That’ll be just A in Milan, now, I guess

I’m getting more spam on here at the moment - all captured and not published but I still have to check it, so it’s a pain.

Usually, the English is terrible. Often, in spite of links to different sites, the messages are the same. I think the best one I have ever had was the one that just said ‘I hate you’ the other details of this were: http://www.lloydstsbbusiness.com/ (being the link), Holquist@gmail.com (being the email address) and 67.212.185.94 (being the IP address). I kept that one, even if it isn’t published. Most tell me what a wonderful site this is and how wonderfully I write and how the ‘post’ was so informative and was the perfect answer to some life-long question that the supposed person had had.

A few offer me ways to make this web site something that can generate so much cash that I would never have to work again. A few offer pornographic sites that are, of course, the best.

Still, the ‘I hate you’ one was by far the best and, strangely, I really love it!

Actually, I think I’m getting more spam because of my ‘Elton John is Gay!’ post. It has been the one most favoured by Google searches as of late. It seems that if you type in ‘William Hague Gay’ and search for images - the image I posted comes out as the first one! Who would have known?

Even though that image is used by a number of other newspaper sites, mine is first

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I had a very nice comment from Saruk to say that Mantova will be waiting for me next time! I am so happy about that. The weather, this weekend, will be very nice and I remember so many nice years being at the Festival - even the year where an African artist, doing some rain-evoking chanting/dance thing meant that the heavens opened and the storm was so bad that the event had to be cancelled, people walking over chairs as the auditorium was flooded (perhaps God was looking down after all! :-D) - enjoying both the Festival and the fine weather, meeting friends from Mantova and the UK. Ah, good times.

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Facebook, the popular social networking site is losing some of its function - at least for me.

There are many applications (games) on there and, having moved on from Farmville, I am now playing Camelot. This is Farmville with wars which makes it a little more interesting.

Every time something happens (like you complete a quest or get a token from Merlin or ask for help building a castle or searching for your destroyed army after some battle), it is posted on your wall for all your friends to see. Since the purpose of this game is to grow and become stronger then encourage you to become friends with as many people as possible and so, now, I am ‘friends’ with people all over the world - people who I have never met and am unlikely to meet and who, in real life, are unlikely to be friends.

And, yet, since you ’speak’ to a lot of these people almost every day, since you have common goals, since you are sharing experiences (albeit fictional ones within the game), they feel the same as real friends and provoke the same emotions.

There is laughter, crying, anger, frustration - in exactly the same way as if they were ‘real people’ (yes, I know they are real people but they are only ‘virtual’ friends, so you know what I mean). Recently, when the leader of my alliance was verbally attacked by other members of our alliance it caused a rift every bit as real as if we all lived in the same village. The hatred was just as vicious, the outpouring of emotion from all sides, just as real and vivid.

And, for me too! I was surprised at myself and noted how much I felt, how much, inside, I was upset or angered. The edges of the virtual and the real were blurred.

Originally, Facebook (as far as I was aware) was intended for a way to keep in contact with friends from real life; to see how they were doing; to share photographs; to tell everyone how you were doing, what you were doing, etc. But this ‘gaming’ thing is different. It never was quite the same with Farmville - but with Camelot the virtual world becomes another ‘real’ world, even if it isn’t. Friends are not friends but more like colleagues in the game with all the political and emotional ‘games’ that people play in real life work situations or, even real life social situations. Although it does tend to be a little more like school with it’s excess of pettiness, etc.

The major downside is that, with all these Camelot friends, posting all this stuff on the main page, the real purpose of Facebook has changed and it’s difficult to see what your real friends are doing, so lost are their few posts to the hundreds generated by Camelot each day.

So, whereas Camelot started as a subset of Facebook, now it almost seems as if Facebook has become a subset of Camelot! Of course, I could ‘hide’ all these Camelot posts. But to do that would mean that I lose out on free Merlin’s tokens and not be able to help these virtual friends of mine (and in turn they will not help me, perhaps?). Mixed in with these posts are the Farmville posts and the Frontierville posts (which, although I don’t play that, come up as some ‘friends’ do play it), etc., etc.

And, so, Facebook, instead of telling you anything about your real friends, tells you so much about what they are doing in these virtual games.

Of course, there is a solution to this (Facebook - if you’re listening?). That is to have two ‘front pages’. The front page for games and the other front page for sharing photographs, posting things of real interest rather than the fact that you are building a castle or have found, on your farm, a party duck, etc.

But, back to the game and how much real life is there in this virtual world. Is this what the social network founders had in mind? I suspect not. The creation of a world, bringing together people who will never meet and who, if they had, would never be real friends has, I suspect, modified the function of social networking, creating something that is similar to social networking but cuting across the boundaries of the real world.

But, then, this IS like the real world, I suppose, just on a global scale and in a virtual world that, to all intents and purposes, is a mirror of the real world. This gaming is much like school or work. People from different backgrounds and with different (moral) standards, forced into a small, inner world, where, here, they have something in common as one does in school or at work. The only danger that I see is where the virtual world of the game is taken too seriously (and I assure you that it is) by some people. There is a danger that the emotions in this world become too real and people lose the ability to see it for what it really is - a game and not really the most important thing in life.

“We can come down in March, next year, and do a bit of cleaning and painting”

We can. I agree. Yes, that’s right, that was me agreeing to doing decorating, even if, as usual, I will end up with more paint on me than any of the walls. I agree to it not only because of the implications of the statement but also because it will make him happy and it will make it more comfortable for us.

The house is, as usual here, not a house at all but a flat. For those of you in the UK it is, what we would call, the downstairs part of a two-storey, detached house. The upstairs currently being occupied by an 80-odd-year-old uncle - the upstairs part has been promised to Johnny which is why the flat is ‘jointly owned’.

It is old but not old enough to be rustic nor charming. It is not, at first glance, in a particularly nice area. It is close to the main railway line. It is surrounded by other houses with gardens and, more importantly, dogs that a) live outside and b) tend to bark at our dogs (a lot).

Dino, I’m sure, taunts them. He walks around in front of them. Slowly, deliberately, staring at them, walking as if he is walking on eggshells. They bark. He stares. Then stops staring and walks quietly on, a few steps, then stares again. Is he petrified of them or taunting? I’m convinced it’s taunting.

Given a second glance these houses would not disgrace one the nicer parts of the UK and have gardens to match, carefully tended and watered. The trains that go past, surprisingly, don’t make so much noise. The roads in the area would not look out of place in a Cornish village - narrow and difficult for two cars to pass each other.

We are, unfortunately, a little too far from the sea to just walk there. We are, also, just a little too far from the main town to walk there. Here you would need at least a bike, if not a car. With the dogs, a car.

The flat is quite big, by Italian standards. The entrance hall is large enough for a three-seater sofa on one side and a sideboard on the other. The kitchen is large enough for a large, marble-topped table in the centre that would very comfortably fit 6. The units are not new (probably early 70s) but serviceable.

The bathroom looks as if it hasn’t been touched since it was installed in the 50s (my guess). The sink has no hot water. At least in the 50s they hadn’t got round to having avocado suites! The bedroom that we were ‘allowed’ into is very large. The furniture looks like it is from the 40s or 50s. Maybe, because it’s Italian, it is later. Either way, it lacks the clean beautiful lines of the 30s or the sleek modernness of something later. Old but not old enough to be beautiful - just old. If it were in the UK I would expect the smell of mothballs and find myself smelling them anyway - but it’s probably all in my head.

The other bedroom, the one we are not permitted to enter, apparently, now I am told, because it might contain “mouses” (sic), is supposed to be as big as the one we are sleeping in. So, for here, the house is huge.

Outside, there is a garden to four sides although one of those sides is given over to the flat above with the uncle who, for mid to late eighties, looks surprisingly robust and in fine health. So the garden, for this flat is on three sides. I learn, later, from his father, that F’s father used to have vegetables growing here until last year, when it became too much hard work for him. He’s had stomach cancer or something a year or two ago - I don’t like to ask too many questions.

You can see that anyway. Although it is grass, there is an unevenness about it which implies it was once tilled soil. At the back there is a kind of patio area with another, very large, marble-topped table - suitable for eight or ten people, under a cover that has seen better days but the structure is sound. It’s not a canvas covering but something similar - only now there are a few holes. To one side are some sinks - it could almost be a kitchen outdoors - just without a cooker.

The walls, on the outside are concrete. Unfortunately it has not been kept perfectly and so, over time, has become porous, which shows through into the rooms inside, the paint over the plaster peeling off in places. I imagine this place feels damp in the winter.

It’s not ‘pretty’ but it could be made to look much better. F says that they might have to pull it down and rebuild. I don’t think so. Unless, here, it is all done differently. They have planning permission for some extension (I think something where the ‘outside kitchen’ now is) - to make another kitchen and convert the existing kitchen to a bedroom.

Certainly, the garden could be rather lovely. It gets the sun most of the day, so needs some trees for shade - or else, use it for vegetables.

We talk about coming here again and coming here next year. I tell him the dogs love it here, which they do but also, sneakily, because I know how to say the thing that will matter and therefore means he will want them to come more often.

Which is, I guess, why we are talking about tidying up a bit before next summer.

Later he says to me that I should come down here on my own, if he has to work and if the weather is going to be reasonable.

“You can go to eat at my Mum’s” he says.

Later, on the beach (I still owe you a post about the beach), his sister comes by with some home-made fruit salad for us, after lunch. She talks. As she’s telling a story to F she will look at him, and then look at me, who is watching her intently as I’m trying to understand the stories. F tells her that I don’t understand so she doesn’t have to look at me. She looks back to him and continues her story almost without pause. She looks at me again. Sometimes F reminds her that I don’t understand. She talks too fast.

He mentions that I might come down on my own. She says I can come over to her flat for something to eat. She is sweet although I would end up the size of a house if I was there often enough!

We go back there this weekend, again for a long weekend.

The main thing about going back there this week was that, even if I did have four days at work, it felt as if there hadn’t been a break in the holiday. Getting back, although not filled with that relief that I used to have coming back after the holidays (maybe because we were staying on our own), it wasn’t as bad as last time. This time F was with me and that just made everything right

Of course, I should be packing now instead of writing this. But I am always ‘last minute’.

The dogs are in being groomed. I may have to collect them at any time.

F is at work. He is slightly peeved that I didn’t answer my phone straight away but it was on charge.

I’ve been and got the money from the scratch cards for him. I went to the supermarket to buy Autan because the vet suggested that this would stop the dogs getting bitten by sand flies (that pass on some dreadful disease, apparently) but I shall get a collar when I pick them up later too.

Whilst in the supermarket I saw that they had English milk. Well, not exactly from the UK but, rather, made in the English style. I drink a lot of milk. The problem here is that it is a bit watery for my liking. Proper, full-fat English milk would be great - except that they are in bottles. Not plastic bottles but glass bottles. So maybe I won’t. Carrying that back from the supermarket would be a real pain. Plus, it was expensive.

But now I must get back to packing. I don’t want to be doing it still when F arrives and wants to leave!

And, so, it’s unlikely I will post anything for a week and a half or so. I have decided not to take my computer. I have books and we have cards. The danger with the computer is that I will play the Facebook game - and that is time consuming and not something I should be doing when on holiday!

We have four days at the beach in Tuscany, followed by a week in Umbria, in the hills. It should be lovely. F wants to take Dino down to the sea because he thinks Dino will swim and enjoy it. I’m not so sure but it will be fun finding out!

And so, my dear reader, I leave you for this, our first real holiday together. I am so looking forward to it.

Whatever you are doing, have great couple of weeks and I will see you when I get back

Being our holiday, and F having given me a money box (a Shaun the Sheep one, in case you were wondering), we decided to save all our loose change at the end of each day. We’ve been dong it for about two months.

Surprisingly, it was quite heavy.

And, on Saturday, we decided to count it all. It was surprisingly good and came to much more than we had thought it would. I had also been putting €5 notes in there too, so the haul was nice.

In coins, we had just short of €300. Now, although this is nice, paying for a €50 meal with 50 cent coins may not be welcome by the restaurant owner. So it seemed quite reasonable to get it all changed for notes.

In the UK, this would have been a bit of a pain. First I would have gone to the bank to get some special bags, then I would have had to bag it up, and then take it to the bank. Any bank, of course - although they might insist on their bags. Here it isn’t like that.

It’s worse.

I suggested to F that I would go today (this was written yesterday - or most of it). He said to try the tobacconist first. I mentioned it to them (one of my regular tobacconists) - and they would have been interested but they were shutting up for two weeks. F seemed to think that this might be a problem - but didn’t explain why.

Yesterday, as I didn’t have bags, I put the coins into rolls of paper - similar to the ones that are given to shops. Obviously this was my own, made-up, paper rolls - not nearly so neat as those used by the banks but, at least, I could write the amount and the type of coins on the outside, once they had been rolled up. It took forever! The coins kept slipping sideways until I got the knack of doing it.

But now they were all rolled up in blue paper (it was the paper I had to hand) and each one marked with the coins contained and the total amount inside. What more could the bank want?

And so, this morning, I went to the bank. As there is one just across the road from me I thought I would try there. It is Banca Intesa or Intesa San Paolo or something. anyway, one of the bigger banks in Italy, with branches everywhere. In fact, there is another branch on the opposite side of the piazza that I (almost) live on! So, opposite the one I first went to.

First I had to get into the bank. All banks here have a series of doors to get it. This is to prevent robberies by a mass of people I suppose. You have to enter something similar to an airlock! The door behind you has to close fully before the one in front of you will open. Funnier still is the ‘no guns’ signs that I have seen in banks - but, then, this isn’t the UK, I guess.

So I get inside the bank after repeatedly pressing the ‘man’ sign to find that, in fact, you had to press the small green button (that I mistook for a green light). But I’m in! There is hardly anyone around - this being 11.30. A nice young lady comes forward eventually. I explain in my terrible Italian, that I want to change some coins.

Apparently this is not possible. Why? Because, at 11.30 a.m. on a Monday morning, there are no bank tellers. Apparently, she explains, they will be here this afternoon - from a quarter to three to a quarter past four!

You have to remember, banks here do not work like they do in the UK. In the UK (more or less), the account holder is the customer. Here, you have to be grateful for a bank at all - and you should treat them as the customer. Certainly the opening hours are, more or less, from about 8.30 or 9 in the morning until about 1.30 p.m. and then for another hour or so in the afternoon!

I asked if I should try the Banca Intesa branch opposite. She said that sure, I could try - but she looked doubtful.

Of course, I am, somewhat determined (some may say pig-headed) and so off I go, across the piazza, to the other, grander and newly refurbished, Banca Intesa. At least, here, I thought, they will have cashiers.

And, true enough, they did! Two of them. Both occupied with clients at the moment. I see, like the post office and other places, there is a queuing system, done by printed ticket. I look around for a machine, expecting something like ones you see in the post office! I don’t see anything. There’s only me anyhow, so maybe it won’t be necessary, I think. But, to be on the safe side, I keep looking. I see a thing that looks more like an information box or cash dispenser. I go over, on the off chance, as, anyway, this is the only thing that looks remotely like a machine to print a ticket.

Sure enough. This is the ticket dispenser! I am, at once, both relieved (to have found it) and slightly peeved (at how stupid I am not to have seen it before). I get a ticket.

It seems I wait ages. However, it is air-conditioned AND they are playing some light pop music (although I forget which song - although I could sing along with the chorus, so it was a song sung in English). It’s not an unpleasant wait.

Eventually I get to go to a counter.

Unusually, this is not a stand-up counter but one where you sit down. However, this IS a cashier - my Italian is good enough to know that.

I don’t sit down. I ask the guy if I can change the money here. He asks if I have an account. I don’t and, in my best English, which, to be honest, is a life-saver more often then it isn’t, ask him what I should do, ignoring the fact that I’m not an account holder.

He explains that I need to put the money in these special containers. OK, I say. No problem. He gets out two. This will hold about €10 worth, if that. I explain I will need a lot more than that. He goes to chat to a colleague who is hidden behind an opaque glass screen.

He returns.

Apparently they can’t change it for me because I’m not a customer of theirs. I protest - but you’re a bank, I say. Apparently that makes not one iota of difference. I protest some more. He is Italian. We have the blank face and usual shrug of the shoulders. It’s not that they can’t, it’s that they won’t. In other circumstances, I would have been more persistent but, maybe, I am succumbing to the Italian disease of giving up when faced with a ‘can’t/won’t do it’ shrug. Or maybe it’s because I really couldn’t be bothered and had better things to do.

I told F. He said he would do it the next day. But, being me, I hadn’t quite given up.

Just after a quarter to four, I went to the bank across the road. The same bank I had been to in the morning where they had no cashiers.

There was one guy being served - and one cashier open. I waited. For some reason I felt more hopeful about this, in spite of the fact that it was the same bank, just a different branch. This branch was not sparkly new. It didn’t have music playing. It was air conditioned - but then, of course it would be.

It was my turn. I explained what I wanted. He started to open my carefully prepared packages - he saw my face. He explained that they had a machine. We could just put all the coins together. He and I spent the next ten minutes undoing my 3 hour work and mixing it all back up. He put it all in a plastic bag.

He asked if I knew how much it was. I got out my piece of paper. ‘No, don’t show me’, he said. And walked of with the money. I laughed. This would be a test of both my counting and the machine.

I could hear the coins being tipped into something. After a few minutes he returned. He wrote down the number and showed it to me. I showed him mine. They matched. We both laughed.

He gave me the money. F said I should have asked him why the other bank could not do it and yet they could. I explained that I didn’t know enough Italian. But, to be honest I didn’t care. OK, so I wasn’t so persistent with the other branch - but I did get it done in the end - and that’s the important bit, really.

The other branch just had lazy, good-for-nothing people!

The differences between us and the Italians are many. I think we Brits like the idea of Italy so much because of these differences. They are little things; in themselves, of no importance but adding them together, there is a whole world waiting to be discovered or ready to trip up the unsuspecting ex-pat from the UK (and, probably, other places too).

Take one as an example. We have lunch - in the garden, in the gazebo, under the trees which are ten times the height of the small ‘holiday home’ but which help to lower the temperature to a very comfortable level. We spend nearly all the time in the garden. The dogs enjoy it and we enjoy it. We sit and chat (or, rather, they sit and chat - I sit and listen…mostly) or play cards or eat.

Lunch was what one would expect. Simple but beautiful food - slices of tomato with a slice of mozzarella on each, drizzled with good olive oil and sprinkled with parsley; slices of prosciutto and coppa; good bread and foccacia; lettuce leaves coated with the same olive oil - and my favourite - celery and parmigiana with some seasoning (I must find out what). All served with wine or beer and water, of course - siamo in Italia.

It wasn’t the meal that was different. Hell, in the UK we have similar, if not quite so good and fresh. No it was afterwards. And this bit I have never known happen in the UK - we got in the car to drive to a cafe for coffee! And, of course, not like you do it in the UK - it wasn’t a big thing in itself - we stood at the bar and drank it within a few minutes. The big thing was that it was run by the daughter of someone that F had gone to college with. But I’m not sure that’s the reason we went!

But we would never have gone out for coffee in the UK. It is strange but nice but always reminds me that I remain a stranger in a strange land.

Of course, no one knows that F is gay. Well, apart from his brother and sister-in-law. Oh and his sister (and, I presume, brother-in-law and nieces). But his parents ‘don’t know’, apparently.

So during the birthday lunch, his sister-in-law was talking to his sister. They were comparing animals.

“We’ve got two dogs and one cat and you have four cats”, she says, before adding “and they’ve got two dogs”.

F turns to me, excitedly, and says “You see, she said “they’ve got 2 dogs”" - meaning that everything was alright and everyone knows anyway, even his parents - which, of course, they do and on which I had very little doubt! And, also for him, the fact that he is included in the ‘ownership’ of the dogs is important. Which is fine by me!

“It’s all too fast”, he states.

“Not for me, it isn’t”, I reply.

“At our age you have to take things more slowly”.

“Really? Why?”

And I mean it. Really? Why? Why does one have to take it slowly? Surely, one should take it slowly when you’re very young - when there really IS enough time. Now, we should be rushing and going as fast as possible.

He suggests it is because of experience but concedes that that’s not in my experience - so outside my knowledge. Later, I think that I should have said that, more or less, when I was his age, I started a relationship with the guy I just spent over 20 years with - and, if I had my life over again, I would do exactly the same.

“But it’s been over nine months”, I attempt to justify to him. He has this habit of not looking at me. Of moving his head in such a way as to appear blind - like blind people do - looking into the air and moving their head from left to right - see Stevie Wonder, for example.

He doesn’t look at me when he says, “C’mon Andrew, 9 months is very short”.

I won’t argue with him. He doesn’t understand. To be, possibly, meeting the family after 9 months together is not fast. It’s slightly more than snail’s pace.

But then, as I pointed out to him, no one in the UK at the age of 30+ (or, even 20+) would consider spending the two/three weeks of their holiday at their parent’s house. Christmas, probably. Easter, maybe. But your summer holiday? Going home and spending all that time with your parents? Are you crazy?

So we may look the same but, mentally, we’re very, very different.

Even in little things. We got to the bar and there were empty tables at the far end, outside. I sat with my back to a huge fan they had going. A sat opposite me. The fan turned and, at one point in its cycle, the air blew, quite strongly, on to my back and the the back of my neck.

“I can’t sit here”, he says. “The fan will mean that I will get a [stiff] neck”, he says, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, the part not being affected by the wind from the fan. Still, he got the waiter to adjust it, all the same. I’ve only ever really seen that here. No one in the UK gets that bothered by a bit of air movement. How can we? It’s so windy so often!

And, talking of the UK, I’m wondering what to take F to see and what to avoid. Should I go to my parent’s house (just to look where it is, not for any other reason); or just stick to Worcester - walk round a bit - Hereford we can do after the wedding. I will go to my Grandfather’s grave - just for a few moments - he was/is still my hero.

But, I want him to see where I’ve ‘come from’, so to speak. I don’t know why. But it might be boring. I have to be careful. We shall, hopefully, meet up with the bride and groom the day before and some other friends just afterwards and then, I hope, providing she can do it, go and stay with Best Mate for a few days.

I would like to go and see V’s Dad - but probably won’t get the chance. I would like to see Corrine but, again, it might be a bit much for F.

Or, perhaps, we should just suck it and see?

When I met V he used this lightening cream. It’s not that he was ‘black’ black but rather red-based black, meaning he was a lot lighter than a lot of other black people.

I learnt many things about what it is to be black. The creaming every day to stop one’s body from having dry skin, which on most white people is just a bit irritating and, well, white, whereas on black people is, well, white and, therefore, just a tad more noticeable; the attention paid to the hair - using oils and stuff to make it softer, without which it resembles wire wool both to look at and touch.

But, in addition to all the other ’stuff’ that V used, he used the lightening cream, not wanting to be white, just not wanting to be too black.

Really, of course, it is a type of bleach. I was quite worried about it. I mean, it wasn’t as if I had any problem with his shade of black for that was not what I was looking at. Black people’s skin is beautiful and almost always smooth - but there is a price to pay - this whitening cream seemed a little too much of a price to pay. Bleach, even in small doses, I reasoned, could not possibly be good for the skin, for you, if applied every day.

And so, I applied my reasoning to him, wanting him to be happy but not to have problems later in his life, which is what I thought should happen. And if he applied it after shaving, it burnt him. Now that can’t be good, I thought.

And, so, he stopped using it after I had suggested it could not possibly be good for him and explaining why I thought this.

There is a product, currently on sale here, that is aimed at men. It seems to be advertised everywhere. It reminds me of the old wild west of America when coke and tomato sauce were invented and initially promised great things in terms of health before being seen as the confectionery they actually are and with no significant health-giving properties. I mean, coke cleans up dirty old coins - how good can it really be for your stomach! Although, as we all know, a coke and a bag of crisps (for the salt) are brilliant when, say, travelling in Egypt to avoid or cure the ‘holiday tummy’ problem one often finds.

But back to this product. It is a cream. This cream will, apparently, reduce your bulbous stomach - a way of slimming, simply by applying the cream every day.

F is not stupid but sometimes seems a little too hopeful. He does have a slight stomach, that, actually, I find very sexy. I don’t know why, it’s really not like me at all!

However, he promises me it only came on after last year’s summer holiday in his home town, when he ate and drank far too much. Mainly ate though as he stayed with his parents and, so he says, his Mum cooks - a LOT.

But now he wants to get rid of it. I say he should leave it - but to no avail.  He does the dieting bit from time to time but it is a little difficult for him. He likes his beer too much - and his food! So dieting is out really.

And now he’s found the cream. “But is it working?”, I ask. He replies that he doubts it but it doesn’t stop him putting it on each night, rubbing it over the stomach and, like the lottery, hoping that he is the one person that wins, against the odds.

Last night I got in to his flat. He is ‘fanning himself’ with his hands. It is hot - but as I mentioned in the last post, cooler now. But he is very hot and there’s a reason. the cream of this miracle product is burning!

“It can’t be good if it is burning”, I say, trying to be gentle about the fact that, if it were me, I would stop immediately.

“No, it’s OK”, he replies in the standard way that he does - at least to me.

“but”, I say, trying to be a little more forceful, “I am sure it’s not supposed to burn when you use it!”

“Don’t say that”, he replies, “else I shall be worried about it”.

I laugh but hope that he is right and gives it some thought. It cannot be right. The motto ‘No pain, no gain’ is right but surely not for something that you rub on your stomach?

He’s not the only man in Italy using it. I know of several other people that are trying this out. Hmmm. Still, it can’t be right, can it?

There is a cooling breeze coming through the open window.  It is, in spite of my adoration of the heat here, most welcome.

For days, now, the temperature during the day has been reaching the mid-thirties (Celsius) and my body has been, as they say of ladies, glowing!  But, glowing profusely.  A shower offers welcome respite for all of 2 minutes. I try not to move much. Certainly, I ‘do’ as little as possible.

But, last night we had a storm. I truly love these summer storms. The cloud cover, us being in the city, is not black and gloomy but rather bright and orange. The lightening, whether sheet or forked, is a wonder. We never had these type of storms in the UK - well, rarely. With it (but this is not always so) came rain. Probably less than half an hour but refreshing, nonetheless. With it also came wind, the only problem being that I had to shut windows and/or shutters, thus depriving the house from the real cooling effect it gave. even so, the wind was not really cold - just cooler.

We were going to go to F’s flat - but the rain meant we were delayed. I had been mindful of the fact that F has not been sleeping well. The heat (which he hates), the dogs, my snoring and, of course, not least, work - now that he is working 6 days per week. Saturday night we had stayed at mine. The heat, during the night, imperceptibly different from the day-time heat. Even a sheet on top of you is almost too much to bear - and so, usually the sheet is thrown to one side.

I wake up, during the night. F has a headache and will I get him an aspirin. I do. Then he decides to move to the bottom of the bed, lying across the bottom of the bed at 90° to me (and the normal way of sleeping) - this allows him to have his head closest to the open window, trying to catch the slightest wisp of moving air, which is rare and, in any case, is as warm as having none.

I had promised to get down the fan. And, given the night he had had, I did get it down on Sunday, whilst he was at work. I plugged it in, making sure it was working and positioned to give the maximum of benefit for when we are in bed.

But, in any event, last night he finished really late and so, as I expected, we (the dogs and I) went round to his place.

As we are lying in bed, the breeze was really fantastic. As I said, not really cold - just cooler but enough so that I got under the sheet, covering my bare shoulders.

“I got the fan down, so we can have that at my house”, I said, pleased with myself that I had, at long last, done something to make him more comfortable.

“I have a fan too”, he said, adding, “but I can’t have it on during the night, otherwise I will get a stiff neck”.

I am glad it is dark. I am glad that I don’t laugh out loud. What I want to say is:

“But you have the window open at night - including tonight, when the air is cool - how can that be different from having a fan going?”

Apparently it is different.

Sometimes, the logic defies reason.

I have had it sitting on my desk, with a stamp on, for weeks and weeks. To post it, it meant a trip down Via Castel Morrone to the post office. Post boxes, here, always seem in such short supply.

I keep meaning to do it. It’s not crucial. It’s the acceptance to the invitation to the wedding. The wedding is at the end of this month but they know we’re coming, so it’s not crucial.

But, apparently, the Bride’s mum likes getting them back and mine has an Italian stamp - so more exotic, I guess. And, anyway, the stamp’s used now so I might as well.

OK, I say to myself, I WILL go the the post office tonight.

I take the card from the desk and have it in my hand as I walk round the corner to the car. I will put it on the seat of the car to remind me to go there tonight.

As I walk round the corner, I almost bump into a post box! I never knew it was there. I walk past it nearly every day, sometimes twice a day and never noticed it before. We men are crap. As my mother used to say - we can’t see for looking.

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I don’t know whether he forgot it ‘on purpose’. I knew, that morning, that he wasn’t going to come. Sometimes, I think, I am beginning to understand him.

He gets up to his alarm. It is 7.30 a.m. I would like to stay in bed and would like to get more sleep but probably won’t. But Saturday and Sunday are the only two days I get to sleep in.

I get up to let him out and then go back to bed. But I know sleep won’t come now so get up anyway.

I see his phone. Hmmmm. I think to myself that it would be easier for him not to come tonight if he doesn’t have his phone. He could say that he needed to go and get it or that he couldn’t tell me what time he had come back or that he wasn’t sure whether we had gone somewhere else, etc, etc.

I go onto FB and chat to him. I tell him I have his phone. He says not to worry. I say I will bring it round. He says he will be fine without it. I say that if he doesn’t have it I cannot tell him where we go and what time, etc. I say I will bring it round shortly.

I take the dogs. After all, it is ‘cooler’ at this time. We walk the normal way. We go through an area between the trees in a quieter street. there are, usually, at night, a couple of homeless people, possibly of Asian descent, that sleep on a couple of benches. If they were there last night then they got up earlier. They are not there. I guess, that Sunday is much like any other day for them - possibly less people to beg off - if they beg.

But they are gone. In the distance, at the end of this patch of green and trees, on the end bench I see someone lying down, probably asleep.

As I approach the bench, I see at the side of it, the obligatory empty beer bottle. I think he may be the guy who I often see on that bench. The one who doesn’t seem to be homeless as he’s always sitting there, not sleeping there - as far as I knew.

As I approach with the dogs, the guy wakes up, or, at least, gets up. He looks homeless. He has a shirt and trousers but they do look like they have seen better days.

As we come aside the bench he reaches in his pocket and pulls out his mobile phone!

What?????

OK, so maybe not homeless after all - or someone who is homeless but rich enough to have a mobile phone?

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Dino has two, very annoying habits. He licks and he pulls on the lead. The licking (as I may have mentioned before) I can’t seem to stop. The pulling I can but it takes time.

And so, at least at the start of every walk he pulls and he’s quite a strong dog - about 25Kgs of solid muscle! I yank him back and make him walk beside me until he stops pulling.

But it couldn’t last forever.

His collar is a material (cotton) collar. It starts to break. So now, tonight, I have to go and buy a collar. First a bigger one as his neck is much thicker than Rufus’. Secondly a leather one as a leather one will last much longer!

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Update:

He didn’t come. He could have but he didn’t. I didn’t think he would.

I am walking home and I am tired. I phone him and it seems like he cut off the call. Maybe he’s asleep already. I text to say I am going home and then taking the dogs out and then going to bed as he seems asleep.

I get home. It seems he’s on Facebook. I chat to him that I tried to phone and that I have sent a text.

I take the dogs out. I come back and am having a quick glass of milk. He calls. The phone was on charge in the bathroom. He left the computer on. He was watching telly in the bedroom. Am I coming round, he asks. If you don’t mind, no, I reply. I am ready for bed. He says the phone did not say I had phoned.

Ah well, anyway, he seems to have bad nights with me or, maybe, because of the heat, I don’t know. Still, it does no harm for us to spend the occasional night apart - or is that wicked of me?

“Looking forward to seeing you and the babies”

It hasn’t been that long.

“We are still in the restaurant, eating outside. I imagine our holidays - with the babies”

I take them out of order and, probably out of context. It’s my blog and I can do what I want.

In fact, it is only since 5.45 this morning when I got up and left him to wake up more slowly. But he was getting up at 6 anyway. He was going to the store near Venice.

It is hot and sunny there and cooler and more rainy here. But the rain will pass. And, for our holidays, I hope it is not like other years and remains hot and sunny, even if it is the third week in August - not the best week for being on holiday here, in my experience.

In fact, if you wanted my advice, holidays in the Northern part of Italy should be taken in July for the hottest, sunniest weather, with June and September cooler (but still hot) but more risky for rainy days. August, around the 15th, is almost guaranteed rain!

But I did notice that, in the message I put at the start, I was mentioned first. I also realised that he is, really, really looking forward to going away with the dogs (and me).

He has an idea for Tuscany (this is NOT the holiday). The problem is the dogs (or the babies, as you will). His parents place means that we sleep in two very small rooms and he is concerned because they go to bed early (and are up early - which all sounds good to me) but (and I more than agree with him) it’s not so easy with the dogs. The flat, which he shares with his brother, is currently being used by some cousin or something.

I don’t know how many times I have to say that I was only joking (even if the reality was that I was only half-joking). His plan is that he goes down on the Friday and I follow Saturday afternoon. Then I stay Saturday night and I (or, maybe we) come back on Sunday.

“I want you to come to C”, he says. And I really think he does. And I don’t want to take the dogs to his parents. at least, not until they know me better or something. Gentle introductions are required here, I think. Even if they will never know who I really am and are unlikely to with the language barrier.

However, he is thinking of doing this in the next couple of weeks. Let’s see. With him, I can’t get too excited lest it doesn’t happen. His mind is still unfathomable to me. I know he thinks about things a lot but what actually goes on in his head is just impossible and I can’t follow his logic (if there is any) (and that’s after my advice to Lola earlier this afternoon hahahaha).

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We expect things to work and we certainly take things for granted. Yesterday, in my head, I was looking forward to the shower I was going to have.

Except after nearly three hours, the three men went away, leaving me with a brand, spanking, new boiler …………. which didn’t work!

Another guy came today to fix it. It took him a while but he has done it. It was a blockage!!  As I said to someone at work, today.  I had one guy to carry things, one guy to fit the boiler and one guy to watch them do it.  Now, I could add - and one guy to make it actually work!

So I went to lie down for a bit and then I heard the sound of someone coming in. It was my cleaner guy. Since he had to leave early yesterday (no water) he was going to add hours next Wednesday. Instead, he chose to come and do the ironing today.

So, tonight I have a long, hot shower AND I have all my shirts ironed.

Cool, if you see what I mean.

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Today, I was recounting the story of how F & I met. The girl, A, thought it was a lovely story. Of course, my blog allows me to recount the circumstances in more detail than I would ever remember and for which I am grateful. She also wanted to know how it was to be gay; when did I know?; what about girls?, etc. I explained. I have nothing to hide. She was a bit shocked but then, in this country, there is an unawareness about it all that still surprises me. I wondered if this is what it is like in most of the world. I am truly grateful that I was born and brought up in the UK.

But back to the blog. I’m not sure that I always say all of the really important things but I think I was, mostly, faithful with my recounting the story, since it was written at the time. It makes me wonder, if, in a few years time, some of the essence of the whole thing will be gone from the blog. It’s not really a diary, is it? It’s more a collection of random thoughts and random happenings in my life. Some things are deliberately missed (for various reasons); some things omitted by accident.