Barrell

Even if the move together has lost a bit of momentum (given the fact that F will have to make a largish payout for work on the other house soon), it’s still likely to be this year.

And, now, I’m looking at things that happen and trying to determine what that will mean in the future.

Let me be clearer. F is currently (almost) living at my place as a friend of his is currently staying at his. This means that he spends a lot more time at mine – and it’s almost as if we are living together.

This has plus sides, of course. But, there are a couple of things that cause concern.

The first is, obviously, his obsession with cleaning. But, I’ve spoken about that many times so I’ll ignore that for now.

The second is food. When I was with V and we were both working (here), we both got a really good deal for lunch. Up until that point, we ate in the evenings. We would eat next to nothing all day but have a proper meal every evening. When we started work in Italy (full time), we were getting the great lunch deal and then going home and cooking our normal evening meal. Needless to say, we started to put on weight.

Obviously, we had to cut out one of the meals. Since, in my case, I get lunch for about 7 cents per day, it seemed crazy to cut that one and, so, we stopped eating in the evening.

The problem with F is that he doesn’t really eat much at lunch and he has no canteen at work so although he gets a voucher, he doesn’t get lunch for 7 cents!

Plus there’s the fact that he has had a bad back all week, so has been off work and not really eating at lunchtime.

So he’s been cooking. An example would be that he bought some cece (chick peas) the other day and made some sort of thick soup-type thing yesterday.

So, last night, we had this cece soup. I tried to get him to give me just a taste but he can’t seem to cope with this concept, so although the bowl wasn’t overflowing, it was certainly much more than I either needed or wanted. But I can hardly not eat it, can I?

I’m thinking that, amongst the other things about living together will be me putting on weight. Or rather, me putting on MORE weight. Becoming “barrel like”, I think the term is. And this is NOT good.

So, now I have to find a way around this. Of course, I could stop having lunch at work – but here I get meat every day and with F I wouldn’t. So that’s no good. Perhaps, the only real solution is to just have the main course here, at work. But then if there’s a pasta dish I like as well as a main course I like, it will be very tempting!

I have time to think this through but it’s a bit of a bugger. And “like a barrel” is really not for me.

The race is stopped ………………. maybe

We don’t argue.

Well, in part because we rarely talk. And by that I mean deep, meaningful discussions.

This is, in part, because we don’t have the same language as our mother tongue and partly, if I am perfectly honest, because I don’t want to.

The problem is that a) I would rather not know – I would rather live in my bubble of perfection and b) I am a “wordy” person which, if you don’t have the same mother tongue and aren’t inclined to be a “wordy” person but more of a “visual” person, as F is, creates an imbalance and an advantage to the “wordy” person with the disadvantage to the “visual” person, of which I am very aware and against which I guard.

There – that was “wordy” wasn’t it?

What I mean is that, even if we spoke the same language, we wouldn’t actually speak the same language – so discourse is difficult.

And so it has proved.

So, he gets the plan of the flat that he really, really likes; that I was due to see on Saturday but didn’t because the stupid estate agent has to get the keys from the portinaio (porter/doorman) and the portinaio doesn’t work on Saturdays. So, no key, no viewing.

Anyway, back to the story – he gets the plan in order to see where furniture could go. He starts placing things. He suggests a room could be the studio or it could be a place to put washing that is drying. I suggest that we could use it as both as I don’t have lessons on Monday and Tuesday and everything is dry by then.

He says that we will have to do washing every couple of days and not just on Sunday as I do now.

I don’t agree and say that it should be OK.

He suggests that, to do all the washing on a Sunday would mean needing about 10 drying racks (which is an exaggeration – but I get the point) and so I say OK.

He hates it when I say “OK” if he thinks I still don’t agree. Now, sometimes this is true – I don’t agree but decide that a) time will tell and/or b) my experience is such that I know him to be wrong and I am happy to wait until he sees that he is wrong. Or, of course, c) – which is where I think he is wrong and my experience says that he is wrong but, in fact, he proves, at a later time, he is correct – which is fine by me.

So then he goes off on one. I am, apparently, “typically English”. I never say what I really think. He has a point but in this case, he is incorrect. Apparently, I always say “OK” when I don’t mean “OK” at all. On this he is definitely wrong. I have said OK because he had a point about the drying racks. V and I used to do all the washing on a Sunday or Saturday and we didn’t have a problem – but I can’t remember how it wasn’t a problem. So, without the logic of being able to argue the point, I would rather have it proved – one way or the other.

I try to explain that I have not said “OK” just to shut him up but, rather, that I have said “OK” because he has a point about the drying racks.

However, he has stopped listening to me. Now he has decided what I have been thinking and this is not up for discussion.

He says that if we are to live together, there must be compromises on both sides. He is already having to “accept all your furniture” and “none of mine” and if we can’t agree on these things and we can’t talk about them without me “making my mind up beforehand” perhaps it would be better not to move in together.

I confess I was a bit taken aback by the comment about the furniture. I thought he had understood but, obviously, not. I again try to explain about my reasoning for saying “OK”, prefacing this with “perhaps it would be better not to live together if you think that arguing about something as trivial as washing can be a deal breaker.” I don’t use those words exactly, of course. Too many words/phrases he may not know.

We progress to silence. I put out the washing that has just finished. By the time I return the plan is back in the plastic folder. The “discussion” has ended.

And, for me, maybe it would be better not to live together? After all, I love my flat. Maybe, if we lived together and then split up, I wouldn’t be able to find a flat as wonderful as I have? Nor can I stand this “typical English” tag that he puts on me. Nor his way of assuming he knows what I am thinking, especially when it is NOT what I am thinking.

He went in to the bedroom to watch TV. I joined him after 10 minutes but only stayed for about 30 minutes. This was because there was no conversation and also because the film/programme was too difficult for me to follow.

After a while, and after checking the weather forecast again, I went into the bedroom to say that, as the forecast now said it might rain in the morning, I would take the dogs out in the morning. No answer. So, fuck it!

He was supposed to be going to see a flat this morning. I don’t know if he went or not. Normally he would text me. So far, he hasn’t.

In any event, at the moment, I think we should talk. I, certainly, have something to say.

1. Stop fucking generalising about me as “typical English” because a) I don’t generalise about him being “typically Italian” and b) because he really doesn’t know what I’m thinking.
2. I will move to a different area, if he wants. I will move to a newish flat, if he wants. And even if it is only for 4 years, there is a 50/50 chance I won’t be happy with it – but what the hell, it’s only to sleep in! But that’s what I did with V, when we came here, and I am trying to avoid living somewhere that doesn’t feel like “home” to me.
3. We don’t have to have “all” my furniture. I am happy to put most of it in storage (the rest can be sold/be thrown away). But he has to remember that these are all I have left from my 55 years of living on this planet. Yes, I know that “things” are not important in life and I really try very hard not to get too attached to “things” BUT, these are the only “things” I have – no house, no family, etc. and two of the items are a reminder of my Grandfather (aka my hero) and were bought using the money he left me when he died. So, we don’t have to have those things – but if we don’t then they have to go in storage because I will never sell them.

So am I just a bit angry? Yes, I am. Do I want to continue? Well, yes but now I am worried. It’s OK when when we’re not living together but I’m not sure it would be OK if we have nowhere to go “home” to.

Will we talk? Well, right now, I want to. It could change later, of course.

Maybe it would be better to leave things as they are after all.

Pembridge – where are your photos?

Apparently, Pembridge, a small village in North West Herefordshire, close to where I used to live, doesn’t just put up a Christmas tree with some lights as most other places in Britain do.

Instead, it has 51 trees all decorated and with lights!

Pembridge is a delightful old, black and white village with a rather unusual church tower. It always seemed pretty quiet and, although it is on the Black and White Village Trail, I’m guessing it doesn’t get too many visitors (from what I remember, there are a few shops and, maybe, a cafè – and a village hall which held regular antique auctions and, from which, comes some of my furniture).

What I was surprised about was that I could not find any photos of these Christmas trees! I would love to see it, especially all lit up.

C’mon someone from Pembrisge – post some photos on the net!

Art – not so black and white

I’ve read a couple of articles recently that made me feel a little uncomfortable but, perhaps, not “normal uncomfortable”.

There have been many times when, for example, societies have burned books. Each time this is done, there’s an outcry. And the outcry is right, after all. I mean, literature is literature and it’s an art. There was also the recent “haul” of Nazi-looted art from some reclusive guy. Paintings that hadn’t been seen (or, in some cases, were unknown) were “recovered” and may, in time, go back to their rightful owners.

But, that latest report is about who owns the art and not about destroying it.

Some years ago, however, the West was shocked to learn that the Taliban were destroying ancient sites – ancient works of art. So, one would think, the West is more enlightened. In the West we would not destroy art just because we didn’t agree with it any more.

It would seem true if you read the article about the fake Madonna and Child that turned out not to be fake.

What an amazing piece of art! Of course it shouldn’t be destroyed.

Should it? But there is a problem with this piece. It is in ivory. That is to say, the tusks from elephants. These days, ivory is (rightly) an “unacceptable material”. So much so that, recently, a lot of it was destroyed. So, what to do with this piece? In theory, it should be destroyed, surely? But it is a valuable piece of historic art and, apparently, beautiful. In the comments section of the first article, there are some suggestions that it should be destroyed. But is that not the same as the burning of books or the destroying of ancient places – just because society, at that moment, think they are wrong in some way? At the time this Madonna was carved, society did not see that it was wrong to use ivory.

It’s not an easy question to answer. And I’m not giving an answer here since there is no correct answer to this paradox.

And then I remembered reading this piece on Saturday where there was some disgust and cries of racism and calls for the offending piece to be covered up. Again, this is art. It may not be to our “tastes” now but does that mean it should be done away with? If it’s in the setting of a primary school, does that make it worse? Or are we projecting our adult consciouses onto children who will see (probably) nothing in the picture?

I collected the Robertson’s Golliwogs when I was a kid. And I’m sorry but, for me, they weren’t a depiction of “black people” but, rather, dolls (or badges or figurines). Cabbage Patch Dolls weren’t real either. Nor were Barbie or Ken even if Barbie and Ken had some resemblance to real people. And whereas I agree that we should not, in general, have golliwogs available now, to cover up a piece of art is a different thing.

At the end of this, do we have the right to determine what art should be seen? Do we have the right to destroy art from a previous society just because it offends our existing morals? Or, if we have that right, does it make us mere Western-Taliban or Nazi-like? Who do we think we are that we can permit this to happen?

It disturbs me that we think we can have the right while, at the same time, condemning other societies for doing the “same thing”. It’s not so simple – not so black and white.

Some English words. Well, not really but, as they say, you learn something every day.

You see, being in a foreign country, I’m actually learning more English than I would if I were still in the UK.

Take one of those words.

Lacksidaisical. Great word, isn’t it. Meaning lazy/not paying attention.

Except it’s not. I’ve used this word so many times over the years. Pronouncing it lack – see – daisy – ical. No one has ever said, “no, you’ve got it wrong.” Of course, I’ve never actually written it down as I’ve never had to use it when writing but, if I had, I would have spelt it as I did above.

Today (courtesy of Lola) I find that after 40-odd years of using it, I would have spelt it wrong if I had written it and, worse, I’ve been pronouncing it wrong all this time! It is, of course, lackadaisical. There is no “see” in it at all! In fact, neither in the spelling nor the pronunciation is there an “s” after the “lack”!

And then there is the word “cutch”. We used it in my family a lot. “Give me a cutch,” we’d say, meaning give me a cuddle or a hug. Or, “cutch up to me” – cuddle up to me.

Of course, we lived on the Welsh border and so, I suppose, it was inevitable that we would “borrow” some Welsh words. And, previously unbeknown to me, this is a Welsh word and, in fact, the word is cwtch (the “w” sounding like an English “u”).

So, all this time, I knew some Welsh words (I think there were others that we used but don’t remember them now).

Do you have any words like this?

Fig sandwich

Last weekend was “at the beach”. And a long weekend too as we took Monday off.

When I say “at the beach”, that wasn’t really all. The weekend was also about partying till very, very late – which we really hadn’t done all summer. Partying till late meant getting up later and, therefore, getting to the beach later – but now, as most people have already gone back to work after the 3 or 4 week summer holidays, the place was quieter and we could find parking, etc.

Friday night was a surprise party given for a mother who has recently had a kidney transplant by her son. It included all the nurses who had been looking after her during her 4 years or so of dialysis. It was lovely and included a sit-down dinner/supper. We got home at about 2.30 a.m.

Saturday night was dinner (although we all had pizza) at a restaurant in Marina di Massa (the next beach town down from Marina di Carrara), on the terrace of a restaurant which overlooked the main square. The point wasn’t dinner at all but watching a concert in the main square. It was also Notte Bianca (White Night) in Marina di Massa. Notte Bianca is when everything (more or less) stays open late into the night (or early the next morning) – it’s a little like an all-night street party. I’ve never stayed until the end so I’ve no idea if it is really “all night” or not. Anyway, there were also fireworks on the beach and the place was heaving! We had such a great position above it all. Loredana Bertè was the headlining act and she sang for almost two and a half hours! For those of you who haven’t heard of her, she was a very popular and famous Italian singer in the late 70s and 80s and was once the girlfriend of Bjorn Borg. Since then drugs and stuff have taken their toll and she’s supposed to be a little bit wacko and unpredictable but …… she gave a good concert even if I didn’t know the songs.

Anyway, here she is:

But, here again, I’m going to talk about food. Italian food, of course, but mixed with a little bit of English retrospective.

I remember, when we were kids and used to go to my grandmother and grandfather’s for Sunday lunch, that, sometimes, sweet would be fruit cocktail. Not, in those days, made by hand but out of a tin. And, in some throwback from the second World War, there was always bread and butter. Now, I also hated having fruit with bread and butter. I just didn’t get it at all. The taste and textures just did not mix.

Moving on and I remember things like chip butties (sandwiches) which many people used to love and I just couldn’t stomach. The idea of carbohydrates with a filling of carbohydrates just didn’t really mix well and the couple of times I was persuaded to try them I found myself gagging at the mix of bread and potato I was trying to force down my throat.

There were also, at one time, banana sandwiches. I had the same problem with them as fruit cocktail and bread and butter – they didn’t really compliment each other in my mind.

The only thing I could go for was jam sandwiches. Jam was, somehow, different.

Since coming to Italy I have been made aware of Nutella and, with it being a kind of spread, it is often used on bread. I’m not a big fan. It’s OK but I could live without it (although many people can’t, it seems).

When we arrived at the beach on the Saturday morning, one of the ladies at the café was proudly showing us the figs that she had picked from her garden that morning and gave us one each to try. They were lovely.

Although we don’t usually have lunch at the beach, F decided that he wanted a sandwich and so he went to buy one.

Now, I’m sure most of you will know of the Italian dish Melon and Parma Ham. Well, here, they also do Parma ham with figs which is just as nice and a great option if you can get really sweet figs (peel them and then drape Parma ham over them – as you would do the the melon dish).

What he came back with was focaccia with figs. He shared half with me. My initial reaction was that it didn’t taste right. I mean to say, fruit with bread (although focaccia is really a leavened pizza base)! Apparently, he had asked for fig and prosciutto – but only if the prosciutto was without fat and, quite obviously, it wasn’t.

Then I got to thinking about jam sandwiches and this was, after all, a little like a fig jam sandwich. So, after laughing about it, I had to concede that it was very nice.

Of course, these figs were very fresh, very sweet and not from a supermarket.

I think I would have preferred to have the ham as well, even with some fat, but it was very nice after all.

Today, I have been mostly drinking coffee

I have already had about 9 coffees this morning.

I am tired and tonight I have to travel down to Carrara – just me and the dogs because F will stay near Venice tonight and then join us tomorrow.

So, I’m doing coffee today, mostly.

I’ve had a very busy week. Monday was a pizza and stuff with one of F’s colleagues and her boyfriend. We got home late.

Tuesday was the Earth Wind and Fire concert. And we got home late.

Wednesday was out with A and, because we didn’t go out until late, I got home late.

Last night was round to where FfI is now staying – and I got home late.

In all cases there was MUCH drinking.

Let me just say that, in every case, I didn’t intend to drink much. It’s just that I did.

And, last night, I really needed to come home early but, instead, because I felt that FfI needed me, I didn’t come home early and we drank two bottles of wine between us (more or less).

The “perfect gentleman” ex-boyfriend had not only thrown her out but had also cause a number of bruises and a bite.

So, not really the “perfect gentleman” after all.

Nor is his son, who, the next day, punched her daughter when she came to pick up her Mum.

I was told the story and, given that this is Italy, having had the whole story, I could see why he lost his temper (although hitting someone because you’ve lost your temper is NEVER acceptable).

The problem is the mentality of (certainly older) Italians. The problem is the homophobia that is rife here (as is racism).

In this case, in the heat of the argument, he told her that it was her fault that his son wanted to leave home. He said that she was so horrible that his son couldn’t be in the same house as her and was, therefore, leaving home. His son is about 25 years old.

Apparently, at this point, she advised him that the real reason his son was leaving home was because he was gay.

Given that I am writing this without being involved, I am, probably, not giving the correct feel of this “conversation”. I suspect that there was much shouting at each other and that it was as far from a “conversation” as would be possible.

However, whilst in no way condoning his physical response, I can understand why he lost control.

This is his one and only son. Both his eldest and his only child. This is Italy. Whilst outwardly he does not seem homophobic (I have met him several times and he always seemed quite a “nice” man) as it certainly used to be about 50 years ago in the UK, don’t tell a man that his only son is a raving poofter! In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, the film Billy Elliot shows you (although in the interests of a good film (meaning a feel-good factor) and to show how enlightened we are in the UK now, the father eventually realises that he loves his son for who he is – which was certainly NOT the reality of the situation). And this is Italy, so even though straight men are camper than straight men in the UK and the USA, etc. by a LONG way, being gay is not seen as OK. In fact, they are STILL discussing amending a bill in parliament to make it illegal to discriminate on the basis of sexual preference (so I think marriage is way off yet).

Anyway, back to the story – and so, the ex-boyfriend got angry and, unfortunately for all involved, got physically abusive.

His son, who witnessed some of it (and, apparently egged his father on), felt the need to emulate his father the next day after being provoked by FfI’s daughter. But, then, his role model is not exactly one that I would want my son to have.

Have I ever mentioned that the last time I ever hit anyone was when I was about 12 or 13? I felt so ashamed by my own behaviour that I never hit anyone again. Ever. I was ashamed because, even if I had been provoked and even if I had been the subject of a lot of bullying (both physically and mentally), and even if the boy I beat up was my age and in my class, he was weaker than me. And I have never forgotten that nor how bad I felt about what I had done. I did what my father had told me to do – but instead of to the bullies (who were both bigger and stronger than I), I did it to someone who was supposed to be a friend.

So, my hatred of violence stems from then.

And so, I felt the need to stay with her longer than intended.

And now I am suffering. Ah well, F is only joining us tomorrow so tonight I will go to bed early and try and recover from this week.

Disappointment and conflict

I grew up in the 70s and ran a business for over 20 years from the mid-80s through to early 2000s.

I remember things like the 3-day week, the bread shortages, the power strikes. I remember the strikes at British Leyland (where I worked) and that being the cause for M and I to move south, for different jobs and a better life.

My working life started in those days of the things I mentioned before and the power of the unions and the constant battle between the government and those unions.

And then came someone who promised us change and change for the better. Where hard work would be rewarded with a better life, more money, a sense of purpose and riches beyond our wildest dreams.

The first thing to do, of course, was to rid the country of those all-powerful, self-serving unions.

And that was done, more or less. So, here we were, going onwards and upwards towards a much better future.

And, then, for reasons more of accident than purpose, I ended up running a business.

It was also the time that M & I split and V came on the scene.

I suppose I could have been a good businessman, a successful businessman were it not for one thing – me.

You see, I had a problem. What I “had” was a business that felt more like a family – a community of like-minded people. As time went on, we employed more people and the business grew. And that was where the problems started. I understood that it was a cut-throat world in business. I understood that the suppliers were in this game to make money out of us and that we were there to make money out of our customers. What I could never get to grips with was that some of the people within the company itself were there to get what they could – even at the expense of the company.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that before the 80s people were, somehow, kinder, more willing to help one another, etc. Nor am I saying that during the 80s and onwards, there were no people who were kinder and helpful because that would not be true.

And it’s not like I’m looking back with rose-coloured spectacles either. In the 70s, the unions, with that huge amount of power, were not interested in doing the best for the country but only in getting the best deal for their workers (and, for those at the top of the union, for themselves). In the 70s, with the destruction of the unions, the time came for the industry heads and the rich to have their way. That was the change.

And, so, we went from the selfishness of the unions to the selfishness of the bosses.

And, I was one of those “bosses”. Well, when I say that, I was the Managing Director. And this is where the problem came in.

I found, as the business grew that more and more often I was disappointed. Not immediately, but after I had time to think about it.

First, I would be angry. Someone would do something that was stupid or, more likely, against the general good of the company. I became very angry. How dare they do this thing? What are they trying to do, bring the company down?

But, after a number of hours or days, my anger would morph into disappointment which, in turn would turn to disillusionment and, finally, resignation. But, certainly, the disappointment would remain. And grow with each occurrence. And, in the end, I had had enough.

And, whilst it looks like I am blaming everyone else, be assured that this is not the case. For I realised that the real cause of all this was myself. It was my inability to fully understand the world that was created in the 80s and 90s. It was my inability to see that the selfishness that became the by-product of the rush to make something of yourself, on your own and stuff who it hurts or destroys, had been made into a positive thing. Something to strive for. Something to laud and praise. And that was my fault.

Of course, the conflict arose because, whilst it was perfectly OK for us to “stuff” the customer, it was not OK for my employees to do the same to us.

Thereby causing conflict in me.

I was trying to be a good businessman whilst, at the same time, trying to safeguard the company – not for me but for everyone in it. And that was the problem. Not everyone thinks the same.

And, leaving that behind was a great relief. The conflict (and the sleepless nights – which were almost every night) disappeared and I became more relaxed and happy with myself.

Until last week when, again, the anger at the way that people thought rose up and engulfed me as it used to do which has, already morphed into disappointment and is fast changing to disillusionment.

And then this little old lady died. And it helped me to understand the problem. For it was she that spearheaded the drive to “self”. It was her that, rather than clip the wings of the unions, destroyed them and, with it, any pretence of people working together – so much so that, during the 90s there was much made of team building – necessary because the whole thing had changed and it was all about oneself and not the general good.

Don’t get me wrong, the unions needed to be curbed – just not destroyed. The over-large, mammoth nationalised industries needed to be reformed, just not broken up, sold off to the highest bidder and then dismantled. The annoyance that BT (British Telecom), for example, no longer care about serving the British public but only about making a profit seems incongruous if it comes from the right-wing thinkers. That was, in the end, what they stood for and that is why this now-dead lady sold them off – so they could pursue profit above everything else.

I came to understand that during my time as a “businessman”. The pursuit of profit was, of course, important but not at the expense of everything and everyone. And that’s why I couldn’t understand those people who were, of course, Thatcher’s children – children who had grown up believing that it everything was up to you and you should ignore anyone who stood in your way destroying or, at least, leaving behind those who were less fortunate than yourself.

I don’t have any strong emotion for the little old lady who died. I don’t know her after all. And I don’t hate her for what she was. She was, after all, a product of the age, of the self-serving union’s super-powers and she was lucky that, at that moment, many people (and even me!) agreed that “something” had to be done.

But, in the end, as people in power (the unions in the 70s and Thatcher and Blair in the 80s and 90s) do, they took it too far and destroyed the very fabric of the country and, for that, I was angry which has turned, in time, into disappointment then to disillusionment and, finally, into resignation. It is the way things are.

Was she responsible? Yes, to a certain extent, she was. Should she be vilified? Well, yes, if that lights your candle – but do it in private or use it as an example of what to do right or what to do to fix it. And remember that although she may be typical of “that kind of person”, she was just one of them. The problem is that she, as a result of becoming the Prime Minister and having so much power, created a whole world filled with the same type of people. Those people without compassion. Selfish and ignorant to to the needs of those around them. Less of a team than a collection of individuals, each striving for their own goals.

Some,of course, would say that that was alright. Certainly those who are Thatcher’s children and benefited from this way of thinking.

For me, I am glad I am out of it. I am glad I don’t think like that. I realise that, as a result, probably, I am and will never be rich and powerful – but that’s OK by me.

Now to get through this stage (this current one from last week) and move on. This time, retaining enough of the anger/disappointment/disillusionment to make sure that I move on, not only in my mind, but also in reality.

Finally, am I glad she’s dead? No, I’m not. In the end, this fragile little old lady died. Alone in a hotel room. We’re all alone when we die but I would like someone to be there to hold my hand. Maybe she didn’t want or need that but I somehow doubt it and, for that, I am sad for her.

And, although I don’t particularly like him (possibly because he IS one of Thatcher’s children), this piece from Russell Brand is rather good.

Piero is nearly as big as Dino!

Piero has grown.

In fact, everyone who hasn’t seen him for more than about a week comments on how fast he has grown.

And he has. His shoulders are now just a few inches below Dino’s. He hasn’t got Dino’s bulk (not that Dino is fat, jut muscled) nor power but he’s working on it. The games of ‘tug’ that they have every night prove this.

Piero is still very ‘cute’ though, even if he is nearly the same size.

And it got me to thinking about whether Dino was this big when he was seven months old. I thought I might have commented on it in the blog so went back a way to see if I could find out. I didn’t find it. Instead, what I found was the end of V and I (Dino was just about 10 months old at the time). I should go back, from time to time, to see what was happening then.

For example, I found the post where I had been to see the flat that I am now living in.

I found some posts that were quite well written. But then, a tortured mind seems to a requisite for good writing. Perhaps I should randomly go back and have a look at some posts I wrote? It’s interesting to see the change from a different year. After all, this blog has been going for nearly 7 years now and a lot of things have changed in those seven years.

Anyway, back to Piero.

He is cute, he is much bigger, he is more affectionate, he is very, very playful and he is a right little bastard.

But wonderful too.

However, Dino is still the best dog ever.

But I love them both, just the same. And, as my friend C, from London, wrote recently, F REALLY loves the dogs. So all is well.

At long, long, last!

F-I-N-A-L-L-Y!

I suppose everyone does this, don’t they?

I look back at the very few photographs I have and think that, actually, I was quite good looking. By which, I mean that, at the time, I didn’t realise it or I thought that, whereas not downright ugly, I was not “all that”.

And, of course, at that moment, what I thought looked really cool, actually may not have looked that good. But looking back at these phtographs, I realise that, actually, I was quite good looking and I wish I had known that then, at that time and, better, had done something with it.

But, physically, my ideas of how I looked are NOT the same as the reality.

For example, for many, many years, in my head, I had a button nose. Even when I looked in the mirror, that’s what I saw. I hated this button nose. I wanted a long one, perhaps more of a Roman one. In fact, I would spend time pulling my nose down and out as I really hated this button nose.

It wasn’t until I mentioned it one time in company that I was put straight about this thing. I didn’t have, and never had had, such a thing as a button nose.

Now, although I realise this to be true, my mind plays tricks on me and, occasionally, I still think of it as a button nose. Which, even as I think about it, I know not to be true – like now, when I’m writing this. Still, in my head (at this moment), I think of it as short, stubby abd turned up.

The other thing that’s important to me, as far as physical looks go, is my hair. This has been so every since I can remember. At 12 I was telling my parents that “everyone has long hair at school, and I want long hair too”. Really! I only “saw” long hair on other kids but now, I realise, this cannot have been true.

My hair has always been ‘important’ to me. When I was about 17 or so was the ‘best time’ (apart from the other best times, of course). In reverse order, I’ve had very short and natural grey, very short and not-natural, almost-black, slightly longer and black, shortish and natural, longish and natural, spikey and long and blonde, normal and natural, long almost to my waist and natural, longish, just past shoulder-length and natural (the ‘best one’), spikey and sometimes blue and before that I don’t remember.

But, since F convinced me to stop dying my hair (and I ended up with the first one in the above list), I haven’t been entirely happy. So, since the summer before last, I grew it.

In my head, it reminds me of the ‘best’ one from when I was 17.

In the mirror, I see a head full of hair, longish flowing locks, nearly as it should be – but not quite.

And then I see photos of myself now. It looks quite dreadful. In the photo. In the mirror (and my head) it looks nothing like that. I picture myself as I was at 17, just back from holiday, brown, with these flowing locks and looking really good.

And, even if I know that the camera doesn’t lie, I still think that it does. Or, at least, it distorts. Maybe it wasn’t a good day? Maybe it was a little windy?

And my hair is thinner now. I know this for if I put a mirror to show me the back of my head, you can see I’m going a bit bald. Except I was thinking that about 20 years ago. It just never really quite happened! But I am certain it’s much thinner than it was and the almost-bald-patch is now almoster bald.

So, where were we?

Ah, yes. So, in my head and when I look at myself in a mirror, I am almost the same as when I was 17. Except I’m not, of course.

And I started growing it because I wanted a style. Some sort of style but I wasn’t sure what. I thought: if I grow it I can choose what to have. Except, after almost a couple of years I’m no closer to making a decision.

And, even if I’ve asked F for his advice, I get nothing from him. And I’ve been wanting him to suggest something or say something but I could solicit nothing.

Until last night.

For our anniversary, as normal, I came with a last-minute idea for a present. The present was one of those digital picture frames. I’ve always thought they were a bit of a waste of time but, you know, when you have little idea of what to buy, it came in a flash that this might be something he would like, being keen on photography and all.

And, it turns out, it was a great choice. He loves it. And so he spent a long time putting over 300 photos on it which he brought over last night to show me. Of course, they are 300+ photos of the dogs!

But in some of them, there is him or me (with the dogs).

One came up of me the summer before last, when we were on holiday in Umbria, just before I started growing my hair.

“You should cut your hair,” he says, when he sees it. “Short hair makes you look younger.” I tell him that I am very happy that he is making some comment. And I AM very happy. It’s just not quite the comment that I want.

Sure, I want to look younger.

I’m not that bothered about looking younger.

Maybe he WANTS me to look younger? Maybe he thinks that I look much older now? I want to do what he wants. I don’t care about being younger or older and, yet, …… I do care on some level.

Later I suggest that I need a style and should he see something, to tell me. His response was “It’s too thin.” He means, of course, go and get it cut, really short, all over – like it was.

In my head, of course, it’s not at all THAT thin. I reply that it’s been like this for years and years.

But he’s right, of course. He suggests that maybe I can keep it like this for the winter and get it cut in the spring. He doesn’t really think that, of course. He’s just saying that. Maybe my face said too much?

Of course, this isn’t really what I want to hear but, in his way, he’s being nice whilst being quite direct. This idea I had that I have hair like I was 17 or, even, that I had almost convinced myself that I look like some old, eccentric, English professor should be banished from my brain. Should be but it’s very difficult to do.

And, although I absolutely HATE the idea of not having a choice any more, he is, of course, quite right. And I am so glad that he’s finally said SOMETHING!

Now all I have to do is to summon up the courage to go and get it done! This is not easy for me and will take me some time and then I have to choose somewhere to have it done. This, too, is quite difficult. I have to pick the right place. I remember when I went from waist-length to quite short, when I first went to work. It was almost the most excruciatingly painful thing I had ever done (not physically but mentally). I can only imagine how Samson must have felt. This will be the same.

I am convinced that no one else has this problem (the pain of having one’s hair cut). For no one else does it seem such a big deal. I don’t even know why it is for me. It’s just weird! It’s the stuff in my head …. again!

Or, maybe I CAN find a style ………..?????