedy”, of course.

FfC didn’t come back in.

At the interval, I went out for a cigarette, leaving J in her seat.

FfC texted me. She was in the lobby and, obviously, she could come back in for the second half. She offered to buy me a drink. She said she had had a cup of tea and felt much better and would give it a try. She had been watching it on a monitor. Apparently, at every performance they get 4 to 6 people who have to step out for one reason or another (but often for persistent coughing).

Although there was the occasional cough from her, she survived the second half. J loved it all which, after all, was the reason we were there. If I were rich enough, I would love to go more often. Ah, well, you can dream.

The finale was spectacular! Both in terms of the set and the singing. This was not some amateur affair (nor amateur prices, of course) and, anyway, we were at La Scala!

Afterwards, we went to a restaurant called La Torree di Pisa – not cheap but stunningly good lamb (my dish), so worth every penny of its expensiveness!

All told, a lovely evening and I would do it all again tomorrow!

p.s. also a nice change from the Friday, of course.
p.p.s. J got me to sign her programme the next day. I wrote a little message and then she started crying. You may remember Venice, last time. She does cry at the simplest things :-D Bless her.