Tag Archives: Retrospective

A pile of junk.

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It’s there. Kind of hanging there, in the background. Always there. Making doing other things difficult.

It’s better than it was but, still there. Still like this big, black cloud of crap.

I want rid of it but without repercussions.

It’s not that the task, in itself, is difficult. Well, it IS difficult but, if I really wanted, I could do it in minutes. Instead I wonder what to leave in and what to leave out. We don’t want too much in there, do we?

And, of course, opening cans of worms comes to mind.

And, then there’s the trust element.

So, it’s preying on my mind, making me uncomfortable and unsettled although I don’t let that show, of course.

I’ve done it. But it all sits there waiting. Waiting for me to go “Oh fuck it” or something like that.

I dip in from time to time, refining the contents. Removing something. Adding something. Starting again.

It’s junk, I know, but important junk. But junk nonetheless.

Worthless knick-knacks of a life that has been. But no future is there. Not really. It’s just ties to a past life really and I tend not to like ties. In the past I would cut those ties; remove them. Now, I am mostly indifferent, tending to live my life for the now, for tomorrow.

But, still, it sits there, waiting for me to do something. I know it’s there, even if I can’t see it.

Something will happen and I will either trash it all or accept it as it is.

We shall see.

The “Mafia” and the Catholic Church – two institutions that “run” Italy

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There’s a story about squatters living in one of the churches in Rome that the Pope uses.

They are, in fact, making some sort of demonstration about the housing crisis in Rome.

However, I was struck by the following:

“We are an alarm call, a heads-up that the housing system in Rome is collapsing,” said Luca Bonucci, 38, a former security guard who lost his home when his employer failed to pay him for a year.

The thing that struck me was not that the housing system in Rome is collapsing, nor that this guy was a former security guard that is now unemployed, nor that he “lost” his home.

It is that his employer failed to pay him for a year!

This is something that seems quite common here, in Italy.

In the UK, I only heard about this happening (for an extended period of time) for one person. Here, I’ve heard about it often. It seems a common thing.

Of course, this has all to do with cashflow management – and how good or bad the managers are at managing it.

It’s not helped by the fact that Italian government and council agencies still find it acceptable to pay companies late – more than 90 days – and yet those same agencies demand money immediately or, even, (from what I understand) in the case of VAT (IVA, here), up front! But it’s not only government and council agencies.

I can’t imagine continuing to work somewhere when I wasn’t paid – for a whole year!

It’s not even as if wages here are so huge. In fact, as I’ve mentioned before now, I still can’t quite understand how this country functions with wages set so low.

As usual, the solution to this (and most problems here), is a change in thinking. A change that seems unlikely to come any time soon.

I remember one of my “contracts” here when I was teaching. I did some work that was funded through the EU, providing cut-price lessons to companies in Italy. The pay for me was quite high (compared to most English teaching “jobs”) and the funding actually came through charity organisations. Since I did a number of these contracts, I had different contracts with different charity agencies.

All of them were really good – except one. The one that was terrible was the “Catholic” one. For this one, I really had to fight for my money. The others paid me almost as soon as the courses were complete. This one kept me hanging on for a couple of months. Eventually, I went to their headquarters. I was told that the person who could sign the cheque was not there right now. I said I would wait. They told me that it was not a good idea to wait as they didn’t know when he would come in but they would make sure that he signed the cheque as soon as he came in and I should come back the next day.

I went back the next day. Apparently, for one reason or another, he hadn’t signed the cheque. And he wasn’t there right now but they would get it done today and I could come back tomorrow. I explained that that wasn’t good enough and that I wasn’t trekking all the way across town again.

I said I would wait.

They didn’t want that but they thought that I would give up and go after an hour or so. They had no idea who they were dealing with. I waited for an hour and a half to two hours.

Suddenly I was called to the desk as somehow, miraculously, they had the cheque! This was strange, as no one had entered the building since I had arrived, apart from people going to the desk and then leaving!!!! I thanked them but told them that I would never do work for them again. I was shocked at the time as I never expected a Catholic charity to be lying bastards.

Catholic charities, it seems, are the worst for paying their debts! So it seems justified (in a justice sense) that the Catholic Church should suffer the homeless people who may have even been made homeless by their failure to pay the company for which poor Luca worked. Even if it wasn’t a Catholic charity directly, you can be certain they were involved somewhere down the line. They are, after all, as prolific here as the “Mafia”. And, to be honest, I would put them both in the same category of organisation.

The full link to the article is here

As I read, so too, I hear

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I read this a few moments ago –

And I could hear her reading it on stage, all those years ago. Truly awesome.

And, remember, she read it with spaces.

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Thank you for having been here.

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We were going to dinner.

But this wasn’t just any old dinner. This was an “after the event” dinner. The event where, because of V, we were sitting on the very front row.

The event itself was indescribable. Really! The power of the words and the power of the voice stunned me. The voice so rich and deep and warm. One that felt more like a really comfy sofa that you just sank into until you couldn’t see anything – her voice covering all other sounds with its tones and undulations and silences.

Yes, silences. For each sound was measured and weighed against the lack of sound. Each word made richer and more meaningful by the lack of a word that followed. Each sentence punctuated by silence in just the perfect way to highlight that, what you had just heard was “stand alone”, was worthy of your paying attention.

Oh I could have sat there all night, listening to her speak. Her words or, to be frank, any words she spoke (although hers were always better).

And then we had dinner. We drove to this big hotel that was a former country house – big and grand in a beautiful setting under Welsh hills.

We sat at a large table. I, next to the American First Minister to the Court of St James’s wife. But she was almost opposite me and to the left. I really can’t tell you much about the dinner (although I do have a story about the woman next to me – but not for this post) since I was trying to listen to the main lady of the dinner. To me, more than the Queen – it was a lady of power and strength beyond any other.

After the dinner, we retired to another room for drinks. The lady “held court”, everyone being introduced to her – there were singing of songs, reading of words and, of course, the beauty of her presence and voice.

I was in awe. I was also scared. This was someone to whom I really felt inferior.

Eventually, just before we were about to leave, we made our way to her to speak to her. To thank her for the dinner which she had “hosted” and for her words and for being her.

“Oh,” she said, “I’ve been so wanting to meet you two. You look so interesting.”

At which point, with her words said with that voice seeming to have ripped into my body and squeezed my heart, I lost all sense and reason and reverted back a two-year-old child. Nothing sensible came out of my mouth.

Oh, she understood but that wasn’t the point. I wanted to say something wonderful or, at the very minimum, nice. But my brain had stopped working and, anyway, was no longer connected in a meaningful way to my mouth.

I deeply regret not having gone to her earlier; not being able to say something coherent; not being anything other than a right prat.

However, I won’t ever forget her nor the power of her words with that voice nor the fact that I touched her nor that she spoke to me, nor that I was in the presence of such greatness.

So, it is with sadness that I learn she has passed away.

RIP Maya Angelou.

And, thank you again for having been here and having done everything you did.

Someone’s Day

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It’s always someone’s day and today it’s Mother’s Day (in the UK).

Today is the day when you think of your mother or remember your mother or give her a call or a card or a present or all these things.

A mother gives birth to you and then brings you up, sacrificing many things for you. Loving you beyond reason. Looking after you; being there when you need someone and everyone else has let you down or worse. Someone who loved you whatever. She would be so proud of your successes. Would support you when there were failures. Would just “be there”.

I read about them. Mothers. How there is some special bond between them and their children. How people miss them when they’re gone. How much they love them when they are alive.

I always wanted a mother.

I mean, physically, I had one, obviously. And I lived with that woman for the first eighteen years of my life. I understand other people’s relationship to their mothers. To a point. But, of course, without that, one can’t fully understand and so I understand and, yet, don’t understand. I see it but I see it from outside – like a kid looking in the window of a sweet shop but who can’t get in. You understand the sweets are nice and, well, sweet but, having never tasted one, how can you really know the sensation of eating one?

Of course, I could ring V’s mum – who always treated me like her son and would tell everyone that I was – even if that was impossible. But I won’t since that seems too presumptive and intrusive. After all, she didn’t give birth to me and didn’t raise me for the first eighteen years of my life. She met me when I was 30. And, in spite of the fact that she was always sweet and lovely to me, we don’t have that special bond that can only be with a mother. I always thought she was just saying that, to make me feel better. Which it did as I realised the niceness of it.

So, I won’t be phoning the woman who would be known as my mother. She’s quite vindictive and hateful. For most of my life, she hasn’t been there. She’s a shadowy figure best forgotten.

And some of you will think that’s sad. But that’s because you have a mother that isn’t/wasn’t like that. You had someone you loved deeply and who loved you back. Therefore your feeling of sadness comes from the fact that you didn’t have the a mother like I did. And, for that you should be grateful. And there may be those of you who never knew your mother. And perhaps you feel that I should be more conciliatory. But, then, you never knew the woman who gave birth to me. We can never really walk in someone else’s shoes. Never experience their experiences for we are all unique. And all mothers are unique, even if you never knew them.

So, I say happy Mother’s Day to all mothers who are/were truly mothers. But for one, I can’t say that.

It WAS all damned lies, as I thought

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I don’t know how I feel.

I mean, the feelings are all a little mixed up.

There’s a feeling of anger but it’s not so strong.

There’s a feeling of sadness. Not for anything that was “missed”, since it wasn’t. For the people involved, I suppose.

There’s a feeling of relief. After all, there’s now no way that I will be found, nor even looked for. And there’s a kind of finality, an ending, a closing off. A closure.

And, there’s a feeling of hate, of course, for certain of those people involved. Hate is not a good feeling but it’s not something I can stop. But, to be honest, I expected nothing better from the females.

It would have been better, of course, if, as I had expected, my name was not even mentioned. But it was and that was to be specifically excluded. Other people who, perhaps, should have been mentioned and who I expected to be mentioned, weren’t. That was unexpected. But, still, they weren’t specifically excluded. But I was. Well, of course, it was my fault for even wanting to see it, I suppose.

Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now and I wouldn’t have done anything about it even if I had known it would make a difference. Not that I expect that it would have made any difference. Then or before.

But, I suppose what gets me the most is the lies. The lies from all those years ago and from the time when I gave someone a chance – but who was lying all the time. Still, that’s sales people for you. It’s what they do. Lie.

And, yes, it smarts a little. But not really a lot.

After all, it’s reciprocal.

And all these feelings will pass and I’ll be back to the same and at least now I know and it’s exactly, more or less, as I thought. Except for one thing. There is no future (for this thing). There’ll be no surprising call or message asking for a last meeting or anything. Something that had been worrying me a bit since I couldn’t work out what my response would be. Well, now I know.

And, I also know there was no feeling for me and that’s OK. In fact, that’s better for there was none from me either.

But, still, the hand-written addition, excluding only me. Their final message to me. But, at least it’s final and done now.

And time to get on with my life.

Tony Benn – remembering my parents!

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When I was a kid, my parents rarely talked politics.

Or, there again, maybe they did but I just didn’t notice or ignored it.

I knew my maternal grandmother was a Liberal (of the old-fashioned Liberals) as she was a councillor on the local town council.

I knew, somehow, that my parents were Conservative.

And, the one thing I DO remember, was there utter hatred of a Labour guy – Tony Benn or, as I think he was known then, Anthony Wedgwood Benn. He was, I think, in their terms, bordering on evil.

I couldn’t understand it. I didn’t take any real interest in politics but I failed to understand how you could hate someone because of their beliefs and the words that they used.

Of course, one must remember that I was a very rebellious child. And the effect of them disliking something or someone tended to mean that I would be more open to that thing or that someone. On the contrary, the things that they did were so odious to me that, as an adult, these are things I don’t like to do. And so, things like packed lunches for when you go somewhere; carrying a lot of stuff with you all of the time – to the beach, in particular, are some examples.

In fact, I’ve listened to Tony Benn a number of times and, whilst not always or fully agreeing with his point of view, I can’t knock him for his right to have those views nor for his conviction in them, nor even for the intelligent way he would argue his case. Hate him? Certainly not.

And today he has died and tributes are pouring in (as they do). And I wondered, for a moment, if my mother had any thoughts on this (my father having died already)?

Still, that moment has now passed.

Without the drinking!

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There used to be this thing.

I went out and got very, very drunk.

The next day, I was would worry about what I had said or done whilst I was drunk.

Maybe it’s happened to you too? (No, not you, Lola as I don’t think you’ve ever been THAT drunk.)

Anyway, I think (hope) it was a kind of “normal” thing.

But that’s stopped now. Well, for one thing, I don’t really do “let’s get plastered” any more.

However, now this thing happens more often – even when I haven’t been drunk and can remember (I think) more or less everything.

Like today.

It’s just bloody stupid and I realise it’s my mind playing tricks on me.

Or that I’m going mad.

Or that I really have said/done something but I have forgotten and all that remains is this nagging doubt that I HAVE said/done something bad. Well, not necessarily “bad” but certainly not “good”.

As long as it’s not the last thing, then it’s OK, I guess :-)

Books are important

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For those of you who have been reading my blog for a long time, you will know I have a bit of a thing about books.

I read.

Obviously, even if you’ve been reading for a short time, you will know this from the fact that I read so many books last year on holiday. But, if you’ve been reading for some time (and by that I mean years), you will also know that I also have a thing about other people and their reading habits.

So, when my niece (really V’s niece but she still calls me Uncle Andy) was young, I used to let her read to me. She loved it and every time we would go up to his parents’ house, she would rush to show me her latest book from school and sit on my knee and read away. They were not a “reading family” and I think it was the only time, outside school, that she read to anyone. We used to go up there every Saturday, so it was a weekly thing between Ay and me. It was important for me too. I felt that I had to try to instil into her a love of reading, even if I was going against the tide.

Then, there was the time, after V, when I went on my “hunt” for a new man and ended up going to see this guy in Venice (he with the wrinkly elbows) and the most noticeable thing about his place was that there were no books! And that was certainly one of the deal-breakers.

It’s a strange thing really because none of my long-term partners have ever been big readers. V had only read a couple of books in his whole life! F doesn’t really read a lot (he’s more “visual”).

And, yet, I put a lot of store in reading.

When I was a kid, although it’s a long time ago and I don’t remember exactly, my parents would read to us (my sister and I) regularly. If I remember correctly, it was every night, when they put us to bed. As we got older and had separate rooms, the reading stopped but by then I had the “habit” and collected books which my parents bought for me. I had hundreds and read each one more than once. I recall one book that I had given to me when I was about 12. It was called Lone Wolf. It was too difficult for me and I couldn’t read it. I was quite upset that I found it too difficult. But, a couple of years later, I was old enough and read it. Since then I have been one of those people that simply has to finish a book, even if I find that I don’t like it as I read it.

So, it was not a particular surprise to read this piece about reading habits and how they are “passed down”, in general.

If I had ever had kids, I would certainly read to them every night until they were sufficiently adept enough to be reading on their own.

There’s nothing better than a good book to read, even if new technology seems to make books redundant. And that’s quite sad – not for me but for those youngsters who don’t learn (for it is a learnt thing) how to read and enjoy a book.

From Top Of The Pops to Nursery School – timetravelling backwards

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I’m what you may call a “quiet” guy.

Those of you who’ve read my blog long enough will know that, although on the surface I seem quite well-adjusted, sensible and, well, just plain ordinary, I am, underneath it all (or, rather, in my mind), quite seriously screwed most of the time.

I have conflicts and dilemmas most of my waking hours. I find it really difficult to be “close” to people.

I have friends, of course. Well, I should say, people that I quite like and that I speak to quite often. But, what I consider “real” friends – no, not many.

And a recent post from one of my links got me to thinking about relationships with people and friends, in general. More specifically, it took me back to when I was younger (much, much younger.)

When I was 12 or 13 or maybe even before that, my Nan bought me my first record (single). The reason was that one of the members of the group came from where she lived and, this being rural Herefordshire, not famous for it’s proliferation of famous rock stars, was a very big deal. From my Nan and Grandad, I learnt about Top of the Pops – because they used to watch it every week.

Apart from this making them very cool (although we didn’t use that word then – maybe “hip” or something), they got me interested in music and the radio and Top of the Pops. So, then, I used to watch it every week. And I got a radio for Christmas or my birthday which enabled me to listen to Radio Luxembourg under the bedsheets at night.

The thing about this was the charts. All these programs worked on charts. And charts I liked. I was, for some reason, fascinated with charts and the moving up and down of songs based on their popularity and sales. And I wanted my own “charts”.

Obviously, I was young and didn’t have any buying power so I came up with the idea of a chart for friends. To make it real, they were “marked” to different criteria (which I don’t remember now but possibly something like – how nice they had been to me this week, had they shared any sweets with me, did I share any sweets with them, etc.). Each would be given a mark (quite possibly out of 10). The marks would be added up and, from that, the week’s chart compiled. This would mean that I would know who was my “best friend”.

I really don’t remember how long I did this for. I had a little exercise book and dutifully recorded the “chart” every week, watching how people moved up and down. It made me feel better if someone had been horrible to me and they dropped sharply down the chart and better too if someone who had been “middling” shot up to number one because of something nice.

Obviously, reading this now, I was set to be on a psychiatrist’s couch as soon as I was old enough :-)

But, then again, I was at school. And children are quite horrible. Friendships are made and broken on a whim. “I won’t let you play with my toys. I’m not your friend anymore. I’m going to tell my Mum.” These are all the things we say and hear. We’re learning about the value of people, how to trust them, how to read them.

So, let’s bring that up to date. Today we have a new Nursery School. But this one is for adults, it seems. In broad terms it’s called social media. In the olden days, we became friends with people that we met, face-to-face, people that were physically in our own circle.

Then, with the invention of the telephone, we could become friends with people that we spoke to a lot.

In fact, I remember, as a buyer, many moons ago, I became “friends” with a guy who was employed at one of our suppliers. We used to chat a lot and, when I left that company, we arranged to meet up. Of course, we never spoke after that. Not because he was a horrible person in real life but because I think we were a bit disappointed that the guy on the phone was not really like that in real life.

Social Media is another revolution. We can become friends with people so easily. Maybe we like their photo or the things they write or the pictures they post.

On Twitter, a while back, I would follow anyone who followed me. So it was that one person followed me and I followed her back. The problem was that, in real life, given the nature of her tweets, I wouldn’t have ever spoken to her after our first meeting. She was (is), in a word, vile. Nasty, small-minded, arrogant and always making out that she was cleverer than everyone else. I decided that Twitter was the ideal platform for her and that, in all probability, she had been the most hated person at Nursery School – she had (has?) no social skills. Zero. Nada.

How grateful was I when I discovered that she had “unfollowed” me – permitting me to unfollow her! She still appears on my timeline from time to time (being retweeted by others on my timeline) and, occasionally, I visit her profile to see if she’s changed. Needless to say, she hasn’t.

There’s a guy that I follow that reported on the Grillo-Renzi meeting, for example. Now, I’ve been following him because he tweets some interesting stuff about Italian politics and the economy. When I read what he wrote about the meeting however, I realised that he was also quite stupid. But, then again, he’s not my “friend” (I don’t even know if he follows me and, to be honest, care less) and, after the tweet about the meeting, is surely never to be.

Facebook too – I have friends on there that are my friends because we used to (or I used to) play games through Facebook. Now that I don’t, I do wonder why the hell I don’t just purge them. I have other “friends” on there that I’ve never met who have become “friends” via other means (they might be friends of friends that I have at Hay Festival, for example.) Again, I sometimes query why they are there, taking up space on my timeline. But I don’t want to be the first to cut them off! Stupid, eh? But, although they aren’t really my friends, I don’t want them to feel hurt – unless they really piss me off, of course. Then there are “friends” who I’ve never met and know little about but who I have some sort of interaction with. I can class them as “real” friends in that we do interact, of course. Whether they would be real friends in real life is another matter – and I simply don’t know the answer to that – I’ve never met them and don’t know enough about them.

Of course, when V “defriended” me on Facebook a few years ago I was both surprised and a bit disappointed. But not so as you’d know. After all, we’d split up in real life and, to be honest, he was right in one way. Still, it’s a shame.

But I really can’t lose sleep over someone who defriends me nor unfollows me. it’s up to them. They have their reasons. I have a real-life friend who I follow who doesn’t follow me on Twitter. Should I get upset or be offended?

Well, no, I don’t think so. Firstly, it’s not like my tweets are so fantastic. Secondly, whether she follows me on Twitter or not doesn’t actually change the way I feel about her and doesn’t make her a horrible person. In fact, she is one of the sweetest, kindest people I have ever met in my life – and whether she follows me or no doesn’t change that.

The thing I DO know is that a “friend” on Facebook or Twitter is not really a “friend” but more of an acquaintance – like someone you know at work. I really can’t take it all too seriously.

But, people do. People get upset and rant and rave. People follow me on Twitter and then unfollow me if I don’t follow back. Well, like Facebook friends, it isn’t the quantity but the quality that counts in my book. If people have interesting timelines/profiles, I follow them. If not, well, I don’t. It’s really as simple as that.

But it is a little like a Nursery School – or it can be. People take offence at something someone says and it blows up out of all proportion. Someone defriends or unfollows someone else and that someone else feels hurt and “excluded”.

But, it’s not real. It’s over the Internet. A true “friend” relationship takes time to develop – over months and years with ups and downs along the way. Physically being in front of someone smooths those ups and downs as you can see, sometimes, the real person. On the Internet, all you have are words and words don’t show feelings and, worse, can be downright lies.

We’ve a long way to go before we are out of the Nursery School that is Social Media. We have (and it has) a lot of growing up to do – made worse by the fact that in this Nursery School, most people are adult and so have already “grown up” and have their fixed ideas on what is right and what is wrong.

So, perhaps, we’ll never grow up!