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

One of the reasons I like this blog is it helps me to analyse things. Well, I mean to say that I actually analysed this whilst talking to F, to explain about ‘why’, but the blog and writing something means that I analyse it in a more structured and clear manner (although you may not think so).

So, in this case, we must go back (ahem) a few years to before I was 14. Every year, my parents would take us on holiday for a couple of weeks. We were a quite large family. 6 in total. these were the days before package holidays and before everyone flew off to become like lobsters on a beach where people resembled a tin of sardines in the south of Spain.

We were well-off but not so rich that my parents could afford a holiday abroad for them and four children. Instead we had a caravan. Originally a four-berth, when the two younger children were old enough, the caravan was ‘extended’ by means of an awning. There would be the ritual of ‘packing’ the caravan, trying to get the weight balanced so that it made towing easier; the packing of everything that would then be unpacked the other end and then repacked at the end of the holiday to be unpacked again at the journey’s end. The packing and unpacking seemed, to me, to take days. Then there was the ‘putting up’ of the awning. I never really worked well with my father. We never ‘connected’ when it came to doing things. If he wanted a screwdriver, you could be certain I was holding a spanner. If he wanted something holding, you could be certain I was holding the thing that wasn’t necessary. Instructions from him were a little like Italian is to me now - to my ears. The middle brother always got it right (when he was old enough) and I always got it wrong.

I hated the holidays. Well, that’s not entirely true. Some things I did like. I liked bacon for breakfast and the smell of it percolating through the caravan and outside; I liked it when we picked mussels from the sea-shore and brought them back and my father would cook them; I liked building, not just sand castles, but whole walled towns on the beach - well, until I was about 10 or so.

And talking about that, let’s talk about the beach. The beach was like a mini-caravan-holiday but in just one day. First there would be the preparation. We would be taking the deck chairs or sun loungers, the changing robe (made by my Mum so you can imagine it looked like an old curtain), swimming costumes and towels, the windbreak, food (in the form of bread, stuff for sandwiches, butter, knives, bread board, plates, etc., etc.), buckets, spades and so on. This would all have to be packed in the car, and then we would all squash into the available space in the car and be driven to the beach.

On arrival, we would enter the beach. For me, once we hit the beach I was thinking that we could stop just there. But no! My parents didn’t like being near all the other people. We would have to go where there were less people - some several miles and hours along the beach from the entrance. OK so I exaggerate a little - but when you are 10, five minutes seems like an hour. Worse still, I was the eldest boy. My siblings were my sister (18 months younger than me) and my two brothers who were several years younger than me. So, you can imagine, with all this stuff, I had to carry a lot - and I loathed it. Worse still, I knew this had to all be carried back at the end of the day!

Then, having picked somewhere out of the way of everyone else (now, of course, I realise this may not only have been for their benefit - maybe, having four kids who fought and squabbled, it was for the sake of the other beach users too!), we would have to put up the windbreak, put up the loungers or deck chairs and then wait as, one by one, we used the changing rode, to get changed - me having an absolute morbid fear of being seen naked by anyone (perhaps that’s worthy of another post sometime) and the idea of my naked body being only a curtain away from being seen by everyone at the beach was almost too much in itself.

And then, of course, this was the UK - so no guarentee that it would be sunny or, for that matter, even warm! No, apart from the sand towns that I built, I remember nothing really good about the beach.

Fast forward then to about 22 years ago.

Our first holiday together. V (only having been to Jamaica once) had never been on a holiday like the one I was taking him on. We had been together a few months. I chose Italy. I chose Sorrento. We had a glorious holiday. But, at that time, I really liked to get a tan. One day we went to ‘the beach’. I knew nothing, of course. Sorrento, being mostly built on high rock, bathing was by means of jetties at the bottom of the cliffs. To get to these one had to be staying at the hotel or to pay for the privilege. Since V couldn’t swim (and I wasn’t that good) it seemed a waste - and I had never paid to sit on a beach in my life! We traipsed to the only free beach that we could find, some half hour out of Sorrento.

We got to the beach and it was fairly quiet. Not too many people. I went for a swim. V didn’t. I sunbathed - V was covered head to toe (using my shirt to cover his head) as, at that time, he used lightening cream to lighten his skin colour and didn’t want the sun to make it darker. Aside from the fact that it made us look a weird couple, it wasn’t really that enjoyable. I don’t think we ever went to a beach again (although we probably did, just not in summer)

Fast forward, now, to the year before last or, maybe last year. Best Mate came over. She wanted beach. We went to the Ligurian coast. I really wasn’t keen. Firstly, it had been a lot of years since I had worn swimming trunks in public, secondly I wasn’t a good swimmer, thirdly I was as white as white can be and fourthly - being on the beach would be boring and I would get too hot. In addition to all that, I was aware, by now, that one had to pay to get on most beaches in Italy! Pay? Are you MAD?? I pay to lie somewhere that’s too hot; that I’m bored with, within about an hour; to lie next to (and I mean about 5 inches from) someone that I don’t even know??? NO WAY!!!!

We found one of the free beaches. Small, pebbly, uncomfortable, I did the bit for as long as I could take it. I didn’t go in the sea. I was ……. uncomfortable and hated it - but I did it for Best Mate - as one does. I was so grateful when we left the beach.

Fast forward again to last October. I met F. F’s idea of the perfect day was a day on the beach. This is a problem, I thought. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained and all that, I have to go with it. If I really hate it I can always say so ……. I suppose …… maybe.

I realised, when we got to Carrara the first time, why his perfect day was a day at the beach, in the same way that my perfect day is a day in the countryside, walking through woods and fields. It’s where we grew up and it’s what we remember or are used to.

I will be honest, I was filled with some fear. He had seen me naked and I have no problem being naked in front of him - but this would be naked in front of loads of other people, some of whom were his family. Well, not EXACTLY naked, but near enough.

In addition, it would be boring. And, as I can’t see without glasses, I wouldn’t be going to the sea; and I would get too hot; and everyone would be too close; and I wasn’t that bothered about being brown; and….. ; and…….

Should I wear my trunks or not? What about a towel? What about money and the mobile phone? What do I do, how should I be, what should I expect? There were many questions - mostly I didn’t ask them. Yes, I should wear my trunks; no, don’t take your wallet, just 50 Euro or so; yes, take your mobile phone, of course.

I wasn’t shaking but I was nervous. It was almost like going to the dentist.

We go to the beach on which his sister has a place. She has it for the season. She pays about 2K for it!! We walk down to the beach, through the car park. I’m sure the Italian coast is really lovely to see but you can’t see it from the land - not like in the UK where you have a promenade, overlooking the beach - to take in the sea air, to look out over the ocean. Here, jostling, side by side are the private beaches. You can’t see them from the road - the beach is behind a building - the building housing changing rooms; a bar/cafe/restaurant, shower block, bathrooms, etc.

We walk down the gravelled car park, past the toilets, the showers and the changing rooms (although we stop at his sister’s to drop off our shorts and T-shirts). I am naked or, rather, I feel naked. And white. It wouldn’t be so bad if I were see-through - then no one would see me. Now they will look at me, see this old man with this crap body and, probably, point and whisper and laugh and I SO want to run back.

I follow F down the footpath. We aren’t even at the beach yet. I just know that I am going to hate this day but I must do it - for F, for me, for us. We get to the bar. F asks if I want breakfast (it’s about 10 a.m.) and I say yes. Anything to delay the final bit of getting to the beach and it gives me time to observe. We get cappuccinos and a cream-filled doughnut (our favourite breakfast). We go and sit down in the seated area. F explains that the area just behind us is where everyone goes to play cards later in the afternoon, after lunch. The area behind that is where people who’ve brought their own food, go to eat. This area is where the people who buy food from the cafe eat.

Everyone (there are not so many people but more than I would like) is brown. I feel more white than white. I do note, though, that not everyone is attractive with a great body. In fact, they are many shapes and sizes. I do feel a little better. My body isn’t THAT bad and, although white, for a 50-year-old man, at least it isn’t too saggy with too much ‘floppy skin’.

Apparently, there are no spare ‘umbrellas’ for hire. We shall have to go and use his sister’s. It’s OK. They won’t be there until the afternoon. I prepare myself to be bored to death. At least we won’t be paying for me to be bored, so that’s something! We walk down to the umbrella. Not just any umbrella but a specific umbrella. F knows where it is. They are not 5 inches apart, as I suspected but a reasonable couple of feet apart. Each umbrella has one lounger, one chair and one deckchair - except his sister’s where there is no deckchair but two loungers.

The umbrella is up. We arrange the loungers and chairs so that we can lie in the sun. I look around (but carefully, so no one sees me). Hmmm. OK, there is no one really near to us. the umbrellas near us are empty of people. I look at the people in the distance. Apart from being brown, as if they’ve been on the beach since May, I muse that people look better with clothes on.

I take some sun. After about half an hour, I am too hot. I have to do something about his, if we are to be here all day. I decide to go to the sea. I tell F. I walk down the wooden board walk thing to the beach. It is busy at the beach but not as bad as I had thought. I go in. the water is cold. I wade further. I note that there aren’t that many people actually ’swimming’ which is good, since I am not a strong swimmer and, anyway, I can’t bear getting water in my eyes (even in the shower). I swim a little - breast stroke and on my back - before coming back out. I am cool now so can stand a bit in the sun. I get back to ‘our’ umbrella and stand there, being dried by the sun.

Don’t get me wrong. I like the sun. It provides heat and I love the heat, as you know. It’s just this boring bit of lying there like a pig roasting on a spit that I don’t really like - but, I have to admit, this isn’t so bad. We didn’t have to carry the loungers down and the umbrella was there and open for us.

F decides to go into the shade of the umbrella. I stay in the sun for a bit. I read my book. F listens to music on his iPod. We both go to the sea. He wants to stay as long as me - about 15 or 20 minutes. Suits me fine. We go back to the umbrella. He suggests a game of cards. He has taught me to play his favourite games. We play them. I read a bit more. I also go into the shade of the umbrella, being a little bit red.

Some woman comes to say hello to him. She is from two umbrellas down. They played cards together last year. She is about 60 or so. We play cards with her. Another woman comes; she is about 45. She joins us in playing cards. I think - it’s nice that all these old people want to play cards with us - that is, until I realise that I AM one of these old people!  His niece comes and talks to us. she doesn’t play cards. This beach, I learn, at least this area of the beach, not far from the sea, is used, mostly, by locals. These people are friends of his or his sister. It is very pleasant being on the beach, under the umbrella, playing cards and chatting (well, they’re chatting - I’m mostly listening).

B arrives (his sister). She talks. He has jokes to me that it takes her half a day to reach her umbrella as she has to talk with all the people on the way down. She continues to talk. We all go for a ’swim’ in the sea. For most of them, this means wading out until you are neck high in the water and then chatting. This is quite enjoyable, I think. If this is what it is like, I can do this!

This is what it is like. I can do this. Actually, I like this. I had forgotten that I really like to be brown. It makes me feel good. I had forgotten that I like the sea. When I first met V, my solution to everything, every ailment was sun, sea and good food. Here, I am getting all of that. I feel good.

I now understand the reason for paying for the beach. Here you have all the facilities (including a shower by the water’s edge). There’s no lugging of stuff, no searching for your ‘own’ area, no traipsing miles just to get an ice-cream! People aren’t packed like sardines, they don’t stare at me because I am whiter than white (or not so as I notice).

A few days later I speak to Best Mate. I promise her that, next time, we go to a paid beach and that I’m cool with it now. The ordeal is over. Now beaches are for relaxing, reading, playing cards and talking with friends, interspersed with dips in the sea. It’s OK.

“You know that I don’t actually believe all this stuff, don’t you?”, I say.  Actually, I don’t believe much of anything, I think, as I write this.  Further, I never really have but, certainly, it’s taken me 50 years to get to the point where I believe less than I used to.

He doesn’t reply. Later I say “Oh, go on then, let’s see what she says”.

In the end, although I don’t believe it, I still want to know. It doesn’t even make any sense in my head either. I’m nervous - well, not exactly nervous but something lesser. It’s a kind of anticipation.

She holds both of my hands, palm upwards, F next to me to translate.

“You’re very sensible”, F translates to me. She says this a number of times. I agree that I am. Later, in the car, I say that I must be very boring. F doesn’t reply. Either he didn’t understand or he agrees. It’s not good. Perhaps I am too boring!

We had gone to the bar on the seafront again. This woman, someone that R & F used to be at school or college with, is there again with her daughter. Her daughter is a bigger version of her. She’s about 16 but looks older (the daughter, obviously). It’ll be the ‘goth’ look that she wears that will do it, I suppose.

They’re really nice. I forget names. Too many people that I met, really. The woman, I am told, reads hands. She reads someone’s hand. Another guy she takes away to read in ‘private’ at another table. That’s when I say that I will do it. I don’t believe it but I want to hear good things.

We sit at the same table when the other guy has left.

Apparently, I shall have a long life. This does surprise me given that I’ve been smoking for over 40 years! Ah well, I don’t believe it anyway. And, yet ……

F later says that we should cut down on smoking. I say why, since I will live a long life. He says that yes but I don’t want to spend the last 20 years in hospital. It makes me laugh but he has a good point.

See, my grandfather, whom I really loved and admired and everything, lived until he was 82 or 83 (in spite of my sister saying that he didn’t) and he smoked until he was in his sixties. So, although I don’t believe her, I want to believe her and it does fit in with my own theories.

She assures me that I am very sensible. This is true - to some extent. I want to say that whereas I may seem sensible on the outside, I did kind of leave everything to come here 6 years ago and that I am constantly pushing myself to NOT be sensible since being sensible doesn’t really let you experience anything. I did that for far too long.

She says I have come out of a very long and very painful relationship! Well, as my regular readers know, I have had two long-term relationships. the first for 10 years and the last for almost 21 years. I think OK but I didn’t think it was SO painful! But I can’t say that; F is doing the translation. I suppose that most long-term relationships can end bitterly or have years where one or both parties are very unhappy.

Apparently I started another long relationship. “That’ll be you”, I say, gleefully, to F. I know he is pleased by this.

She says I am ‘transparent’.  ‘Yes’, I say to F, ‘everyone thinks there is something that I am hiding and I keep trying to say no, this is me and this is it!’.  I’m not sure he understood but I feel it’s a good thing that she’s told me - it means, maybe, to him, that he can trust me.

Again she says I am sensible. In the car, the next day, it suddenly hits me. Another of those bloody ‘false friends’. I say to him - “She didn’t mean sensible last night. She meant sensitive?”

He doesn’t know the difference. He tries to explain what it means. I explain what it means to him. “It’s someone who feels things more deeply. Someone who gets hurt very easily”. “Yes”, he replies.

So, it turns out I’m not as boring as I thought! Maybe that’s why he didn’t answer - he didn’t understand!

Of course, seeing as he’s met her before I was down and being as she’s a friend of R, who probably knows almost everything about F & I (at least, from F’s viewpoint), she may already know about the long-term relationship bit.

And saying you’re going to have a long life? Well, what am I going to do if she’s wrong? Ha!

And, I’m obviously with F and, since F’s previous relationships (except 1) haven’t lasted for more than 6 months, this would be quite a long-term relationship ….. for him. Perhaps she was telling him more than telling me.

On the other hand, if she wasn’t, then, maybe, it would help him to relax a bit more about ‘us’!

So, no, I don’t believe it. There was nothing bad. She ran out of things to say that were good, I think. Or, maybe, she saw me as the non-believer that I am and wanted shut of me? But the things she did say, although a bit general, made me feel good or confirmed my view. Maybe I should only believe the good bits?

“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?

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.

This week may be interesting.

First, I get to meet some of the family. The twin brother, in fact. Plus wife, who is, apparently, just a little younger than me and means, of course, the chances of children are slim. They are coming to Milan to go to a Pat Metheney concert with us and, I guess, will stay over at F’s flat whilst he stays at mine.

His brother, apparently, knows about F being gay. I’m not sure whether he’s the only family member but I think F’s sister knows as well. And, anyway, once you tell one it soon spreads, so, probably, everyone knows. I don’t think anyone knows about me, as such. F is quite funny like that.

It will be interesting. I’ve never known so many people who are one of a twin as I do here! F’s twin has to be different from him and I think I’ve seen a picture once.

Then, later in the week, I will probably get to meet the last boyfriend. He has shops in Rome and comes up for the showroom sales (which are on now). Apparently, he will stay at F’s flat and we shall go out for a meal. I’m not sure where F will stay. He says that he usually stays and that there is no sex involved. I’m not sure why he tells me this. I didn’t think there would be. And, anyway, I trust him.

M (F’s Ex) was the one who said ‘I love you, I love you’ for six months and then, one morning, got up and said it was all over. It all made F a bit wary and he didn’t understand why it changed overnight. I don’t think he does now. M, in fact, suggested a holiday on an island off Africa somewhere. It was to include both of us. He knows about me. In the end there weren’t enough takers so the holiday was off. Anyway, I couldn’t have afforded it. And then there were the ‘babies’ to think of.

In any event, two important people will be coming - important to F and, therefore, important to me. It should, as I said, be interesting.

Let’s be honest people are strange.

Take V, for instance. When we first got together, he had a thing about his birthday. We used to go to his parents. He would arrive, expecting presents by the barrow-load. One time, we arrived about 11 a.m. No one was home. He got so angry. Why weren’t they there to celebrate his birthday? How dare they just go out! We left and went home, I think - although maybe we didn’t. All I remember is the anger. I tried to explain that as he hadn’t told them when he was coming, how were they to know to be there at that time. But there was really no placating him.

When we had the computer business, there was this woman, A, who worked closely with him. She was married to L. Every year, it didn’t matter what L tried to do, birthdays, Christmases and anniversaries were fraught with danger. For him it must have felt like going over the top at the Western Front!

Every time was the same. He would try and surprise her with something and every time he would be rebuffed as it wasn’t what she wanted or was too cheap or something. And, amazingly (because I would have given up after a couple of years), he went to some great lengths to try to please her.

But, whatever he did it simply wasn’t good enough. V & I (for he had got over his thing by then) would gasp at the whole thing.

And now I have S, my colleague. Actually, in many ways, she reminds me of A. The ’show’ is the thing not the substance.

And, so, tomorrow, is her birthday. It’s quite an important one and it’s quite obvious that this is a milestone she doesn’t want to be at. For a few weeks there have been odd murmurings from her about how it’s going to be terrible. Her husband, she thought, was trying to pull off a surprise party. she was complaining about eh people he would probably invite and she spoke to him several times about who she didn’t want at the party.

Eventually, last week, it was agreed that they would go out for a meal - just the two of them. But she’s not happy with that either. I think that, secretly, she wanted a surprise party but was preparing herself to complain about was there and who wasn’t there.

And the present has been an issue too, apparently with him suggesting that she goes choose some shoes - which is obviously not good enough since shoes do not last forever - or even a couple of seasons!

But, then, she tells me this morning that her birthday is always like this and her husband is always wanting to do something and it’s always a disaster. Last year was some restaurant with some friends but it was a terrible restaurant and the food was not good, etc.

And her husband always wants to do something on her birthday because his is in the first week of August - and they are away at the seaside then, in France, where they have a house. And so, he can’t celebrate his birthday in the way he would like and tries to muscle in on hers. It’s been like this for over 20 years, she says.

Now he has some people coming round on Thursday night. Apparently she told him that she wasn’t cooking and he said that it was not necessary because they would have cake. She asked him who was invited and, apparently it is some friends of his and some people from the block of flats. So she asked if a certain person was coming and he said no and she said that they were the only people that she really got on with and if he was going to invite people from the block then she would invite them and he didn’t think this was a good idea and she said that she is having nothing to do with it and she was going to make it quite plain that this is NOT a birthday party and certainly NOT a birthday party for HER.

And there are times when she just needs a good slap to get her to come to her senses.

After all, what’s wrong with sharing the birthday with him? They will be in France when it’s his and this, being Italy, probably means he has always missed out on birthdays with friends because it’s always in the holidays - the same way as F did/does.

And I know that she will never be happy. everything will always be wrong - even if this year is worse because of the impending five-zero.

But, like I used to feel sorry for L, I feel sorry for him. In a way. To be honest, this should have been knocked on the head from the start. This kind of crap you don’t need when you’re trying to do your best for someone.

It just annoys me!

Well, I guess it had to happen sooner or later.

And now what?

We live in a huge social network experiment. We (OK, maybe not YOU, my lovely reader but certainly me), even knowing the fact, continue to be part of this experiment. It’s an experiment simply because we really don’t know the implications of it all.

Facebook. A wonderful tool for keeping in touch with friends who live some distance from you. I chat (either on Facebook or Skype) with people that, normally, I would not stay in touch with. Take A, just the other day. I saw she was online in FB and started chatting with her. It was lovely to reconnect as we haven’t ’spoken’ for quite some time. I made her laugh (apparently) which is, it seems, just what she needed right at that moment.

I have, of course, checked out my sister on the site. I get a feel for what she is doing; where she is; who she is with. It satisfies my curiosity. She, of course, has the connection with my brothers and my nephews and niece. It’s enough for me and just about as close as I want to get.

As far as I know, she is not in touch with any other friends of mine. Certainly, none of them are friends on FB. And my name is, thank goodness, so common that there are thousands of me. I have no picture on my profile that is of me but, rather, my dogs. Even if you came across me by accident you couldn’t know, for certain, that I am who I am.

But, I guess, some people are determined.

And now I have a friend request from a very close friend of hers. I know they are still friends (via FB) and they still keep in touch in a way that only women seem to do. Or, maybe, that’s everyone except me seems to do.

I wonder how she found me? I wonder if she trawled through the site until she saw a likely me? I wonder how many other people she contacted with friend requests? Or was she just lucky?

And, now, what to do?

I am a great believer in ‘everything is for a reason’. People come into and go out of your life at different times to serve or having served a purpose or for you to serve or having served a purpose. Nothing is accidental - improbable, maybe, accidental, no. Each contact brings more out of us or teaches us things about others and ourselves. We play a role, a lead role, in this play called life. Everyone we come into contact is also a lead role but maybe in a different version of the play called life.

But, I cannot deny, I am apprehensive. This could open up a lot of old wounds. Is the right thing to do to accept the friend request or ignore it? Is there a sinister reason for it? Or, is it just like it says on the tin - a friend request? After all, we were once friends (even if that was through my sister).

The problem with this one, of course, is that it then opens the door to the rest of them. Starting, of course, with my sister.

Then, again, it could be an interesting door to open. After all, my name is not Alice and there is no Wonderland the other side but perhaps there’s something, something interesting, perhaps? Something wonderful? Unlikely. Something sinister? Maybe. Certainly something or, of course, perhaps, nothing!

The only question in my head is - once open, can I close the door if I choose, or will someone put there foot there? Ah, well, there’s only one way to find out!

“It’s a balance”, he explains, holding his hands out, palms up, as if weighing something. “When one of you is stronger, the other is weaker”; the hands are not level now but one is higher than the other.

He’s talking to someone about their relationship.

“It’s like me and Andy”, he adds. “Andy is always…..” and, at this point he breaks off, pawing at the girl next to him, “…….and so, probably, it makes me seem cold”. “If Andy stopped”, he added, “maybe I would be different”.

“I don’t tell him that I love him”. I confirm this is true although adding that “you did say it to me twice” - not that I’m counting or anything.

He likes to do stories, though, to explain things. It’s kinda like Jesus and his parables. So he starts talking about his Aunt who was more like a grandmother to him and how he loved her (and so did his Mum) but they used to get annoyed with her sometimes for she seemed quite crazy (example - she wanted him to go to bed because it was school in the morning; he suggested that, if he went to bed ready to go to school (i.e. fully dressed), he could save time and get up later and and therefore could stay up later! She agreed!!!! So, at least on one occasion, he went to bed with the clothes on for school - this was obviously before he became the obsessive bathroom type) and was annoying but how, when she died, both he and his Mum wished they had let her do what she wanted. His point being that, even for the things that might seem to annoy us, we miss them when they’re not there anymore.

And my only question - why doesn’t he take some of his own advice? Hmmph!

Of course, I could, were I to play this game, be a little bit colder myself; not always available; showing no affection, etc. Except, really, why bother? Why bother with all that crap?

And I know why he doesn’t take his own advice - because it makes him, in his view weaker than me. But, you know, I don’t think that’s right. I don’t feel weaker than him just because I show more affection. Nor do I feel really ‘needy’. For me it’s simple. I love him; I want to be with him; I want to touch him and hold him. He makes me feel good. It’s OK for me to feel like that. If I’m not with him it doesn’t make the love go away. If I’m with him and can’t touch him it doesn’t mean I don’t want him any more.

But, if I get the chance to all of these things then I am very happy. for me, it’s a strength that I can still feel these things even if he stays cool. And, anyway, there are things that he does that tells me how much he loves me.

I want to tell him just to let himself go ……… it’s OK, I will be there to catch him.

In the meantime, here is this song, which I do like. In fact, I like most of the stuff the the Black Eyed Peas do.

Relationships are bloody difficult, for everyone, it seems.

A, on a ‘break’ from Fr, and I went to this cocktail thing last night. The wine was good. The food was good. It was ‘finger food’, A’s new craze right now. He’s doing us Sunday lunch this weekend - which will be finger food.

Fr phoned him several times. He was annoyed.

‘She shouldn’t be phoning me because we have agreed to meet at 9.15′, he moans to me. He doesn’t answer her calls.

As we’re walking away from the cocktail do to his car, he tries to phone her.

“She’s switched off her phone”, he moans further.

I ask where they were going to go. He says just ‘for a walking’ near to her place. I suggest that he goes to her flat anyway - the risk being that she doesn’t answer the door. I also suggest that he doesn’t say he was in the swimming-pool all the time as, if he gets to see her, she will smell the alcohol on his breath. I suggest, instead, that he blames me (as, anyway, she blames me for his drinking too much).

I tell him that he should stop playing games with her. Her phoning and he not answering. Then him phoning and she not having her phone on. He, of course, denies playing games, as, probably, would she. But, the reality is that, as in any other relationship, he (and her, probably) is playing a game. We all do it to a greater or lesser degree.

I don’t know whether he went round or not. I will email him now.

And then, this morning, S, my colleague, was upset. Upset because of her husband who she had seen, sitting at a cafe with other people. One of these people was a woman who, some time in the past, he may have had an affair with - perhaps - maybe. And she rang him and so they had a fight. So she wanted advice (but, as is normal, didn’t really want advice at all but to be told that what she planned was the right thing). She’s going to change her route because then she doesn’t see it - but, of course, that doesn’t mean it goes away. Her husband, of course, denies everything. She then spoke about, maybe, she should start going out with her friends. It’s more game. I suggested that she didn’t as going out with her friends meant that she would be doing it to try and make her husband jealous and if it didn’t work, then where would she be?

And so, interrupted by colleagues, she has been telling me the story over the last ‘x’ years. And why it all happened and asking what I thought. And I feel sorry for her as I do for A and I wish I could make it better for them but I can’t. But I did try to explain to her that I. too. have these feelings of jealousy - it’s just that I know what they are and I force myself to act in a proper way and not give in to them.

My example was this week. F texted me to say that he was going out with a friend. Of course, my immediate reaction is - who, what, why, where????? And what relationship do you have with them? Or have had with them?

I do none of that. I know that for what it is. And I prefer that he feels free enough to tell me this much. Later, on the phone, he said that he did not stay with them and went out for dinner on his own. It was complicated and he will explain it to me after; later; apparently.

And that’s OK. Maybe I will mention it or maybe not. In any event I have to explain the other night so that he knows I am not angry with him. Maybe it will come out then. Maybe I should explain that I have the feelings but don’t act on them. Maybe. Perhaps. Or not, of course.

A asked me when will we move in together. I said not now. Not yet. Maybe never. He didn’t understand. I said I would wait for F to decide. He thinks I’m crazy and that I should push. I know that I should not. When or if it is right, it will happen. F complains that his flat is too small. It will come - in time. There is time (or, at least, one has to hope for time). And, anyway, if there is no time, then there is little to be done about that.

In the meantime, I am, again, like a rabbit in car headlights. The fear of everything is causing me to freeze; to do nothing and, therefore, making everything far worse. However, today I did some stuff. And some stuff is better than the ‘nothing’ I had been doing until now.

At least, now, finally, the weather is more like summer. High twenties already and set to get higher with almost clear blue skies.

Even if my life is not perfect, I love it still. F returns tonight and I shall pick him up - he asks if the ‘babies’ will be there too. I say maybe. And, as he flies into Terminal 2, which is smaller, maybe I will take them. I know that Dino would love it. And so would F. And, as long as F and my dogs are happy, then that is all that matters.

And, whilst I may play some sort of game with our relationship, it’s not the one of A nor S nor their respective partners and I will not let the jealousy thing become the thing that controls me and takes me over. Each time it happens I will make it stop in my head.

It’s too nice a day to have problems like that.

I shouldn’t have had those two kit-kats - but, then, I didn’t know he’d phone with that offer.

“I’ve been invited out for dinner with a friend”, he says.

“OK”, I reply. I mean, what am I supposed to say?

“Would you like to come?”, he asks. Well, sure but it was all a little strange, for reasons that I cannot explain; I don’t have the words to explain why it was strange and not because I cannot tell you because it is a secret or anything.

“Well, yes, sure. If I won’t be in the way”.

It turns out it is with S, a work colleague. And this was the invitation that had been promised to me some time ago. This is his (probably) favourite restaurant in Milan. Or, maybe, second favourite.

We walk from my house. It’s about 10 minutes. S, I have met before. She is lovely (even if she is German ). She loves dogs - so that has to be good.

Al Grissino is not a restaurant, from the outside, that one would immediately associate with the good and great of Milan. An unprepossessing entrance in a street that, although surrounded by streets with the houses of Milan, is not that great. Not right in the centre of Milan either, it’s not one that you would ‘find’ as you were walking by - simply because it’s unlikely you would be walking by in the first place!

Inside it’s OK but nothing really special. No, here one goes for the food. And one pays the price for this food. I actually don’t know if there is meat on the menu. We dispensed with the menus. We decided on four antipastos. Three chosen by F & S and one chosen by the waiter. I preferred the one chosen by the waiter which was some clams with zucchini (courgettes). Each of the four, served one after another, were individually served on three plates. The wine was a jug of house wine with strawberries and raspberries thrown in!

Main course was some fish (again decided by the waiter) - the only stipulation being that it had carciofi (globe artichoke). Italians really like this stuff. For me it’s OK but, probably not having been brought up on it, it is not something I go crazy for.

The fish was cooked to perfection and was so nice. It was served with a few roast potatoes. The presentation of the main course was very nice.

For sweet, F had zabaione, S had tiramisù and I had meringue (more like ice-cream and meringue tart slices) with hot chocolate sauce - mine was the best, the chocolate sauce rich and thick - but all were damned good.

After sweet they served us some really nice amaretti biscuits with tiny choc bars - yes, as in ice-cream choc bars which I never seen before. They were wrapped wonderfully in that it was a complete surprise when you bit into them (even if they were, obviously, cold to touch).

Fantastic meal. It is a little expensive though, so not somewhere to go if you’re on a budget. It cost around €180 for the three of us.

Lovely though. It will be nice to go there from time to time, for certain. And, for reasons that I can’t explain (because it is a secret) we didn’t have to pay. My favourite way of dining