Confessions of an undercover elf‏

This year I am not even going to pretend: here comes the Christmas blog post.

First of all, a confession: my Christmas tree was up in mid November, lit and decorated by December 1. Same for candles and lights around the house, the wreath outside the front door, and the nativity (aka 'il presepe'). Heralding my latest motto 'November is the new December', shopping was completed, food ordered and charity donations posted, faster than you can say 'mistletoe'. All to the soundtrack of endless festive singing, repeated to insanity, testing the patience of those around me.

I am not making this up. I genuinely get excited when the sparkly lights appear in the streets, and friends start organising pre-Christmas drinks. Once a year I like to behave like a ten-year old. I am sure it is allowed.

Of course, the whole shebang is pointless without.. well, yes.. without love. Of all sorts.
So, I wish you all a Very Happy Christmas of Emotional Incompetence. Be it embraced with the innocence of mistakes. With the hope of tentative trying and resolved understanding. Of openness and purity of heart.

Merry Christmas, to all.

What women want

Simple: good sex and a helping hand to get through the day.

The relative weight of these two components can vary with age. 

In our 20s, it is probably 90:10; 70:30 in our 30s; 50:50 in our 40s; 40:60 in our 50s; 20:80 in our 60s. And then, who knows, maybe a flip to the origins later on in life!

Diamonds, weekends in Paris, iPads, puppies, horses, handbags, shoes and new stereo systems are added bonuses. But the basics have got to be right.

Just my two pence.

The next love story - The end‏

The unbearable excitement of the wait.
Scouting the crowd for a face that brings a fearful joy. 
Then the little silhouette against the busy background. 
Struggling through with the many bags of a nomadic
life.
Her eyes lighting up inside his.
The hesitation that prolongs the promise. 
Like after a reboot, all memories are deleted.
In their arms, the past died.
And the next love story found a new beginning.
A really quiet one.
Because happiness is private. 
And words can never make it justice.  
It only lives on their lips. 
And it is nobody else's to tell. 

No more x

Being an immigrant comes with several downsides.


Not really knowing where your home is.
Being away from your friends and other loved ones.
Not seeing your nieces and nephews grow up.
Missing food, tastes, smells that you are unlikely to stumble upon.
And then, of course, speaking another language and adopting other people's customs.

I am not a big tea drinker, but quickly made friends with real ale.
Won't eat marmite, mince pies or fish&chips, but am a big fan of crumpets, toad in the hole and fish pies.
I am still confused about the number of kisses people give as a greeting (two, I do two), keep mistaking politeness for friendliness, and find Christmas cards a scary yearly mountain to climb.

But there is one British habit that continues to baffle me to this day, 14 years on: the virtual kisses. The 'x', or 'xx', or even 'xxx', in cards, at end of emails, letters or any other written form of communication.
May seem silly, but so many questions are attached to the use of this tiny letter. When? To whom? How many? And most importantly, what's the subtext behind the text?
First, friends. Is the number of 'x's directly proportional to the affection of the signee? If so, is a two-x friend closer than a single-x one, but not as good as triple-x? What if I sign with two, and they reply with one? Am I misgauging the level of intimacy? Am I being left mid air, giving an unrequited kiss (as often happens in real life)? And if you get downgraded, down the x-reducing spiral of discontent, who will address the horrible, persistent doubt: what have you done for an 'x' to be taken away?
Add romance to the equation, and my head starts spinning. What is appropriate? What looks suspicious? What means friendship and what something more? What if a kiss is just a kiss, especially in cyberspace, and doesn't stand for much in the real world?

Too much for me.
I shall go back to my old ways and cross the 'x' off.
No more kisses. At least in shortened form. Plenty left in real life.
Don't be offended. I am just Italian.

The next love story - Part 5

Going gray. No point pretending. Look at the bastards around my temples. Who told you to give up so soon?! Haven't you noticed the rest of me?! Slackers.. Part-timers.. Traitors!
Where did I leave the paper? Can't remember what's on television tonight. Maybe I should go out.. Don't fancy going out. Would rather get some food in and a couple of beers. Going out could be good for me. Distracting. I should go out.
Who am I kidding, I can't be bothered. No. I am not going out.
What time is it? Too late to call Europe. Could wake her up. And have some phone sex.
What if she isn't alone.
Maybe I will have a cigarette instead. What?? All gone. Damn.
Got to get some.
Sod it, I am going out.

The next love story - Part 4

I shall never understand those couples who sit at restaurant tables for hours in silence, looking at each other in a bored vacuum. Relieved when the food arrives, as they have something to keep their mouths busy. Not to mention those who stand cross-armed and sad-faced at gigs, staring at the crowed, looking for entertainment.
Yes, it is probably the envy talking.
He is many nautical miles away. I am so entrenched in this single loneliness, I have almost forgotten his face.
But isn't that always the case? The difficulty to picture the exact features of the ones we love. And of cats. The details of their snout never quite manage to anchor in my memory.
What is left, what I keep going back to, is the footprint of a sensation. Of his hands on my cheeks when he kisses. Of the shrug in his shoulders when he walks away. 
Then it all dissolves to the sound of the alarm clock early in the morning. And there is no time left for nonsense.

The next love story - Part 3

Fallen into the very common trap of living, the days started to stack one after the other. A long line of repeated dawns and sunsets. A cycle of biorhythmic repetition. They balanced on the phone line, with the dangerous uncertainty of a fearful funambulist.

Looking at the different sides of the half glass, he embraced the sensual grip of the tangible, while she succumbed to nerves and denial. Both relishing the sweet, welcome pain of hundreds returns.

And wrapped inside a geometric series of infinite boxes, a trick, an illusion, a divertissement. Desire.

I quit (brief interlude)‏

Considering last week's brutal reminders of our transient and rough journey through the valleys of joy, I decided to quit a couple of time wasters.
From most television programmes, to people who don't love me.

Yes, life's too short.

You are all invited to do the same.

The next love story - Part 2

"Where were you today?"
"Barcelona"
"Now?"
"Still here"
"Will you be back?"
"I don't know"
"I understand"
"No, I really don't know. How did they call it.. re-ergonomization of the leadership teams"
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know"
"How long have you said 'I don't know' for?"
"30 minutes?"
"Over a year"
"Don't lecture me, Mr I-know-it-all"
"I know nothing, me"
"This bed is massive"
"Meant to tell you"
"What?"
"Was walking through Central Park today, saw that bird again, the pretty blue one that isn't always blue, and couldn't remember its name"
"Indigo Bunting"
"I like that you know crazy stuff like this. How big is that bed?"
"Pointlessly big"
"I should get ready for my 4pm and recover from the brainless state you throw me in"
"OK"
";pig you"
"Eh?"
"Bloody keyboard is for child-size fingers!"
":D"

The next love story‏

And here it is. In full anonymity, to avoid getting shot.

Once upon a time there was a handsome guy. He was astute, quick, ambitious and yet in need of reassurance. One day, his path unexpectedly crossed the one of a smart young lady. She was nervous and volatile, and yet deeply rooted in the convictions of her upbringing and in the faith in her future.   

They met at the edge of generational transformations, when conventions are demolished and rebuilt, when words like 'commitment' and 'forever' sound risible and transient. When apolidity is the rule, not the exception. They met in the nowhere land of career success and marketing spin, where everybody is guarded and calculating their moves. They stopped to take a breath and got distracted. They lowered their guard and fell in love. Although they couldn't call it love, because that word too was being pulverised, mixed with glue and repackaged as a Valentine's Day card. They just lived it, hidden under other easier, paler, more technical words.

Their beginning was crushing, like a train at full speed. Absolute and demented. Confused. Cruel. As they tried to hold on to the signposts of their scripted journeys. Testing how far the rubber band of their feelings could stretch, before pulling them back together.