Tag Archives: Moving

Constraints and Claustrophobia

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Constraints and Claustrophobia

It’s nearly 3.30 and I’m not sleeping again.

It’s not that I’m not sleeping because of anything in particular. I was asleep and sleeping well. But, then I needed to go to the bathroom and, I guess, I was sleeping so well that I needed a nightmare to wake myself up. I really hate that. The problem with your head giving you a nightmare to wake up is that the nightmare stays with you. This wasn’t such a bad nightmare. More odd, really. So I got back into bed and F seemed to have moved so that he was diagonally across the bed meaning that my feet had no room. And I’d tucked the sheet in well so that my feet have about two inches of space. Which is obviously not enough. So, I’m constricted. And this nightmare (or the end of it) won’t leave me and I can’t figure it all out for it makes no sense and it’s kind of hot so my arm is out of the bed and then I hear the faint buzz of a mosquito so I bring my arm and shoulder inside the covers even if it’s too hot and that’s when I realise that I have that itch on the bit of my hand that forms the sort of web between my thumb and the forefinger which, of course, means that the bastard mosquito I heard flying was actually flying away, stomach full of blood, to find some water and give birth to more bastard mosquitoes.

And, then I realised that the whole thing was all about constriction and claustrophobia – the nightmare, that is – and that I didn’t feel good about that but that it was also unreasonable (of me) since no one was truly “forcing me” and yet I felt this way. F being diagonally across the bed so that I had no room to move my legs was just the final straw. And, so as not to wake F because he hasn’t been sleeping well recently – and far worse than me – I got up and decided to write about my dream and revelation.

So, first to the nightmare.

We have the flat and yet, at various points in the dream it is and isn’t ours. This flat is big and comfortable. There is even a kind of sub-flat. Anyway, someone comes to stay. As a result, we shall not sleep in our bed but in the spare room – this kind of sub-flat. Except, like the cellar for the new flat, for some reason, I’ve never been there. F tells me, by the way, that the cellar s very big – but I don’t see it – I mean I don’t really believe it to be big. We had one, V and I, and there was just about enough room to store stuff. There again, maybe that IS big for cellars here and so F, thinking of other cellars, may be right. Anyway, I digress. So, I’ve never been to this part of the flat. Our flat is in an old building (much older than the real flat but that’s how dreams work, isn’t it?) and we have stairs. So we go up the stairs and instead of turning left to our bedroom, F, leading the way, turns right.

We go along a rather dingy corridor and through a door into a lounge. The lounge is small. I mean quite tiny. And yet there is a sofa there and cabinets and the furniture is old but not like mine, more Victorian in style, big and brooding and elaborate for no good reason. It could, in fact, be old Italian furniture, excessive amounts of wood and imposing and curvy and just too much. It fills the walls and seems to bear down on you. There is a rug covering the floor and heavy curtains and yet no window. It gave a sense of wanting to smother you. Or it could have been like a dolls house. Where the furniture is just too big for the room and everything is out of proportion.

But we don’t stay here as we’re off to bed. I say to F, “Is this OK for you?” to which he replies that yes, it’s OK, after all it’s just for a night. But then it seems that this is his place or the new place. For he’s been here before. He knows where he’s going. It’s as if it was his flat. So, we enter the lounge and immediately opposite is another door. It takes about one stride to reach the other door, the lounge opening out to the right as we pass. I say open out when, in fact, there are just the furnishings in a room that’s a stride wide.

We then start to ascend some stairs. The walls are smooth, white plastered walls. But the stairs are narrow, just wider than my shoulders and the impression (although not the fact) is that they get narrower. F leads the way although at one point F changes to be my youngest brother, T, and then back to F. He soon disappears for the stairs curve as they seem to get narrower. I turn to try and convince Piero to come. He has his doubts. The reason is the stairs themselves. They are wooden but with no riser. Like step ladders but with some intricate wooden structure holding up the next stair. Still, Piero doesn’t really like it. I don’t blame him, I’m beginning to dislike it too. The stairs are lit by something but not by windows and not by a light, yet they seem bright but there are shadows (which makes no sense at all).

I hear F above. He has reached the bedroom and I hear him go down the stairs (short stairs) to the bathroom. I hear him in the bathroom. I carry on up the curve of the stairs. It has only been a few seconds but, as I reach the bedroom, I see F is out of the bathroom. I query with him, “Have you finished?” “Yes,” he replies. And that doesn’t make sense at all. he hasn’t been there for long enough. It’s been about 2 minutes since we started up the stairs and yet he’s got up here and been to the bathroom and is already getting into bed.

And then I notice the bedroom. It is round. The roof is like the inside of the old Chinese hats – the ones they used to use in the paddy fields. It is simple white plaster. The windows are open but they are not really windows but grills, intricate, white-painted, metal grills with glass beyond. The glass is open. The reason for the grills is simple. The room, aside from being round and having the inversely-pointed ceiling is, at most, two feet high and the “windows” are the whole wall, i.e. from the floor to the ceiling. They look pretty but ……

F is not standing. He can’t. At it’s highest point, the room is, maybe, four and a half feet high. The bedding is arranged around the walls (the bits where the windows aren’t). His is one “side” and mine the other. The window is in between. I look for the stairs down to the bathroom but can’t see them. The “doorway” into the bedroom has become less of a doorway and more of a hatch. I will have to pull myself into the bedroom. The width of the doorway is such that it will be a tight squeeze. The only way out is back through this doorway. I don’t actually want to go in any more. I feel claustrophobic just looking into this room. I don’t think I can do it. Before my eyes, it seems to get even smaller. It seems like we have climbed inside a small tower yet that cannot be. And yet it is. I really don’t think I can sleep here and telling F is going to be difficult.

I wake up.

So, there you are. My feeling of claustrophobia and constraining.

I’m sure it will pass.

I haven’t really explained the brother thing that appeared and disappeared. But I can’t right now. Trust me, it’s the same feeling of constraint and claustrophobia and, for different reasons, they can be the same person – which was why they were the same person for a second.

Then, of course, getting back into bed and having my legs trapped in that corner of the bed, made the constraint real for a moment and clarified the dream.

And now it’s a quarter past four and I get up in less than two hours. Once again, for a different reason each time, I shall start the week feeling like I need a weekend to recover. Bugger!

p.s. I may edit this tomorrow if it doesn’t really make sense.

The Studio – a bone of contention?

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I suppose there had to be something, didn’t there?

My “studio”. What would be the second bedroom.

Against the wall were the bed would go there are two electric sockets. On the other side, in the corner, is one socket and the television aerial point. I know exactly how I want it laid out. F has other ideas. A couple of days ago, we were in the new flat (he has put away all his CDs and there’s a whole section for my few CDs and DVDs) and he asked me how I wanted the room to be organised.

Specifically, where I wanted my wardrobe put.

I told him. He wanted it on the opposite wall.

I explained why I wanted it like I had said. He explained why he wanted it the way he did. But, as usual, he wasn’t listening to me. He didn’t understand that, although I may have to run the wire from the PC to the television in the next room, above and round the window, it would be a much more pleasant room to be in and in which to do lessons, etc..

Eventually, tired of the fact that he wasn’t listening, I just said, OK, you do it as you want.

Last night, I mentioned that I really wanted it the way I had said.

We’ll see if I get what I want or not. But it is much better my way, even if it is more awkward in terms of cabling, etc.

Not of one mind.

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It’s not a racial thing. But, in any event, I find it the strangest thing.

The last couple of days has been the putting up of the units in the hallway of the new house. They are plain, simple, white units. They have been fixed to the wall by the carpenter, Marco, and the doors were put on yesterday by F.

And, so, today, they have been cleaned and the CDs are being put away. All 3,000 of them. They are not mine. My 40 or so CDs remain in my flat.

First, though, apparently, all the CDs must be taken out of the bags and sorted in order. Oh, yes, and cleaned. Again.

I remember this from last time, at his flat. CDs stacked on the floor, looking like a miniature city, the stacks representing the different sections but some with a number of variously tall stacks. Even then I didn’t understand. My understanding is still missing in action, I’m afraid.

So, I get the message (I am at home, sorting stuff before the big move in a couple of weeks) – “I’ve finished white male, female, groups and Italians. Now I have to do black.”

I wondered then, as I do now, where some of the mixed race groups go? I don’t know if there are any mixed race, Italian groups. Maybe he doesn’t have their music anyway?

My CDs will be transferred either in the next week (that wouldn’t surprise me – he will want to get everything “in its place”) or on moving day. He will be the one to clean them and put them away, I’m sure. If he mixes them into his, I’m certain I will never find them again!

Then, of course, there will be the DVDs. I’m still not quite sure what to say to him about these ………

Our minds certainly don’t think in the same way.

I thought the sausages were good – then they brought me meatballs!

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I went out with A last night.

We normally go to a restaurant because he wants (needs?) to eat. Sometimes I eat and sometimes not. Last night he suggested trying Il Trullo, a restaurant specialising in cuisine from Puglia (the heel of Italy) and, as we were going there, my mouth was already salivating. This restaurant does some of the best sausages that I’ve ever tasted.

It’s not a big restaurant and the tables are very close together – but it is always very busy and, probably, about 50% of the time we go there, we can’t get in!

It’s not really a romantic restaurant in any way, apart from the tables being so close, the lights are bright and it looks more like someone’s big kitchen. Last night, however, there was one table free.

They give us the menus but I already know I’m taking the sausages. However, when the guy comes to take the order, he informs me that they don’t have the sausages tonight. Instead, they have polpette (meat balls). It’s still cavallo though and so I choose that.

And, to be honest, they were even better than the sausages! Filled with herbs and spices, they came with a simple tomato sauce and red and yellow peppers strips. The taste is absolutely amazing!

Sadly, last night, the service wasn’t “wow!” In fact, it was rather poor. The usual two girls weren’t there.

But the meatballs! Just so stunningly good that, even as I write this, I can taste them and now I really want to go back there again tonight!

One of these days I’m going to try some other things but, you know, when I get there, the sausages (and now meatballs) are just so damned good, I can’t see anything past them.

We also had a litre of wine, two small bottles of water, some mussel thing that A had and he also had a sweet (Forest Fruit tart – which I tasted and it was rather lovely – definitely home-made) and the total cost was about €45 – which was really quite good.

Obviously, we are in Italy, so cavallo is fine (and I really like the meat as it’s quite strong tasting). For those of you who don’t eat meat (Lola) or want your meat to be in plastic trays covered with plastic film, don’t go looking up what cavallo is.

Still, I’ve been meaning to write about Il Trullo before. They do lots of fish stuff as well. And cheeses cooked with vegetables and I really should try this other stuff. But, right now, I just can’t – the cavallo stuff is just too, too good.

What makes it perfect is also the fact that it’s a couple of minutes from my flat and only a couple of minutes more from the new flat (it’s between the two). Which, by the way, we shall be moving into on 24th July – kitchen ready or not! Eeek!

Doing things; Food

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So, F was working all weekend. Saturday he got home about 9 to 9.30 and last night about 10. It’s Milan Fashion Week (since Saturday – and anyway, only until about Wednesday, so not even a full week!) and Showroom Sales start, selling the collections for Spring/Summer 2015. The Showroom must be perfect because the Big Boss is coming over today – the start of the sales.

Anyway, this was fine for me. I sorted through all the boxes in the bedroom, clearing out more junk. I started on the kitchen – washing everything, chucking stuff that I don’t need, etc.

I had two people come to see the flat so they can do a quote for removals. I have another couple this week. So, by next week, I should be able to decide and, maybe, book it.

The three-piece suite and the dining chairs were picked up this morning to be recovered (probably being returned in September.)

The flat already looks kinda empty.

F is going to start putting all the IKEA furniture together later this week, he says, once the Showroom Sales have started. Then, of course, he will put all his stuff away and, probably, take all my DVDs and my (few) CDs and put them away too.

I’m almost excited, especially as I know the three-piece suite will be recovered with wonderfully-coloured covers :-)

As F wasn’t there, this weekend I ate some stuff from the freezer. Some pork chops (since F doesn’t really eat meat like that, I have to save it for the times he’s not there) and some peas with some fried slices of potato. Nothing special but, since I don’t eat that stuff so much any more, it was rather scrumptious, to be honest.

On Saturday, for lunch, I also had some bacon sarnies (smoked bacon from Hay and fresh, crusty bread that I get via our cook at work.) I had had a hankering for them for a few days. Buttered bread with tomato sauce so that, as you eat them, liquid butter mixed with tomato sauce spills over your fingers. Mmmmm. They were also rather scrumptious.

Which reminds me: I don’t know (if you’re British I guess you couldn’t escape it) if you saw anything about the thing in the last week or so, in the media, about not washing chicken. The splashes, apparently, contain lots of bugs/bacteria. Of course, I’ve always washed chicken and, so far, nothing bad has ever happened. I don’t know that I’d feel right not washing it.

Still, there was a very funny piece – the Lazy Person Guide to Food Hygiene.

What made it funnier was a) rubbing an apple on your trousers before eating it – something we used to do all the time! and b) putting leftover sauces and soups in the freezer until you move house. I definitely do that one – better still is not to label them so you have no idea what they are (were.)

Anyway, enjoy the article – and let me know if there are any you’ll admit to in public ;-)

p.s. my new hankering for next weekend, when F will be in Paris, is pasta with chopped ham and peas – so I guess I’ll be eating that :-D :-P

Deliveries

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First load of new stuff has been delivered.

It’s from IKEA, so needs to be assembled. F will assemble it and then get the carpenter to fix things to the wall. He also bought the iron strips/bars which will mean everything is off the floor (easier to clean, don’t you see?)

He will be working nearly all of this weekend but I suspect that, from Sunday, I shall hardly see him whilst he puts everything together and then puts all his stuff away.

Then, probably, he’ll start taking my stuff (CDs, DVDs, etc.) and putting those away. And I shan’t be able to stop him.

And, then, maybe, he’ll be happy. Not that he’s unhappy now – just that he’ll be really, really happy when this has been done.

Tomorrow, his wardrobe comes (and they’ll also assemble it), so all his clothes can go away.

The kitchen is another thing. The gas pipe needs an extension and the gas boiler must be connected. But, first we need a certificate from the people who installed it. But he’s handling that.

The three-piece suite is being picked up on Monday to have the recovering done.

in any case, by the end of July, we’ll be in. Maybe without gas and a fully functioning kitchen – but in anyway.

Apparently, it will all be perfect before we go away on holiday! He says.

He thinks!

Order is important ……. ish

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“How should we put the DVDs?”

This is not a stupid question. I’ve probably got about 400 and he has at least a couple of hundred. First, they will take up some space and secondly, if we are to find a film, we need to be able to get it without searching for hours!

“I don’t mind,” I say.

“You’ve got yours in alphabetical order,” he adds, “whilst mine are in a different order.”

“I have all the Romy ones together, for example. Or I have them in order of the director.”

“But I don’t really know the directors, that’s why mine are in alphabetical order,” I say.

When I want a film, I tend to go for the title of the film. I rarely remember the director’s name (with a few exceptions). “Perhaps we could have them in alphabetical order but then put the ones for Romy under “R”,” I suggest.

He pulls a bit of a face.

“But the others I have are in a different order,” he counters.

I laugh. After all, to be honest, we don’t watch DVDs so often these days – but maybe we will when we have a TV in the lounge?

“OK, you do it how you want,” laughing as I say this.

After all, this is how it will be, whatever I think!

Listening – it’s bloody hard sometimes.

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Most of the time, I bite my tongue.

After all, if he wasn’t listening two seconds ago, he won’t be listening now, will he?

We’re talking about things that need to be done. He is going to be there for the Fastweb engineer on Thursday. I want to ask the engineer if he can put a wire from wherever the box goes, through to my studio for my computer. This may be something that he does for cash and, given that we’re in Italy and the wages are so low here, the chances that he will do it are high.

“it will be better,” he says, “as he can do any drilling through the walls before we move all the stuff in.”

I agree. I add, “And I can sort out the connection from my PC to the television before we move, too.”

“That’s not important. It can be done afterwards. It’s more important to find someone to run a pipe from the gas point to the place we want it in the kitchen.”

Well, yes, I know that. after all, without a kitchen, we can’t really move in.

“You’ve got different priorities than me,” he adds.

Well, actually no, I haven’t. The kitchen is the number one priority. The extension for the cooker was given to you to sort out, since you speak Italian and the chances of the plumber speaking English is far less than some technical thing that I should do.

He becomes tetchy because in his head, all I’m worried about is my PC.

“No, the kitchen has to be done before we move in,” I say, “but I also need my computer when we move because of the lessons.”

This, of course, carried no weight. He has already stopped listening to me, if he was even doing that at the beginning. He continues saying things about how our priorities are different and how I’m not concentrating on the right things, etc., etc. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression, I listen to the things he says but, since he’s not listening to me, it is better not to respond. I’ve learnt that much. I cannot argue my point because he misinterprets almost everything I say. I can’t explain. And, anyway, the difference in our languages makes everything more difficult. It’s one of the drawbacks, for certain.

I know that it is better just to let it lie. Although it is a bit frustrating. It means we can’t talk about the thingS we need to do, only the thing he is concentrating on at the moment.

I try to let it all wash over me, and, my strength of will makes it so. After all, it is only this moment and he doesn’t mean to do it. It’s not like it’s going to kill me.

He suggests about moving stuff over. I explain I don’t like doing it. He says he does. Again I get the “I’m not trying to tell you what to do” thing, even if, in reality, that’s EXACTLY what he’s trying to do.

It’s OK. He knows I’m quite stubborn and I’ll just do the things my way anyway.

It is extremely hot. It’s already half nine or so, and it must be close to 30°. We talk about the dogs, as Dino, in particular, is struggling a bit in the heat. He’s going to get some sprayer thing so he can spray him with cool water from time to time. We can try. Anything is worth a try.

He then suggests that, soon, we can start going down to Carrara. Especially because it will be nicer for the dogs. He will have to work some weekends, one of which will be going to Paris. He suggests that I should go down with the dogs on those weekends. I say it will depend on what needs to be done but, secretly, I think I might. I miss the weekends in Carrara – the asparagus and lardo pizza on Friday; days spent on the beach with some books; eating at his Mum and Dad’s; the morning coffee and croissant at the bar overlooking the sea. Yes, I’ve missed those this year even if it’s been for a very good reason.

So, maybe we will go down.

As I’ve written this, I think about something I’ve read recently – listen without trying to form a response in your head at the same time. I must really try to do that. It’s difficult though, isn’t it?

Fastweb and Tennis

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Finally, summer is here. Over the weekend it was nudging the mid-thirties (degrees centigrade) and the next few days, it may get as high as 37° – or that’s the forecast – before dropping down to hovering around 30°.

This was the weekend where I got away with something – but I know I won’t be getting away with it for much longer. I got away with it because he is living in “my flat” – when the “my flat” becomes “our flat”, I know it won’t be tolerated.

It involved some stuff on the microwave. The microwave sits on the washing machine and is a very handy place to drop things that I must look at or do something with later. At one point he replaced the “general mess” with a shoe box. Now the top of the shoe box becomes the place to drop the stuff. He wanted me to clear it away. I explained that I needed to sort the kitchen out first as some things had to be put away when I find the boxes with like things inside.

He wasn’t happy but “It’s your flat” was the response. I know that I won’t have these choices in a month or so’s time. Ah well. enjoy it whilst it lasts, I suppose.

As part of the “getting ready to move”, I threw away lots and lots of clothes. And sorted out my shoes.

And we went and ordered Internet connection via optic fibre as it will be faster (and, in fact, the engineer is coming on Thursday). I mention this because, over the weekend it was the French Open Finals and, now that I can watch British TV, it was a delight.

Well, I say “delight” when, in fact, given the speed of my download, it kept hanging every few minutes. In fact, I tried my phone for a few minutes and got a much better reception via that!

The Fastweb connection, providing I cable my Mac to the modem, will be more than 30 times faster and should mean no more “hanging”. Unfortunately, we shan’t be in the new flat in time for Wimbledon – but there’s always next year :-)

A slip of the tongue.

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“We can put it in our bathroom.”

Of course, that wasn’t quite correct, as I already knew. But, even before I had time to question it, a fraction of a second later …….

“My bathroom.”

I laughed. And was sniggering for some minutes afterwards.

At first, he tried to make excuses:

“But you don’t like that one,”
“But you like the one with the shower,”

But, then he gave up, realising that I wasn’t angry or frustrated but just found it funny.

After all, I already knew which would be “my” bathroom which would also double as the “guest” bathroom. It wasn’t that we had said anything. True, the narrower bathroom had the shower, which I do prefer, particularly in the mornings. But, it wasn’t only that. I knew he would need more space. I knew I would need less. “My” bathroom is also one bathroom away from the bedroom, so I wouldn’t wake him in the morning. Stuff like that. It was never spoken but we already knew which bathroom belonged to whom.

But he does make me laugh because it was something he didn’t really mean to say, exactly. He used “my” to differentiate between the two, so that I would know which one he was talking about.

At the same time, although “we are deciding things together”, he knows and I know, that, in reality, it is as it should be and he is deciding most things.

Still, as I write this, it makes me laugh.