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

Let’s be honest, go to a different doctor and you’ll be sure to get a different opinion. General Practitioners are exactly that - general. Specialists, on the other hand are a different beast altogether.

The same is true of everyone, I’m not just singling out doctors here.

I’ve been thinking, for some time now, that I need a different vet. It’s not that the one (or, rather ones, since there are two of them) are bad, exactly, it’s just that I’m not sure they really do the best or right thing.

Take the lump behind Rufus’ ear. He has lots of lumps now; it’s not unusual; he’s over 14 years of age. However, this particular lump kept on growing, fertilised, no doubt, by Dino’s instance on licking it so often. So, eventually, as Dino’s licking would sometimes result in it bleeding, I took Rufus to the vet.

I wasn’t worried about the lump itself, and explained that I wanted to find some way to stop Dino licking it. He looked at it. He wanted to check to see if it was malignant. Actually that thought hadn’t crossed my mind but, OK. He tested it. Or, rather, he poked and prodded it (which made it worse than before). It was not malignant. But the answer to my question was not given. there was some talk of, if it gets worse, we can always remove it but we don’t want to as he is old.

Hmmmm. Plasters provided little respite. But, then, Dino seemed to leave it alone, most of the time.

When we were on holiday, staying at Johnny’s place, one night, Dino was obviously bored or something and, during the night, licked it so much that, in the morning, it was bleeding again - and quite a lot. so we went to the vet that Johnny and A used for their dogs (who turned out to be an old school mate of F’s). He looked at it and said it would be best to remove it.

He did it there and then (and I learnt also that F is a bit squeamish about blood and stuff). It took less than half an hour, cost less than €100 (although we probably got a ’special price’) and, apart from re-bandaging it over the next couple of weeks, everything was perfect. Dino has stopped licking it (or, rather, where it was).

Last Saturday night, we found Rufus to be limping. I thought he might have something in the pad of his paw but looking at it I could find nothing. We came back on Sunday and on Monday night, as he was still limping, I took him to my vet.

“Ah”, he said, “it will be one of the ‘hairs’ from a grass seed that has got in”.

He found where it was (it was on the top of his paw, not underneath) and decided to ‘have a look’. He got out something that looked a little like a blunt pair of scissors and tried to find the offending ‘hair’ but couldn’t. He then said we would have 10 days of antibiotics and see after that. If the infection came back, he would need to go in to try and find it, if the infection stayed away, then it was already out.

But he seems to have made the situation worse than before. Or, maybe I’m not giving the antibiotics enough time to work. Or, maybe, I really should go and find another vet ………

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F texted me last night. He is in Berlin. He checked into the hotel. They said that they had the room for two nights. He thought that was strange as it should have been three (he was coming back on Saturday night). Once in his room, he checked his itinerary and realised that he had made a mistake. He comes back on Friday night after all! Now he is suggesting that we go down to Carrara on Saturday morning, early. If we leave by 9 a.m., we should be on the beach by 11 - enjoying the last few days of summer.

I am more happy than you can know that he is coming back on Friday - whether we go down or not.

Next week he is working in Spain and is flying back from Spain directly to Pisa. If the weather is going to be good enough, I will drive down and we shall have yest another weekend there.

You may remember how, on the night of ‘Disaster’, the first night of our holiday, he suggested that I made him bring me down there and that he never wanted to come. It seems that may not have been quite the truth

Still, it does mean that I have, obviously, passed ‘the test’ and that, probably, from his family’s point of view, I am very much ‘the good guy’ as they will be seeing him more this year than any other!

__________________________________________________________________

The only drawback to this and the wedding earlier in the UK, etc., is that this year, for the first time for years, I shan’t be going to Mantova - not even for a day - for the Festivaletteratura. I’m really sorry about that because I always loved it and I loved meeting the people I know. However, I do think it was V that they always really wanted to see (him being exotic and so on) and I guess this is one of those things that I should ‘let go’ now.

Still, I should send an email or something, perhaps next week, just to wish them all the best with this year. I shall miss the friends I usually saw and the things like playing chess with Boris Spaskey and playing Subbuteo and those sort of things.

Life moves on and change is inevitable. I would have liked to take F there, in the way that it was but I guess there’ll be other things that come up in years to come that will be similar.

At least Hay will always be there for me, when I can do it.

____________________________________________________________________

“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

I realised, reading back, that the holiday doesn’t really come across in the right way.

True, the journey down, the first night and most of the following day were terrible - but, after that it was truly wonderful.

For the first time that I can ever remember, arriving home did not give me that feeling of satisfaction at all. I wanted to stay. I wish I had been able to stay. F is down at his home town for another week - maybe it’s that he didn’t come back to Milan with me.

OK so, in short - after the first day, every day was really nice or, even wonderful. Most of it was relaxing. 4 days in Carrara and some new experiences for me. Taking Dino to the seaside and having a dog that really wanted to swim was one of them. Having an ice-cream sandwich was another (but that’s for another post).

The first few days in Carrara were a bit different, in that we were staying at Johnny’s place, so it wasn’t just us. Plus there were family to deal with - not in a bad sense - but we went to see the sister, the parents, etc. Another post will talk about going to the beach. It was fairly relaxing.

On the Saturday we travelled to the place in Umbria. This place was in the hills but with a wonderful view. The flat we had was nice and much bigger than we had thought. There was a small terrace overlooking the woods and the valley. The sun shone (after the Saturday) and it was hot. We would, most days, spend the morning by the pool, have a simple lunch on the terrace and then play cards and/or go back to the pool. In short, we didn’t do much expect for the one day of visiting. But it was so peaceful, so relaxing. No computer, so reading (again, for the fifth or sixth time) ‘We Need To Talk About Kevin’ and starting (again for about the sixth time) ‘The Blind Assassin’ - my two favourite books of all time. We competed at cards and at sudoku - it was fun.

I got a bit of a tan - not that I’m particularly bothered with getting one - but now that I have one, I remember that I quite like it :-).

And we didn’t stay at the pool every day. We visited Todi, Orvieto, Città della Pieve and, on the way back, Pienza (which was glorious and a real gem) - go and buy the cheese there - it’s a specialty.

Saturday night, we returned to Carrara but stayed in the house that is empty but is shared by F and Johnny. His mother had cleaned it and his father had cleared the garden (for the dogs). It’s in a small village next to Carrara. As I’ve mentioned before, his parents don’t know that F is gay. Well, they don’t know officially - however, it was interesting that his mother had only cleaned the one bedroom (we were instructed not to go into the other one as it was not clean) and the double bed was made up for us.

Sunday morning was back at the beach and then lunch with the whole family again (except Johnny and A) and then back to the beach for a bit and then I came home - with both dogs as I decided the responsibility and stress for F to keep Dino would be too much.

F wanted me to take a day off on Friday (tomorrow) and come back down - so I am - and I am really looking forward to it. This time I won’t have F huffing and puffing about bags or anything and it will all be easy and clear - well, apart from traffic, maybe!

17th August, 2010

It would have been perfect - about 4 weeks ago, when the blue flowers (which I should be able to name and once, a long time ago, probably could) wouldn’t be in their last throes or in spring when the broom (which I’ve never seen quite so much of - or, at least, not that I remember) was in full flower, filling the air with that sickly, sweet scent. It’s not autumn but there is a lot of brown, - patches in the grass, the undergrowth, some leaves on the trees…….

That’s the thing about here, this country. the leaves on the trees in the UK go brown or orange or red or yellow because it’s their ‘time’; here, it’s because they have burnt or have run out of water or something. The oaks already showing it; about half their leaves are that dry, crispy brown, as if they had already fallen from the tree some time ago. It’s all the same, yet different. Blackberries are there, some red, some half and half, some black but nothing like the cultivated ones in the supermarket either here or the ones in the hedgerows in the UK, here not overburdened with individual berries, full to bursting with that dark, red juice but hosting only one, two, three or four berries, small and wasted and not really worth the effort of picking.

The sun is already hot and it’s not even 9! I am already hugging any shade that the trees, harbouring those already dead leaves, can provide.

Dino is ahead. He sniffs the ground and finds the perfect one, Unfortunately he cannot just ‘pick it up’ or, not always. Sometimes, if it proves impossible to pick up, he waits fr me but he always tries first - spreading his forelegs like a giraffe going for a drink, laying his head on one side on the ground to grasp it and so, pick it up and, if successful, proudly carrying it on, jaws agape, tongue lolling out, panting - as I said the sun is already hot.

As I’m writing this, after, today, the French arrived. I mean to say, they’ve been here since Saturday but they seemed aloof, as one would expect of the French. I don’t think we ever saw the whole family together before. Yet we knew they were four. The parents maybe late 30s/early 40s. One child of 10 and one of 6, maybe, my guess at ages always crap. They came to look at the pool, rarely spoke to anyone, although F said they had said ‘hello’ to him one time.

But today they have arrived. Loud. Taking over the pool. Jumping in; causing waves and talking loudly; the older child screaming with joy at being hurled in the air by her father, to fall into the water and sink like a stone.

But I digress.

Sometimes as we walk on, Dino, sniffing the ground before him as he runs ( well, I say ‘runs’ although it is more of an ungainly canter - he doesn’t seem to have the refinement of carriage that Rufus has) finds (sniffs out) another one and will promptly drop the one he has to do his giraffe-drinking impression again to pick up the new one or wait, staring at me as if daring me to pick it up when I get to him but then wanting me to pick it up and throw it further along so that he can chase it.

Rufus, as I have found out this holiday, is, now, almost completely deaf. Now, for the most part, he watches Dino t see how he should react or where he should go or what he should do.

I could hear a car coming up the gravel and stone track, gullies at the side of the track to catch the water when it rains. We had rain the first afternoon/night. I realised then, it’s not like the UK rain, here. We had waited in the car, parked almost outside the supermarket entrance because the rain, not like a shower from the heavens but rather like a bucket from God, trapped us inside the car and the shoppers whohd finished, inside the supermarket, all of us realising that only a single second in this tornado-style rain would drench us in exactly the same way as if we stayed in it for an hour!

We drove back, up the same gravel track that I am now walking down, the gullies having real meaning now but, still, unable to hold the amount of water being deposited and the water exploding over the top and washing the gravel down, exposing the stone and earth below, with the earth, too, getting mixed in.

But now the gullies were dry, or almost dry, seemingly of no value except to trap the unwary or less careful driver or, as Dino, an exuberant dog who went that little too close to the edge.

I could hear the car, I thought. Rufus used to be so good. At the sound of a car, he trotted back. Now, I called but realised that, if he hadn’t heard the car then he wouldn’t hear me! Dino, not so used to all this, just stood, looking at me, questioning without any understanding, this normal pose when called for, as if asking ‘Are you serious?’ or ‘And, if I don’t come?’ - the imitation of taking your shoe off to throw at him the only way he will be made to slink over, grudgingly, in his own time.

The car came. Only when it was on top of Rufus did he know it was there and only then did he do the customary trot back to me, which was good and only marred by the fact that the car and he were now coming to me in parallel. I am amazed that Rufus hangs on so, me expecting him to have given up the ghost a year back. It will, after all, be our last ‘tie’.

We go down as far as the ‘factory’. I didn’t notice it all the times we have driven up and down and cannot tell if it is a factory or a storage place or an assembler of something or what it is.

It’s a couple of large, green, hanger-like sheds, some concrete blocks, some vehicles and, what looks like, a base for a new hanger, in concrete. Maybe it’s something to do with olives or something, I muse, afterwards.

We turn back, me realising that it is quite a long hill to climb now with the sun hotter than before.

I make for each bit of shade, the hot, in-the-sun bits to be endured until the next shadow. Rufus, more often on the way back, by my side as he is obviously struggling a bit now.

We stop at a point where the stream (that I have heard gurgling and gabbling all the way) meets the road. The dogs find it - I didn’t even notice it.

We make our way back up, Dino occasionally dropping his stone for me to throw or because he had found a new one.

I love the peace of this. I love the aimlessness of this. Walking the dogs through undiscovered (to me and them) countryside has to be one of the best things in life!

“I’ve had an idea”, he says. I have many ideas, most of which I keep to myself. I now know that he does too.

He doesn’t tell me straight away. Cleaning teeth, playing the new game on Facebook all go towards a delay in telling me. It isn’t until we get into bed that it is explained.

I should, perhaps, first explain that, the holiday plans go something like this:

We go back to his home town and stay with his brother (AKA Johnny Depp) and sister-in-law, taking our dogs (I can say ‘our’ now - see previous post). We go either next Tuesday afternoon/evening or Wednesday morning (possibly early).

We stay there until Saturday (so three or four nights).

On Saturday we (the dogs and us) go to the flat we have booked in Umbria. We stay there until the following Saturday.

The following Saturday we return to home town and he said he wants to go and stay at his parents place. He has an extra week’s holiday. I come back to Milan and go to work and the following weekend I go back down for the weekend and to pick him up and we return to Milan.

You may notice that the dogs are absent from the last paragraph.

I had thought that, maybe, I could leave the dogs with him - that was until he said he would like to stay at his parents’.

I had not mentioned my idea - but although Dino was really good on both car journeys last weekend and was not sick and drooled a lot less than normal, I didn’t fancy a couple of hours back to the home town and then another 2 or 3 hours to Milan. Dino, however good he may be, may struggle with that one.

But, as I say, my hopes were dashed, somewhat, when he said he would be staying with his parents. Luckily, I hadn’t said anything.

Back to his idea.

“Perhaps I could take the dogs for the week when you come back to Milan”, he said, continuing “but I’m worried about Rufus”.

His worry about Rufus (and there is another post coming up on him worrying, probably) is because Rufus is old and I know things that Rufus does that other people (actually only him) worry about but which are fine, really, because I know Rufus. When he does the teeth chattering thing, for example - it’s OK - I know why or, rather, I know the cause. So when F gets worried, I assure him it’s OK.

We need to see the other house that he and his brother owns. We aren’t stopping there not, as I thought, because the flat is not clean but rather because the garden is overgrown and, therefore, is full of mosquitoes and other parasites that might affect the dogs. I’m not overly worried - but I need to see it first. Perhaps next week.

I suggest that, if he would like, he can keep Dino and I just take Rufus with me since Dino and F have that special bond - they love each other so much.

I also suggest that it would be OK and I would take the dogs back with me because then he can have more of a relaxing holiday. The key (for me) is the other house. I need to see it to determine if I can allay his fears or if he is correct. Maybe next week.

Still, I’m glad that he came up with the suggestion and I thanked him for the idea. I also said that he shouldn’t worry about Rufus and, anyway, I was only a telephone call or text away and, if anything really bad happened, I could be there within a couple of hours.

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!

Half-written posts about the UK - I will get round to posting something - maybe next week.

Anyway, it was great!

And, we talked about going to the home-town here. And now, this weekend, we are. Finally!

I am so excited about it. Also, I think, it is to sort out the problem with the shared flat and, maybe, means that we shall come to the flat for a few days before heading off to Umbria in a couple of weeks - another thing I’m looking forward to.

Normally, at this time of year, as I see the people packing up and leaving for their summer break, I don’t really think about it much except, perhaps, I’m looking forward to the beautifully quiet Milan. This time I’m thinking that we shall be doing the same and I am really looking forward to it. Even the driving is not a worry this year.

With Dino always having travel problems, we are going to cover the back of the car with a sheet and then he can drool and be sick all he likes.

To mitigate the problem there’ll be no food after tonight and we’ll see how it goes. It’s about a 2 to 3 hour drive and we’ll stop, at least once, on the way. Dino is fine when he does it often enough, it’s just the first time. In theory, the way back should be easier.

But this weekend, we shall be staying with Johnny Depp; meeting with the sister and the parents and, hopefully, meeting the best friend with whom I’ve spoken on Facebook. There will also be time at the beach and I will see how that goes - maybe it will be fine, being with F and all.

Still, it doesn’t really matter. I am just so excited to be going.

“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?

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?

“you know other things ……..work, house, you, the babies :-)”

I can be a disingenuous sometimes, it’s true. Of course I knew the list included me and the babies. When I said that I wasn’t sure this morning, when he asked if he should go, I was hoping and wanting him to say this. Even if, last night, he was a bit concerned when I told him that I may not be able to get the ’sitter’ for the dogs and, so, maybe wouldn’t come. He suggested that I could come on just the Sunday. I said we’ll see. No, he doesn’t want to go unless I am coming or following behind. But this morning I said that he should go. He needs to see his parents and has, probably, promised his best friend. Or, rather, nearly promised.

Still, we all need confirmation about the feelings of those around us, from time to time, don’t we?

And so he isn’t going. And, so, I’m not going either. There will be another time. It would be so much easier if we could use his house. Then we could take the dogs and all would be fine. Let’s hope it becomes free soon.