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

It happens every time he goes away. Every time he is away. He lights up my life in ways I cannot describe and when the light isn’t there, the gloominess, darkness returns. Of course, this mood is not helped by the weather. Miserable and grey and raining. Ugh! I hate winter. And so, the post below.

Which describes it all wrong. It gives the wrong impression. The weekend was fabulous. His family are so nice to me. The weather was fantastic and every day we were on the beach - one night staying until after 7 p.m.!

I think I’ve seen most of the close family now. One day, on our way to the beach (probably the weekend before last), as we driving from his house (probably to the beach), we stopped at a block of flats to see his cousin. This is the daughter of his Aunt and Uncle who live about 2 minutes away from their daughter.

The cousin had just (in the last few days) come back from holiday. I was introduced to her and her husband but I have completely forgotten their names (I’ve always struggles with names). I was shown some of the artwork that F had produced at college, proudly displayed on the wall in the hallway, framed and looking good. I was also shown some sculptures which were made by her father.

Later, at the beach, she texted F. He tells me what she says. “I like your new boy’. “She knows?”, I query. He replied in the affirmative. It seems that it’s only his parents that “don’t know” - even if, as it must be obvious to you, my dear reader, they know. I can tell he is pleased by her text. The meeting with the family members during these four weeks or so has gone well. In those few weeks, I have become ‘established’. He is relaxed about it, I can tell. He trusts me with them, I can tell that too.

And, to be honest, there has been a certain amount of ’showing me off’, which is fine, since I did the same in the UK - and that’s what we do, as human beings, isn’t it?

I have been shown off to friends and relatives alike. I am not S and, even if I cannot communicate with them so well, I am forgiven by them and him by virtue of so obviously being in love with him. It helps that I am straight - well, straight-gay.

Last weekend, we are at a bar (at the bar that R, his best friend, favours at the moment or this season). A rather down-at-heel, beach bar. Food, which is not terrible (but neither anything to write about) is served on plastic plates; beer is from a bottle; music is, well, absent or dire; seating is with cheap patio furniture or else wooden benches against a wooden bar overlooking the sea. And yet is is favoured by a group of people who seem to be there most nights. As is R.

F tells me that it won’t last. Next year or, even, next week, R will move on to somewhere else; somewhere where, inevitably, all his ‘new best friends’ will be and who will be different ‘new best friends’ from the current ‘new best friends’ and the new bar will be much better then the current bar or the last bar or any previous bar. I feel slightly sorry for R. He “escaped” from the provincialness of the town - for a while - but circumstances took him back and circumstances or his own unwillingness to go outside the confines of the comfortableness of what he knows (or even the comfortable uncomfortableness of it) keeps him there. But then, not everyone is like me and I’m not sure that I should be feeling sorry for him. Perhaps that is better than my life. Let’s be honest, he has the advantage of knowing where he is and being close to family and friends and being a bigger fish in a smaller pond - and maybe that’s better?

Although I don’t think so.

So, we are at the bar, again. R comes, dressed up to go out. Top lip botoxed, eyebrows plucked into a perfect arch, a little make-up - looking plastic and nowhere near as handsome as he is, underneath it all. Still, that’s what some people like. I ask F if he ever wore make-up. His reaction was the same as mine would have been, asked the same question. One of shock and definitely ‘no’.

C comes. She is the one that read my hand (see a previous post). She is a slightly over-weight, pleasant enough woman. To me, she dresses like a Goth. Well, a bit. Black hair, straight and long, black clothes, dark make-up. Not truly a Goth, just similar. With her comes her daughter, who is 16. C is separated from her husband. J (her daughter) doesn’t get on with her father so well. R calls her, unkindly, the elephant. She is larger than her mother but you can see they are mother and daughter for she, too, is almost Goth.

J comes with C all the time. At first, I thought that was lovely. That her daughter can be like a friend and she can be a friend to her daughter. But, every night? at 16, I felt, she needed to go and get a life. She’s not really interested in people of her own age since they are ‘too immature’, apparently. To me she seems a tortured soul or maybe really, a tortured and picked-upon teenager. There is a sadness about her. He smiles, although pleasant enough betray, to me, a loneliness that comes from not having real friends. But girls can be so bitchy at that age, I do understand that.

F turns to me, at one point, to say that C had said that, if I should ever change my mind (about being gay), she would be first in line and that she thought I was handsome. I laugh and thank her. At the same bar, some weeks ago, a guy who is Roman but lives there now, couldn’t quite understand that I was gay since I didn’t seem gay. Of course, he was comparing me to R (and, maybe, F) and all the other people that he ‘knows’ are gay since, if you can tel they are gay, they most probably are. People really miss the point that how you look is not, necessarily, how you are!

However, F is pleased that C likes me that much. And he knows (I think), that, after over 40 years of ‘being gay’, it’s unlikely I would ‘change’. It makes me smile though. I like to be a bit different!

We both agree that the ‘bar’ is not going to be on our hit list of ‘great places to go’. R would like to take it over and really ‘do something’ with it. But he won’t - even if he had the money. It would be too much like ‘hard work’ and would curtail his going out on Saturday nights to some disco or other where everyone is ‘twenty-five or younger’, says F. Not F’s style nor mine. R didn’t take a job at a shop in Forte di Marmi because it would mean working, some nights until 8 or 10 p.m.!

M was at the bar too. She plays some musical instrument in a band. She is a striking woman.with short hair, dyed in streaks (but lateral, not vertical) in shades of red. She is a nurse in ‘real life’. After all, except for R, this isn’t real life at all but eh summer, with its visitors from other places and an atmosphere that can only be temporary. Most of the people there, now, are locals, enjoying the last days of a summer that, given that the holidaymakers have mostly returned home, is all but over. Until next year - and a different bar with different friends and different holidaymakers.

Another weekend.

Again, staying in the house. The house that’s really the ground floor of quite a big house.

It’s nice but it has that ‘unlived in’ feel as it is, really, not lived in.

It may have been almost 11 months but I am still wary, still not wanting to rock the boat, still not wanting to say all that I feel, all that I want, all that I need. I hold back. I wait, patiently, for him to say things or suggest things or do things. I feel ‘temporary’, as if, any moment, it will all finish. It’s not really good but I don’t want to be imposing nor, to be honest, am I unhappy about just drifting along. After all, we don’t live together. If there’s an escape (and it applies to both of us) then it’s an easy one to be made. Although it is all good, I don’t feel the commitment and, so, don’t feel quite committed, even if I don’t want nor feel that I want anyone else.

But I don’t feel that there isn’t commitment either. I don’t feel that it’s temporary when I’m with him and yet, I do. I guess I don’t really think about it. We’re not young any more. We don’t have our whole life in front of us - only part of our life even if that may be half! Not that I want to be young. I’m comfortable being old although I’m still waiting for the ‘feeling old’ bit to really kick in.

F said, last night, that N would be 50 today. I thought: Oh, that’s old - before I checked myself, having already passed that milestone. But that isn’t the first time that’s happened. I know that, not having children by which to measure the passing of time, the aging process, means that it doesn’t really catch up with you. Most of my friends are my age, even if they are considerably younger. They’re my friends and so, my age. The only exception to this are the people that are half my age or less who are obviously more like children than real, grown-up human beings.

For the last few weeks, while we’ve been down there, he’s been talking about renovating the house, making it more habitable, more homely. He needed to discuss it with his brother who, as time goes on, I realise is not F in any way and I would not swap what I have for Johnny Depp even if I like the idea - it’s on a very superficial level only.

He discussed it. They discussed it. They aren’t the same person even if they are twins. They are twins in that they came out at the same time (more or less) but they have no special connection as twins sometimes do (or so I’ve read).

Johnny favoured one single house from the two flats. F says he couldn’t live with him (but he didn’t say this to him, only to me, several times). I’m sure that is true. Then again, I’m not sure who F could live with or, even if that person would be me!

When F suggested it be kept as two flats, Johnny suggested that they turn it into three flats. He was just being stupid or pretending to be so. F has ideas for his part of the house. Some changes he would like to make, that he could make now by taking a mortgage (not even a big one) and doing it and paying it off within 10 or 15 years so that, when he retires it will be done. I’m not mentioned in this picture. At first, I wasn’t even sure I was in this picture. That’s OK. Remember, I’m just drifting through; I’m just temporary. Sometimes, I almost feel like I’m not really here anyway, like it’s all made up and the next moment I will be somewhere else - in a different time, a different place, a different world with different people; unreal in my silent life.

But then, later, when he’s talking to someone (I can’t remember who) he says that he wants to get the place ‘fixed up’ so that we can come here more often; so that we have somewhere nice to go. He doesn’t say but he also means somewhere that he can make as he wants, with his furniture and his ’stuff’ so that it will be more comfortable for us.

I don’t say anything. I never do. I hear but, maybe spoilt by my time with V, I wonder how much is true and how much is ‘just being said’ for someone else’s benefit, of course, not mine. I wonder, idly, on our way back, at what point will I feel ‘real’, permanent, a fixture rather than a cloud. I wouldn’t swap where I am and the problem is me and not us nor him. I should feel really happy with the ‘inclusion’ of myself in this future with the house, with the plans for Christmas and, although I do feel really happy, it still feels like ‘Sure, if we’re still together then’, even if I say ‘That will be lovely’ or ‘Yes, that’s a good idea’.

I said, early on, within the first few days, or, rather I wrote, that I don’t come with any baggage but I do come with two dogs. I recognise, now, that this is not entirely true. I come with the baggage of 20 years. Not bad years but years all the same. I can’t erase that and nor would I want to. I come to care less and less about V and, by his actions, I recognise that I have already been relegated to ’someone he knows’, soon to be ’someone he knew’. It doesn’t anger or upset me since it is where I want to be too. But I’m not yet in that state of belonging to somewhere else or, rather to someone else and I want that even if I don’t say that and instead say ‘we each have our lives’ since, really, I don’t want that at all.

But, then, I never wanted that although now, after two relationships, I don’t have the jealousy of ‘excluding’ anyone else from our ‘inclusion’. Our inclusion should not be exclusive to us. But, still, I want our inclusion. It’s not like he does any of this purposefully - at least I think not. He, too, comes with baggage. He, too, is wondering - at what point do we say - next year; the next ten years; a lifetime? I think. And I’m ‘the silent type’ - from his perspective. Not silent here, just silent in ‘real life’.

Apparently, Elton John is gay!

He has, apparently denied it. In fact he goes further. He gets married and, unfortunately, can’t have children. Or, maybe, his wife can’t. It’s a great shame.

He shared a room with another man and has put himself in a difficult situation since he had put this other man on the staff.

Obviously, someone who is so rich and, anyway, because of his job, should have had separate rooms, chose, instead, to sleep in the same room as another man.

Only someone told on him.

He didn’t do it just the once either.

It’s disgusting, that’s what I think. And to prove everything, here’s a picture :

Whoops! sorry, I meant William Hague, not Elton John.

Anyway, for what it’s worth, I always thought he was gay. It doesn’t make him a good person, you know? His voice is irritating for one thing. If I get to meet him in a gay bar in Milan, I can assure you that if he tries to chat me up I shall immediately rebuff him. His voice is THAT irritating. Anyway, I have F.

Is it Elton or William? Anyway, in either case all applies. When William ‘comes out’ in a few years, there will be some people who said ‘I told you so’

Following Lola’s subtle request, I will write something about ‘The Folks’.

I was, in a way, slightly apprehensive about meeting them. We had been together a long time. F doesn’t really say much about what he may have said to them. I know, before I meet them, certain things.

I know his father has been ill, a year or two ago and has lost a lot of weight. I know his Mum cooks. I have heard the story about S, the ex, begging F to stop the food coming (as he couldn’t say ‘no’). I know his sister talks. I know nothing about his brother (before we meet, really). I know there are a myriad of aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins, etc.

I know his mother and father ran a dry cleaning and laundry place in the town and are now retired.

To be honest, it’s difficult to remember exactly how it was when I first met them. They are all, without exception (well, except for 1) utterly charming and so nice to me …… it seems. I say ‘it seems’ since a) I don’t speak Italian very well and b) apart from his niece (his sisters child), no one speaks English at all! this makes for, shall we say, short and shallow conversations.

So, let’s see. His father is a really sweet man. Kind, gentle and, well, tiny! But then, I guess, F isn’t exactly tall. He sports a moustache that would have been perfect in the 30s or 40s. He is slim (although F says he used to have a ‘pot belly’ but it is hard to believe. He cooks. He cooks some wonderful stuff. Now he kisses me on both cheeks as Italians do. I’m not sure if it means anything or not. He tries to hold conversations with me. I try to hold them back. His Italian is better than mine!

His Mum is lovely. she is the local ‘help everyone that needs it’ person, apparently. She is not thin but not huge either. A typical (for those of you from the UK) Italian Mum. When we were going to stay at the House, she immediately went to find some old curtains that we could use to put down on the floor for the dogs. Apparently, she likes me because I eat - i.e. I eat more than other people. this is true, I suppose. Although I have mentioned it before, I will say it again - when she cleaned the House for us, she made up only the one bedroom, with a double bed. she knows, of course.

Both his Mum and Dad have stopped mentioning S - at least in my presence. Not that it bothers me at all, but it is worth noting. It is almost as if, until I had been ’sussed out’, I needed to know there was competition. It’s OK, I knew - if only because F did the same sort of thing. Now I am accepted or, at least, it feels like I have been. I shall, of course, remain polite and nice for many years yet - not that I get impolite or horrible, ever - just that I don’t get out of the ‘being on my best behaviour mode’! It’s a thing that I do.

They live in a large flat (for Italy). I’ve seen the other houses the family lived in as a child. Not a large family. Parents and three kids. Middle class as they had a shop/business although my parents would have looked down on it as something lesser, no doubt, even if my mother’s mother was a shopkeeper.

Johnny and A, I have described before. They were truly fantastic. Lovely people. I learnt afterwards that things have not always been rosy between F & Johnny and, from what I am led to believe, they didn’t speak for years. Although twins and, although they have a similarity, they aren’t really alike. I think (but this is only a guess on my part), there is some envy on Johnny’s part. F, after all, left home, has lived in the US, the UK and Austria, travels for work (and that is always exciting to outsiders) and, having left the hometown, has shirked his responsibility for ‘the family’ and, of course, like the prodigal son, everytime he returns, the fatted calf is duly slaughtered. The fact that this is as much to do with F’s personality as to anything else, bears little weight on the argument. But his is just my supposition. Johnny and A know that F is gay and that I am the new boyfriend. It makes things easier.

B, his sister, is lovely. She is a large lady. She teaches disabled or disadvantaged children. The first time I was taken to her house, F showed me the living room. It was immacuulate. He said that her flat was always perfectly clean and tidy. Ten minutes later, B gave me a tour. She jabbers at me as if I can understand every word she says. She jabbers away at anyone who will stay still, long enough to listen. We went into the lounge. She apologised for how she hadn’t been able to clean it and so how it was a mess!

She did a rice salad for us to take to Umbria. To have eaten it all would have taken an army of people or the two of us about 2 weeks. F complains about her and her incessant talking but he’s not unlike her in many ways. She has suffered from depression and the drugs that she has been taking over the years contribute to her size. She is lovely to me. I think she knows but, in any case, when we were talking, on the beach, Sunday afternoon, and F translated for her that he had told me that, even if he’s away and if the weather is good, I should come down anyway. Straight away she said I should come to her place ‘to be fed’!

She knows everyone on the beach. She probably knows everyone in the whole town(s). She lives just down the road from the House. He complains about her but I think he really has a soft spot for her. She is the ‘older’ sister and probably looked after the twins. She has a niece, named after F but the female version. His niece is about 18 and is going to or about to go to some sort of medical school. She is very sweet and beautiful. She sits with us on the beach. When I asked F about this he said that he was her favourite uncle and that doesn’t surprise me. He is always buying her presents and stuff and, from what he says, always has done. She speaks some English but is a bit shy - but, again, quite lovely with me.

B is married to Fa. He is the exception. Although quite nice and he does seem friendly, for some reason that escapes me, I can’t ‘connect’ with him (if you see what I mean - I mean to say, I can’t properly communicate with any of them but he seems, somehow, more distant). However, the Sunday before last we did have a bit of a chat over Sunday lunch. It was a difficult and awkward chat but at least we both tried. F doesn’t really like him very much, I think.

I’ve also met the aunt and uncle who live near to the House. Not to speak to rally, just as we passed by and I was sitting in the car. We did go to their daughter’s place last Sunday (again, very close to the House). We didn’t stay long but later, when we were on the beach, she texted to say that she ‘like[d] your new boy’. Obviously, I asked if she knew and, yes, she did!

Many people said that I had ‘changed’ after I met F. Some implying it was for the better and others for the worse. And, yes, I’m sure I’ve changed. Some people recognised that I was happier, for certain. I wonder if they see that in F too. Certainly, in spite of the communication barrier, they seem to have taken me in and I’m ‘part of it’ as far as that can go - unless they always do that, of course, with any of F’s friends.

Still they are all nice and very friendly and I like them and, I think, they like me. I hope so and I hope they see that F is happy with me, which I think they do. We shall see. We go back again this weekend (another long weekend) and then again in a couple of weeks, F will fly from Spain to Parma on Friday night and the intention is that I go down that night too - if the weather is reasonable.

I am, strangely and unexpectedly, excited.

Is it really ‘going back to the ole country’? or showing it off to F. Is it the wedding or is it meeting some old friends. I just don’t know but it is unexpected and strange. The weather will be, almost, cold with, maybe, some rain. Maximum temperatures predicted are 22° - more than 10° less than here. No sandals or shorts then.

But……there will be beer; there will be lamb; there will be roast beef; there will be custard; there will be the Herefordshire countryside; there will be driving on the left (actually, I am a little worried about that and forgetting to drive on the left all the time - having to think when I get to roundabouts and junctions); there will be miles; there will be pub food (maybe a ploughman’s lunch, for example); there will be Tetley’s T bags and chance to top up; there will be bacon sarnies; there will be roast pork with apple sauce and stuffing; etc.

OK, so mostly food then. I will go to places that I remember and be shocked how much it has all changed. I will shake my head with horror at how England’s green and pleasant land is being destroyed, bit by bit.  It will make me miss some things and make me glad that I’m missing others. Overall, I am expecting that I will be glad to get home to here, again.

It feels like I am going to be a real visitor - a tourist….almost.

There is the usual shaking of the head. And the usual “you’re not jealous?”, said with an incredulous voice.

“No, why should I be?”, I normally reply, continuing with “and anyway, I trust him”.

Of course, this is so. I do trust him. I think this relationship is more important to him than anything else. He expresses things by actions, as he has always pointed out. He doesn’t go down to his home town because of me and the dogs. I get invited to almost anything he goes to. He stays at my messy place even if it must irritate him a lot - his place being so perfectly tidy and all.

He doesn’t really do words. He’s a visual person. An action type of guy. Words, to him, are meaningless if the actions say something different - so he chooses to express everything by action rather than using words.

I keep it all under control. But, still, sometimes it’s difficult.

After all, the response I give is usually, 99% of the time, true.

But, occasionally it isn’t. But that’s a little like the exchange - ‘How are you?” - “I’m fine thanks”. It’s the way I am. I have to project happiness and be positive. Negativity annoys me.

But, as you, my dear reader, will know by now, what goes on inside is not the same as the projected Andy. The inside Andy is full of doubt and insecurity and, yes, jealousy!

“Some people said ‘But what about Andy?’”, he reports.

Yes, indeed. What about Andy? Do you honestly think he feels nothing? Do you think that comments like ‘It’s only sex and as long as he comes back to me and doesn’t fall in love” or “I don’t care” make him feel better?

The other thing is - what did he see in them? Or is it that I am just the different one? I am a reaction to the ‘norm’.

“No, he’s not in fashion. That’s good”, he tells someone last night. They all agree. It’s much better if I have nothing to do with the fashion industry or art or something ‘gay’ like that.

But, then, that means we have even less in common. That means that he has plenty of opportunity and I don’t. Or something like that.

I was jealous of S, his colleague. S is very nice. He says things to me like “He loves you very much”. He says the things that F doesn’t. S is straight, apparently. But this is the fashion world. Worse still, it is the Italian fashion world with the men who are Italian and who think that being married or having a girlfriend doesn’t exclude them from having casual sex with other men! But I’m no longer jealous of S. He is a really nice guy. I know that he and F are close. But I don’t think there is anything else.

Again, I wonder what he sees in them. Unattractive, camp, over-effeminate guys.

I dislike a lot of gay people - because of this and their seeming inability not to involve casual sex in their conversation at some point or other.

The guy says; “I love Gay Romeo. You can chat and then you have some nice guy come round and have sex”

Actually he didn’t quite say that. The person he was chatting to, in this story, which happened two days ago, had a girlfriend and wanted money for the sex. Apparently they negotiated. He was explaining how this was the first time he had paid but how it was so much cheaper in the long run because he didn’t have to buy the cocaine and the drinks that would have been invariably required. And, apparently, the guy smiled and was nice all the time. He told the guy to keep every Wednesday free.

It’s not that I feel that I’m missing out - I just have never wanted that type of life. Nor, really, do I want to hear about it. It’s not that I want to shut my ears to it. It’s that it is, for me, quite depressing to hear. It worries me that I would end up like that. It’s the same with homeless people. After all, the sex part is not important, it’s the lack of real emotion, of intensity between two people that’s important (even if the sex would be ‘intense’ - it’s not the same). Surely?

And then I think - maybe it’s not jealousy. Maybe it’s insecurity? Yes, not being sure, perhaps? Maybe?

I’ve never understood why, when people get really jealous, all their rage is taken out, not on their partner but on the person their partner is with (or they think is with). That has never happened to me. If I got jealous in the past, the only thing is that I don’t want to see the other person. But I’m not angry or anything towards them but towards my partner.

Perhaps it’s not actually jealousy. And perhaps that’s why I don’t understand it?

Perhaps I should have kept the original subtitle to the blog. The one about coming here to find the passion and that it is here, all around me but that it never really touches me inside.

Perhaps I just can’t get the same feelings and I am mistaking one for another?

For Lola.

And, yes, he did look a lot like this - although the glasses were redder and the hair slightly longer.

Now you can understand!

I feel like Smeagol. I am a bad, bad person.

I’m going to tell you a secret and it will just be between you and I. It is too weird and complicated and freaky.

So, here goes.

I am walking towards the entrance. There, standing, waiting is a vision of loveliness. He seems quite tall; he’s wearing black jeans, slightly faded, with smart, black shoes; he sports a black shirt which immediately brings to mind the song, Camice Nere or whatever it was (I probably spelt it wrong and there was a lot of controversy about it but the song itself was wonderful and I didn’t understand the words anyway - first off I didn’t even know it wasn’t Italian and secondly I thought it was talking about a black waitress - until I was told about it (so, go on, laugh - it is quite funny, really)); the shirt open till about halfway down the chest; the chest, smooth and a deep red-brown colour that was so perfect, as if he had stepped out of an advert for clothes or perfume or something; his beard was half-grown - designer stubble as we say; his hair, brown but not too dark, maybe lightened by the sun, straight and long, parted in the centre, flowing down to his shoulders, curling very slightly at the ends, outwards; he wore red-framed spectacles but, unusually for me, they weren’t a turn-off; he gave an air of being casual, yet sporty, yet intelligent - all in all, the perfect man for me.

He could, almost, be Johnny Depp! There, you have the picture.

As I approached, I recognised him. Of course, I couldn’t be 100% certain but I was 99% certain. Maybe it was the nose, which in any event was ‘there’ and prominent. He did look younger than his 41 years even if, later, I saw traces of grey at the edge of his beard.

I became 99.9% certain it was him as I rounded the corner and found the woman sitting there, on the small wall.

I go to the buzzer and ring the bell. I am let in but ask about the guy and have confirmation that it is, indeed him. I am, already, racked with guilt even for my thoughts.

I try my best (and it is a very poor best) to confirm that I know who he is and would they like to come up.

We introduce ourselves and go up.

F is there in his underpants, as usual when he is at home. He is gorgeous and I love him. But the man on his sofa, with his shirt almost undone, now, is like the perfect version of F. I wonder if he shaves his chest and decide that he probably does. Men are so vain these days, straight or gay. The black shirt against the exposed chest and stomach make them, well, perfect.

We talk. Well, I talk little. Everyone speaks in Italian but it is well-pronounced (they are all from Tuscany) and, it seems, not talking in dialect, which would be impossible for me anyway. I wonder if they are all talking slower because of me or they normally talk like this.

R takes off his glasses. I can’t believe how stunningly beautiful he is.

I say that they look alike. Apparently, no one else thinks so. But, although they are not actually exactly the same, they are alike enough for me to know they are brothers although I would not have said twins. I think it is the nose that does it.

F gets dressed and off we go. R drives with A and F in the back seats - I am in the front cos I (sort of) know where to go.

I get into the passenger seat and imagine that I reach my hand across to place it on his leg. As I think that I know that I am only thinking that because it is a bad, very bad, thought. I catch myself glimpsing his crotch and wondering if there are any other likenesses. Again, I only do this because I know that I should not.

But they are nice people, R & A. We chat (well, they chat) and I follow almost all - occasionally F chips in with some translation for me or helps me if they ask a direct question of me.

It’s easy - not difficult. They seem very relaxed in my presence; nothing is awkward nor strained. I don’t follow the conversation completely, but I think they asked why F had not been down and he explains about the babies and they say that we can stay with them and that there is a garden and, anyway, they have two dogs (female) and one cat so it will be fine. And it would be fine, of course. I know that nothing would ever happen but, still, he is stunningly good looking and I imagine things even if, at the same time, it would almost be like incest and is too icky to even contemplate.

But knowing that and knowing how bad it is, I still can’t stop looking at him as he drives!

F and A go to take our seats whilst R & I go for the beer. We are in Italy but neither of us think about it. I ask him what he does. The language is a barrier to real conversation and it seems we have an interminable silence but it is not really so. We are nearly at the front when R realises that everyone else has a receipt - i.e. we should pay first. R rushes to the queue to pay and get the receipt. He returns at the same moment as I need to order the beers.

A talks almost as much as F does. They talk about the pets, the houses, the family, etc. As one would. I sit furthest from R. I look at him from time to time, amazed at how perfect he is and being disgusted with myself at the same time. Even with his glasses on - I am shocked that I can find someone with glasses so attractive - take away the other problem that he is, more or less, the equivalent of my brother-in-law!

At one point, during the concert, I whisper to F that I love him. Which I do. R is not a possibility and anyway, even if he were, it would not happen for I do, truly, love F. R is simply a distraction and is not F, even if they are similar.

After the concert, we walk back to the car. We learn that A is 57. F says she doesn’t look it. I echo that. But she does really. I mean, she looks like a granny - a rather hip granny - but a granny, nonetheless.

She walks more slowly and, for the walk back, whilst the two brothers walk ahead, we lag behind. She talks to me, sometimes in English but mostly in Italian, telling me all about them, their age difference, her first (and only) daughter (with her first husband when she was about 20 years old), her wish not to have more kids but if it happened then it would be fine (but I don’t think it will happen now) and her daughters wish not to have kids and the problem with the world today.

We drive back. I don’t look at him so often - on purpose for I know how wrong it is. I ask, F if his brother’s hair is naturally straight or if he straightens it. It is naturally straight. They are, it seems, nothing alike and yet ……….

They park the car and we walk them back to F’s flat. They feel bad that they are taking F’s flat but F had already explained that we live so close and we either sleep in his flat or mine. There’s no surprise with that but neither is it expanded upon.  There has been no talk or questions about us. Maybe that will come later? Later, next time, I mean. After all, they are also in an unusual situation and I don’t think they can or would criticise us.

At the entrance to the flat we say our goodbyes. They ask why I haven’t been down. F tells them in Italian that I always say that ‘I haven’t been invited’! They officially and formally invite me. We laugh.  we kiss cheeks.  Everything is normal AFU.  OK, only AFU in my head not theirs nor F’s.  Our first week of the holiday may be secured - see I am a really bad, bad person.

But I really like them. They have been so nice, they are seemingly open and friendly and have been very, very nice towards me.

I look forward to meeting them again. I think the whole issue of him being so perfect will be different next time. I hope so. For certain, he is not perfect.

I am shocked at myself. I am disgusted with myself. I hate myself. I am, mentally, beating myself - and I deserve it!

I hope you do not judge me too harshly but I have to tell someone. I am frightened I will say the wrong thing to F. My mouth must stay firmly shut on this. Sometimes, damn my brain!

They are squeezed in. I am reminded of the ‘packed in like sardines’ phrase - but that only makes sense if you’ve opened a tin full of sardines. But it is like that. I am sat down. The station is not really hot but not cool either. I can’t remember now. Was it only San Babila where they had the fans and the water spray every few seconds?

I hope that, in spite of the time of day, it is not rush hour for the ones going my way.

Previously, I had taken the tube. I noticed when a new crowd got on at one station that the smell ‘changed’ from a sort of plasticine to something else. I wonder if it the station or the people that made the smell change? I seemed to be more acutely aware of my surroundings- I don’t know why.

There was the young guy in the white shirt. Asian - like Indian or something. With the sideburns so short and thin running down besides his ear as if a line of dirt. The small goatee he had, seemingly false - attached at the lip only, very small and very black and standing proud of his chin - at least from side profile. The girl, short, not pretty but not ugly either, with the young guy. She carrying all the bags and with a propensity for hunching her back as if to presage the change, in 40 or 50 years, when she really would have the widow’s hunch; he not seeing to care that the bags were all with her, and not really responding when she put her arm around his hip, withdrawing it seconds later, perhaps because of his lack of response?

There was the woman, who, ducking under the arm of a guy holding on to the rail above his head, screwed up her face as she did this, and which face told me everything I needed to know about the guy’s personal hygiene or, rather, to be fair, the heat of Milan.. As she ducked and made the grimace, he moved because, actually, he was leaving the train too.

Outside, whilst I was waiting and watching the large digital display of temperature on the building at one side of the square; as the temperature clicked from 33° to, what looked like, 39° (which, in fact, seemed much more realistic) but which was 34°, there were the group of rather loud and, probably, slightly drunk men, sitting at the cafe (which is not really a true cafe but rather a kiosk with some high tables with matching high stools - all in red - since they were sponsored by a well known cola maker) talking loudly about something which I take to be football because different countries seem to be being compared, including England and Uruguay, etc. There was a woman who, at first I thought had just been passing and had stopped to look at them but on reflection must have been a part of the group; long, slightly curly (wavy, maybe? - no more than just wavy), brown hair, tied back with one of those half pony-tails that sit on the top of your head - there only to keep the fringe or the sides of the hair away from your eyes; of large build and, if I had been in the UK, lived, undoubtedly on one of the less salubrious council housing estates - but then, what do you expect from outside a main station in Milan.

As I’m stood there waiting, two municipal policemen come out from a ‘hidden’ door just beside me, the door just beside another kiosk that seemed perfectly closed to ensure the public can’t actually get any police help, one with a cycle and one without, the room was dark (one wonders if anything was ‘going on’ in there). I note that the policeman walking with the bike has, fixed to his hip, a large plastic-looking baton - with a handle that could come from a sword, all white making it look like some children’s plaything and if it would glow and make a noise, perhaps it could be a Star Wars weapon? The policeman with the bike walks off towards the traffic in front of me, the other guy walking towards the station - behind me but round me, me noticing his gun and wondering if they all have enough special training as to its use, saying his goodbyes or have-a-good-days or whatever.

Even in the shade, which is not real shade, it is hot. I really don’t believe the 34° but prefer my version of it - 39°. My shirt sticks to my back; I feel uncomfortable. I left the tie in the car. I notice and don’t notice things. A man with a child (I don’t even look round to see them) walk past, behind me. Did she speak English?, I wonder but vaguely not actually wondering because I’m not actually caring. I’m sure she said something like ‘There’s a tram?’. Did she add ‘Daddy’ or ‘papa’? I could continue to listen for signs but I don’t. It doesn’t matter if they are English or not; if they are tourists or not; if they even exist!

I see the cafe where we shall go, probably. I think I might suggest going inside where there will be air-conditioning. Or, perhaps the outside bit will have fans and water spray like they do in the Brera or Navigli areas. After all, this is a place where many tourists come - both Italians and esterni. I really want the beer that I have promised to myself. My body says ‘YEAH’ and ‘WHY WAIT’ and ‘GET ONE FROM THE CAFE THAT YOU’RE STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO’. I have a cigarette, instead because, if I’m honest, I’m frightened to go to the bar - I would have to push past the people that I don’t like who are still, probably, talking about football!

Is this what it’s like to get old? To be frightened to do things because of what may happen? Mind you, to be fair, I was always frightened thus. I’m not built like a ‘brick shit house’ as the phrase goes. I remember, when I was a kid, my Nan, for some reason, used to have those Marvel comics and they used to have the ads in for ‘7 stone weaklings’ which was me! And so, I thought, one day, I would get these things and transform myself into the guy who did not have sand kicked in his face - but I never did nor, now, would care to.

And, so, I don’t get a drink. But I do have a cigarette.

And then I wonder, as I usually do, if I will recognise her. I mean, I’ve only met her once and my memory is terrible. I watch someone walking away towards the park - but it’s not her, I know that much. I pretend not to look at anyone, just in case I don’t recognise her and I curse my memory for being so bad. But I sneak a peak, every now and then. Every now and then being every second, just in case.

I text her to say I am in the shade so she will know where to look because I’m not in quite the right place. I see someone waving and know, immediately it’s her. I needn’t have worried. But I shall do the same next time.

We air kiss as one does but not in the affected way that they do in the UK. Here it’s normal and natural. We go to the bar and she suggests inside, for which I am grateful. We go inside and she asks, in Italian for a table. As we sit down the waiter comes and talks to us in English. she responds in Italian. I think to myself that she is annoyed by the fact that they are talking in English to us - but I am British with a very British accent and she is Italian who speaks English almost like a native American/Canadian. Again, I am amazed at how her accent is not Italian. How every word she speaks does not end in a vowel as is more common here. I don’t know why but I’m also amazed that her accent is American/Canadian. It’s a little like black people speaking French, to me.

We order our drinks and I talk. She talks too but I am certain I over-talk. As I talk I keep telling myself to shut up. But then I forget and talk some more. I think I’ve forgotten everything we’ve talked of in the past. I am crap really. But the talk is easy and not strained and, after all, we know so much about each other and yet so little - like we’ve been friends for ages but not really known each other. And yet we know things that others do not, so it makes it confusing.

I talk some more and some more. We are not going to be that far away from each other for our holidays. Maybe we can meet. I want her to meet F for some reason. Maybe I want validation that what I have written here is true?

She has to catch a train and we walk back to the station. Then she tells me of her news and I am really pleased for her. So much so that I suddenly realise she might be missing the train. I hope she doesn’t.

I go back to the metro station and, as I pass the other entrance to the main station I look up at the departure board. Against her train (I suppose) are the flashing lights. I try to work out the platform to see if the train has gone or not. It seems not. I hope.

I go back down to the metro. And this is when I see the train packed like sardines in a tin. One end of one carriage is without light and I think to myself that the unbearable just got worse! even worse than that is that it is one of the older trains with no air conditioning.

I reach my station in an air conditioned train. I see a text from A wanting me to go have ice-cream. The message came through when we were at the bar but I forgot about it till now. I say yes.

As I come out from the station into the oven that is the outside and the street I wonder if my car will be there. I reprimand myself for being so stupid as to a) park in a blue zone without paying and b) parking too close to the car next to me - but I had no choice - the space between the two cars was so tight because of the way one had parked at an angle.

Everyone wants to save the square - save it for the trees - from the huge underground car park they (the council) want to build, here called a silo (probably see-loh rather than sigh-low). The trees are old. The square is quite nice although they could do a better job with the dog-walking areas in the centre but I’ve mentioned that before. At least I will probably have a fine. But what do I care - after all it’s not my car and, hopefully, it will be given back in a few days and then it’s not my problem. But I shouldn’t have parked there, really. Or, rather, not like that.

But it’s OK. The car is hot but not as hot as when I got in it at work. Then it said 45.5° and it felt like it. I drive back home and wonder how I introduce her to F? Maybe I just don’t really do the full introduction? Ah well, let’s see what happens. We only have a week which won’t be long.

I look forward to seeing F later, little knowing what had already happened……probably. I mean, what had probably happened by the time I was driving.

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.