The best kind of secret

A secret is sweeping the UK.  And if you haven’t got in on it you are missing out.

This secret is the very best kind: intriguing, absorbing, clever, creative, bewitching, beguiling, rewarding, turbo-charged fun shared by only the right kind of people.

And who are these ‘right kind of people’?  They are people like you and me: people who, given the right circumstances, are open and friendly, warm and a little whacky.  They are people who are prepared to get into the spirit of something new, take a risk, wear a costume, muck in, have a laugh, adopt a character, tease a character, improvise, adapt, mingle with strangers, make a new friend, arrive in an unknown place for an unknown experience and do their best to get their money’s worth of entertainment.  They are people who know how to have a good time!

This secret club of smiling, satisfied Londoners is growing… because the Secret Cinema is in town!

One of my Greek sailing buddies, Alex, sent out an unexpected email recently saying “I have ten tickets, first people to confirm can join me for Secret Cinema”.  Toni, my lovely hairdresser, had put me ‘in the know’ about the Secret Cinema phenomena so I replied immediately.  Excitement built as I waited for party day.  When I went to the ‘secret website’ I got more intrigued; for it tells you as much as it holds back. The experience from planning to marketing to arriving and beginning the Secret Cinema journey is filled with mystery and provocative suspense.  The actress in me got hooked on the theatrics.  The writer in me tried to guess which film it might be.  The flirt in me loved the game.  And the arts/events producer is determined to find out who is in charge so I can work for them.

When the day finally arrived I met Alex and Shelene in town for a cocktail.  We then took a tube to the East End to follow instructions we were given, again in secret, re where to report.  We were dressed as instructed.  We were in the mood (as people tend to be if they’ve bothered to prepare for a themed party).  We walked tentatively through a dark park before arriving at the entrance to Secret Cinema's secret location; which changes depending on the design of the event which is governed by the nature of the secret film.  Immediately we were surrounded by atmosphere.  Instantly we were in a scene from the movie.  Inevitably I played along and found myself bantering with hired actors, other customers, Alex’s friends like Jorge, Jonathan and Martin, basically anyone who was ready to ‘pull down their wall’ and go with the energy and intention of the evening. 

It would be hours before we sat down to watch the secret film, by which time we had worked out what it was likely to be.  But it wasn’t the film I’d expected upon arrival and the choice was even better in my opinion – a brilliant film, a classic, with an endless number of themes and settings to play into an event designer’s hands.  I missed nothing.  I admired every piece of period set-dressing and operational detail.  I grinned at the clever use of a vast space and the effortless way crowds flowed in and out of different sections avoiding undue congestion.  I was escorted or wandered from activity to activity.  I drank.  I ate a little.  I talked or interacted with countless people I’d never seen before and probably will never see again.  I laughed.  I play-acted.  I mimicked the actor’s accents, who of course never admitted they were acting.  I got into trouble (though I can’t tell you with whom as that would give away the plot).  I made friends.  I lost friends (as in physically separated).  And because of that I made one particular new friend, a nice young man called Haydn, who stayed with me for the whole evening, ready to enjoy the diversity of activities and laugh heartily as I threw myself into scenes as if I was already on the pay-roll.

I can’t tell you anything about the actual activities, the setting or the film – that would be like telling someone the ending of Mouse Trap – but I can say that visitors are free to interact as little or as much with the pre-show event as feels comfortable for them.  I can also say the Secret Cinema experience was extremely well thought out, designed, directed and executed… and after several hours of fun you then got to sit down and watch the film with popcorn and beer.  Could it get any better? 

Well actually, yes, in my case it did.  Because the handsome man who’d been such good company, sat with me in the rear of the cinema and held my hand.  Then, feeling happy and carefree, we kissed.  In fact it was lucky we both knew the film well, as after a gentle start we decided we liked it and kept kissing.  It was also lucky the seat immediately behind was vacant so our heads coming together didn’t obstruct anyone’s view.  When temperatures rose we thought about going outside for a while to ‘make out’ like teenagers.  But it was so delightfully uncomplicated to enjoy simultaneous snuggling, kissing and watching, that we stayed in the make-shift cinema and enjoyed the movie highlights with all the other warm, happy people. 

At the end of this evening of unadulterated fun, all we could do was laugh and smile and repeat over and over again “what a great night”!  Indeed everyone on the bus was smiling and saying “awesome”… “can’t imagine a better evening”…  

Then the nice young man got me safely home. We exchanged numbers with a goodnight kiss.  And whether I see him again, or not, he was the perfect Secret Cinema buddy – his soft lips a bonus in a swathe of sweet secrets and delights.

Regular blog readers know I love opera, theatre, galleries and many cultural pursuits.  But if you want to let your hair down… be a little whacky and wild, and come out with a smile on your face that you won’t be able to shift for days… then get yourself into the secret club of smug people ‘in the know’.

Most of all, may the secret charms of Secret Cinema long endure...

 

 

 

 

 

That is the Question

Some questions make their point rhetorically.  Some require a response.  Others are better left unanswered. 

But can we always tell which is which?   Could Hamlet?

Some questions require an honest answer; a quick or exact reply.  Some need reflection and consideration.  Others lead to avoidance because of a perceived threat. 

 

And the terrain can be difficult before the added complication of men and women feeling differently about the parameters.   

So let’s start with something easy:  “does my bum look big in this?”  You’d imagine anyone could avoid getting that wrong… but women still complain men with limited emotional intelligence step right into it.

Equally “how do I look?” is a question hoping for encouraging validation – especially if there’s no time left to change clothes -  so the required response is hardly rocket science; albeit superior if you step up with a compliment before the question’s asked.

Some questions arise out of social politeness.  I described a date to some male friends recently and was told “any guy who’s on a date will tell a girl he likes her cooking, her wine, her whatever… whether or not he does”.   “Really?” I asked.  “Yes of course” the men replied in unison.  “If there’s any chance he’ll score it’s in his interest to say the right things.”   Presented as incontrovertible fact, they inferred even the town idiot would know this to be the case; and, by implication, women who didn’t know it to be true were silly. 

Hmm, puts a different spin on early courting flattery, doesn’t it?

What about the question “are you going to be home late?”   Men particularly hate that question.  They don’t want to feel watched or time-controlled.  Fair enough.  I feel the same.  So the clever response is to commit only to a ball-park.  If couples give each other the same freedom in most cases it shouldn’t be an issue.  Or there’s always the option of “don’t wait up”… or “I’ll text you if I’m going to be later than….”… but if you put that out there you better stick to it. 

And that’s the thing about questions: no-one wants to be lied to or misled.  So, except in the case of a parent/child, adult/teenager relationship, if you can’t commit to a real answer then say that: “I’m sorry, but I just can’t answer you right now”… “give me some time please”…  or “when I do know I will tell you”.  Even a reply like “you know that isn’t a fair question”… is better than a lie, a grunt or an intentional obfuscation.

We can use our wits to side-step a question which is too early to be answered: such as “sorry, it’s too late for me to drink coffee…”  Or “I have an early meeting”.   But with the right encouragement the recipient learns she/he has to produce a better performance before gaining your interest. 

That brings us to the point that the fair or appropriate answer to a question is very much related to the familiarity between the parties and the context. 

When you say to your classroom “are you listening?” and they murmur unconvincingly “yes, Miss”, you usually take it as a cue to repeat yourself.  With Little Johnny you fully expect to say “are you listening?” as well as “look at me” many times, because the information will never sink in if he has his eyes glued to the Wiggles.  Yet when you are trying to share sincere feelings with your lover the question “are you listening?”  can also mean “because if you don’t put down that bloody TV remote I will break it over your head!”. 

No wonder couple’s counsellors tell people to repeat back to each other what the other person has just said – because what we say and what is heard are frequently completely different things.  Indeed it’s a technique we always use in business, by writing up the Minutes and Actions generated from a meeting.  So it makes sense to apply to important aspects of our personal lives if both parties desire a mutually comfortable outcome.

Personally, I have the biggest problem with people who are so afraid of their own shadow, or so suspicious of people who can articulate their thoughts and feelings, that they will die in a ditch before they deign to answer a direct question.  If you are a straight-shooter, then people who go to great lengths to avoid the honest unpacking of a situation will not only drive you crazy but ultimately lose your respect.  For in a context where challenge or conflict exists, a refusal to talk, or passive aggressive avoidance upon avoidance, perhaps accompanied by pathetically repeated statements like "I don’t know… I don’t know…  (insert weak shrug)”… is nothing more than an unfair and dishonest power play; made all the more annoying because to deflect weakness or inadequacy they suggest the questioner is at fault for daring to require an answer.  

In that situation I’ve learnt it is important to detach from the need for a response (to, in effect, reclaim your power by letting go of the silent tug ‘o war) and the sooner the better - because if resistance to communication is fierce you won’t get a reasonable or sensible reply anyway.  For the real issue is not ‘the silent treatment’, but lack of respect or insufficient capacity.

By contrast, I thoroughly enjoy social flirtation, even with strangers: “don’t you look lovely today?”… “oh, do I?” they reply, surprised but totally chuffed.  It costs little and makes someone’s day.  I had a chat to an Indian woman in a dry-cleaners last week, asking about her family and her husband, who turned out to have passed away.  When I went back to get my trousers the tag attached said “no charge”.  I was touched, as the questions must have proved comforting. 

Some question-answer-tap-dancing is particularly fun: “would you like to come back to my place?”…  “well actually, I might have missed the last train… what do you think?”   On the dating circuit this banter can keep you at Waterloo Station for ages, by which time you have missed the last train.  And, whatever else evolves, it gives a measure of the guy’s creativity and confidence… not to mention a likely good-night kiss and ongoing suspense.

Just now I did a similar dance with a recruitment agent who I was keen to meet, where (thankfully) at exactly the right moment I slipped in “would it add any value for us to meet face-to-face?”  Bulls-eye.  I now have that appointment in my diary.

I’ve also often enjoyed the ‘question turned around’ - especially Better Midler’s infamous line in Beaches: “ok, enough about me, what do you think of me?”   My old friend Tim says it’s the line from a movie which most reminds him of me.  Hmm.  I hope he means because the character was an actress?  J  But I didn’t ask, as I didn’t want the answer! 

And that’s the thing: don’t ask if you don’t want to know.  Because it is true that if you ask a question (particularly a hairy one) you have to be prepared for an answer you may not like; or at least be willing, in the majority of circumstances, to take the answer on face value, to process and eventually deal with it.  

That said though, the teller of bad news should be prepared to deal with the fact that the listener may be shocked or hurt by the answer… so, if a relationship is respectful or sincere, the divulging of difficult information makes it incumbent upon him/her to share in and deal with the fallout.  Adults don’t dump and run.  It’s immature.  Inhumane.  So I have no tolerance for comments like “if you’re going to over-react when I tell you the truth, I’ll have to lie to you”.  For that is one of the biggest cop-outs of all time... the finely tuned justification of a coward.

I’ll concede a related point, however, which one of my sailing buddies made recently.  He was talking about a friend who went home to confess to his wife about a long-term, extra-marital affair.  The scene was ugly, as you can imagine, excruciating… and, having confessed, the guy could not handle the ensuing consequences.  Putting aside for the moment the question of whether his ‘confession’ was more selfish than constructive… the point my friend made was that her reaction to the devastating news was supposedly “so extreme” that the guy ended up running away from the pressure.  Now that is HIS problem and HIS weakness.  But the sad reality, is that she didn’t then get to heal or experience any deeply felt regret; if it was genuine.  Nor did she get the reconciliation she longed for… because he used the challenging circumstances as an excuse to shut down and avoid. 

Naturally that doesn’t make me like or admire him.  And his shutting down, and ‘playing down’ of the seriousness of the hurt, will certainly make it harder for his wife to forgive him.  Nevertheless we can extract from the tragedy a small but useful point: our reactions will seem in proportion to people who share our feelings or who understand them.  They are likely to seem out of proportion, sometimes unreasonable, to people who don’t. 

That doesn’t make it fair.  The other person may be seriously inadequate when it comes to emotional range or putting themselves in someone else’s shoes… but if they don’t understand it is probably better to acknowledge that and work from there. 

For experts commonly tell us communication will always be enhanced if, in the midst of cut and thrust, we keep asking (or assessing) “do you understand”... or “what do you understand me to be saying?”   Again we can’t force someone to engage, to answer, to take responsibility… but if  both parties are willing to play ball it can be constructive.  The very act of thinking this way too, may help the ‘wounded party’ to moderate their reaction sufficiently to keep him/her in the arena… to at least keep the dialogue going… because, no matter how choppy the water, two people can’t row a boat unless they move the oars in harmony.   And if one collapses and drops the oars, however pathetically, then frankly the partnership is screwed.

Questions used like weapons is another possibility - an extreme example being the bullying tactics of Parliamentary Question Time. 

Nor do I much like the ‘PC gone mad’ approach adopted increasingly in the UK: when the head of a major sporting club is so pressured by the media to assert the moral high ground that when faced with questions about a drunken football fan he completely forgets sensible childhood lessons like “sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me”. 

But like the quintessential question “to be or not to be”… I am interested to pay more attention to the nuances around questions posed and questions left unanswered. 

And what I am looking for, I suspect, will be found like a good Harold Pinter play… in the silences. 

 

 

 

Lightness of Being

I feel more light-hearted today. 

Unexpectedly, someone has sincerely apologized for treating me in a way which wasn’t at all nice.  It was more business than personal, but it was distressing nevertheless, and the promise of peace between us has lightened my load.  Reconciliation is a beautiful thing.

It reminds me of a wee episode in my yet to be published manuscript Wild Women Don’t Get the Blues.  And while retaining full copyright, I’d like to share an abridged section here…

 

……………….......……………….

 

I’m lying by the pool; this time with lots of sunscreen. 

 

After a day walking in Firenze I’m relaxed and comfortable to do little.  My recliner is set back from the water’s edge, on a slope to maximize the stunning Tuscan view, and while sinking into the reality of the novel I am reading, I’m surrounded by the sound of water splashing and children playing… 

After a while my eyes drift back to the pool, and in a moment I am struck by the freedom and wildness of being a child. 

A little French boy, no more than two years old, is running along the pool’s edge naked.  I’ve got my eye on him because I’m concerned he may tumble in.  Hot on his heels is another small boy, perhaps a year older, dressed ready to swim with floaties gripping his upper arms.  The smaller boy is carrying a silver soup ladle, apparently delighted with himself for having taken it from his brother.   When he arrives at the corner gate - the one leading into the olive grove and down to my cottage - he looks at the bigger boy and provocatively drops the ladle through the fence to the dirt below.  The older boy stops, looks at the ‘toy’ out of reach, and then leaning right over the little one, opens his mouth wide into a long, loud and indignant scream.  He doesn’t attempt to retrieve the ladle, or make any kind of assault on the younger boy.  He simply wants his displeasure known. 

I smile to see his mouth as wide as Luna Park, the little one just watching, not reacting, as if he’s heard it all before.  Eventually the adults and other children get sick of the noise and come to the rescue - the toddlers simply staring into the dirt like it is territory they dare not venture.  Well, until the moment their mother opens and closes the gate to retrieve the ladle, after which they only want to go down there and have to be repeatedly restrained. 

Ah, ‘the other’ you see… wanting what you can’t have starts early.  

The silly little incident amuses me, for it captures something about the delightfully unfettered nature of childhood.  Imagine if we did that in the office when a work colleague did something to cheese us off?  Hmm, interesting food for thought... 

The best part of the story is that the children are now going back to play after the clash, with no hard feelings and barely recollection.  Little children travel light.  That’s why they do play. 

And I realize my pleasure is in watching that wonderful lightness of being. 

 

 

 

I need a wall

In fitness class sometimes I say “I don’t have any triceps”.  And in gymnastics years ago I was nicknamed “short arms” by the coach for complaining “my arms are too short” when I couldn’t stretch as far as he expected. 

But when I say “I have no wall” I really mean it.  More to the point: I need to get one! 

Regular readers know the background:

1)      I was dumped recently by my supposed fiancé as abruptly as if he were throwing out garbage: no warning, discussion, or (God forbid) kindness. 

2)      I was then shafted by my landlord who promised a long lease, got me to do extensive cleaning and repairs on his property in July on the strength of that promise, availed himself of my generosity to stay in the same property for two weeks (after playing the ‘friend of a friend card’) while I was overseas in October and he was passing through London… only to leave the house, not with a thank you card or financial contribution, but an eviction notice.  Apparently I’ve done such a good job on the place he wants to live here. 

Needless to say it’s awful, in either case, to be done over so comprehensively.  

More generally, though, I struggle variously with the ‘tone’ of London.  I love the theatres, galleries, intellectual stimulation and buzz.  But it’s a cold city in many ways; far removed from living in an Aussie beach town or surrounded by bonhomie, vines and olives in Tuscany.  For example:

1)    I found an old lady lost on the street late one Saturday night recently, and it turned out she’d been lost and disoriented for some hours.  She obviously has memory problems and was in no way a threat.  Yet not a single person she asked for help would pay attention, and she couldn’t find a policeman.  By the time a new friend, Dan, and I chanced upon her, she was anxious and confused, and an hour later extremely grateful we’d got her out of the rain, into a taxi, and worked out where she lived.  That experience at least left us pleased we’d been in the right place at the right time to help.

2)      By contrast, another night when the weather was suddenly cold and blustery, I returned home in the dark to find a woman and little boy at the front door to my apartment block.   As I approached with my key I could see the awning offered them no shelter from the rain.  “Hello”, I said “can I help you?”  She replied “no, we’re waiting for someone”.   “So they know you’re waiting do they?” I asked, as I lent beside her to get my key in the door.   “They’ll be here in a minute” she said curtly.  “Ok, so you’re alright then” I confirmed and moved into the doorway.  Just as I was shutting the heavy external door I heard her say to her little boy “how rude”.  I couldn’t believe it.  I opened the door again and stared at her.  “Madam” I finally managed to stutter “I was wanting to make sure you were alright as I thought you might have preferred to wait inside out of the cold.”  She stared blankly.  In complete defeat I added “what is the matter with Londoners? How could you possibly misinterpret such a genuine gesture…”  As I closed the door I heard her mumble “oh, sorry…”.

I went through the adjacent door to my ground-floor apartment, slammed and double bolted it. 

Living in London is like escaping a daily series of real or potential assaults.  London is aggressive so seasoned Londoners have personal walls.  Thick ones. 

Another day recently I was sitting in a café at the rear of the BFI (love that place) and two wonderful girlfriends arrive for a long late lunch just as I am being accosted by a teenage lad who wants some money for his youth club.  He holds up a piece of paper, like a petition, and gives a well-rehearsed spiel about how Arsenal used to fund them but no longer, and these inner-city youngsters need financial support to keep their activities going etc.  Requests for money are frequent in cities like London, but his pitch is polished.  He looks clean, bright, with a positive future if he can get a decent start.   I give him 5 pounds and say “that’s for the quality of your pitch… but make sure you spend it on what you say please”.  He smiles, runs away, and I turn to face my two girlfriends.  They are staring in disbelief.  Oh, oh.    

Turns out I was too far into it for them to feel they could stop me, but they point out quickly then that I have “been had”.  “Really” I ask “no chance he could be sincere?”  They shake their heads in unison.  Damn.  

Thus the “I NEED A WALL” discussion starts again (a recurring theme with close friends lately) and THIS TIME I agree it absolutely must be constructed!  It must be fitted ASAP and the “new Julie” will be more discerning, more judicious re who she trusts or puts faith in, for large and small matters.  After another bottle of wine it is jointly decided that I can still “choose” to “be nice” on appropriate occasions… “or generous”… but it will no longer be the “automatic default”… and I will give up any guilt or discomfort around allowing myself the freedom to “not be nice”… or “not to be seen as nice”… or better still, “be neutral”… “ignore people”… “look after myself” etc.

So what you need to know is that this ‘reprogramming’ is not an easy task.  I have my training wheels on.  Then yesterday, despite my best efforts to “KEEP UP THE WALL”, things don’t go according to plan….

I’m in a greasy-spoon café at 3pm, feverishly hungry and waiting for a big plate of bacon and eggs, as it’s the first chance I’ve had to eat all day.  The waiter puts down my plate and I grab my knife and fork, enthusiastically diving into the first of two naughty hash-browns.  Immediately I hear whispering from across the room but presume it isn’t for me.  Three mouthfuls in the voice grows louder: “can’t you hear I’m talking to you”.  I turn to face a woman alone at a table on the opposite wall.  With the egg I’m dying to taste hanging impatiently from my fork, she looks from it to me and says: “I’m hungry.  I’m homeless.  I’ve been sitting here for hours waiting for my brother to come and buy me breakfast but he hasn’t come yet.  Can you please get me something to eat?” 

The word sigh doesn’t cover it.  I simply can not believe how bad her timing is. 

I take another breath, looking from her to my fork and back again.  Instantly I feel bad.  Then I feel resentful.  Hunger wins out.  “Look lady, I’m sorry, but I simply can’t stop and respond to requests like that every single time… I haven’t eaten all day either.  Please, excuse me.”  I turn back to my plate as she mumbles “oh, sorry”. 

I could really swear about all the pathetic “oh sorry” I’ve been hearing lately, none of them sincere and too little too late.     

But I say to myself “remember the wall… THE WALL…” as I look longingly at my food.  But she’s wrecked it for me.  I simply can not eat now without feeling guilty.  Damn and double damn.  “It’s not your responsibility” I remind myself.  “She should’ve asked you at a better time… you can’t be expected to stop in the middle of your meal and rummage in your wallet.”  But every bite for the next five minutes is tasteless. 

Bloody London.  Bloody wall.  I’m going to need therapy or something.  But how can I eat now and enjoy it when she might be hungry? 

I do persevere until I’ve only got one piece of bacon left, and two halves of grilled tomato.  “It’s just bad luck for her.  I have a wall.  I need a wall.  And I’m only taking it down when someone deserves it” I whisper to myself – now clearly the mad one. 

And then eventually - not because I’m a nice person but because my construction of the wall is still pathetically inadequate – I get up and go to the counter and pay the café guy a few pounds for the standard ‘all day breakfast’.  “What does she want” he asks “tomatoes or mushrooms?”  “Would you take her order directly please” I request, “I want to get back and finish my meal”. 

I catch another woman’s eye at the counter, who shrugs like I’ve probably been had.  I don’t tell her about the wall. 

I go back to my cup of cold tea and last spoonfuls of food.  I realise my problem is that I don’t feel free in this situation; to genuinely give or not give.  But what’s harder, I muse, to go against your instincts… or to get taken advantage of? 

Now the ‘homeless lady’ is at the counter and the conversation for some reason is protracted.  Gradually the volume increases and it becomes clear she is asking for more than I have paid for – she wants a fancy omelette with black-pudding and a cup of tea and toast, which isn’t in the ‘all day breakfast’ deal.  My jaw drops.  I catch the same woman’s eye.  She shrugs again.  “Is she trying to leverage my investment” I ask sarcastically, trying to cover my real mix of awe and disbelief.   She smiles and nods knowingly. 

Damn.  And then I hear the café owner say “ok, ok, the lady has paid for the ‘all day breakfast’ but I will give you what you want and I will make up the difference… go and sit down please”. 

My handbag is now on my shoulder and I’m preparing to leave.  The café owner shakes his head and shrugs. The ‘homeless lady’ says “God Bless you, thank you” and sits down with hungry expectation.  Only God knows the extent of her need. 

The door jingles as I walk back out onto the Fulham Palace Road.  My stomach is full but I don’t feel satisfied.

Bloody wall.    

 

Sensory Terrorism

Have you suffered Sensory Terrorism? 

You’ll at least identify occasions of Sensory Abuse: when changing a baby’s soiled nappy; when in proximity to a smoker; sitting on the train beside someone whose overdose of perfume/aftershave shows she/he fails to understand the difference between hints of frangipani and toilet deodorizer; or when a stranger rocks up too close on the dance-floor, twirls around and sprays torrential sweat in your direction.  Eeewww. 

More difficult to handle are experiences where you can’t escape the nasal assault.  I was once trapped on an overnight bus from Paris to Toulouse with a bunch of increasingly drunk, rowdy, rugby players.  For every beer each consumed they let go a brutal number of farts.  If I could have slept, as they eventually did, or open a window for fresh air, I might not have been so traumatized… as it was, the percentage of atmospheric methane to oxygen was like accumulating napalm. 
 

Squashed near stale garlic breath, or yesterday’s alcohol coming out of someone’s skin, is never pleasant.  Nor is it easy to handle a work colleague who reeks of BO.  I mean it’s not like you can say anything, is it?  And if their odour issues are coupled with a lack of body-language awareness, it may mean they lean in the more you lean out… in which case you’ll be undecided whether it’s a good thing the windows on the 21^st floor don’t open manually.  
 

A couple of years ago, while living in Tuscany, I experienced one of the more extreme forms of Sensory Terrorism.  First I did some casual work for a woman with so many deranged and scruffy animals the word menagerie was inadequate.  Regularly I’d arrive in her ‘office’ only to discover a cat had piddled on the desk; ruining all sorts of documents and making the space impossibly offensive.  That relationship didn’t last long. 
 

The following year I lived temporarily in an apartment, in the beautiful countryside near San Gimignano, with a lady who had two cats.  One cat spent its days roaming outside, like normal cats do, and my only problem with him was that he left annoying cat-hair everywhere.  So I kept my bedroom door permanently shut and refrained from sitting on the sofa or watching TV.  I went out every night or went to bed early with a book.  The problem was irritating but manageable. 
 

The second cat, however, was three thousand years old and should have been taken to the Vet and put down decades before.  I don’t say this just because I’m a dog person.  This blind, pitiful cat appeared to be constantly suffering - squealing day and night in a scratchy, high-pitched wail that regularly put my nerves on edge.  Her owner, however, was completely in denial and wouldn’t do anything about it.  Only later did we learn the cat’s fur was so matted and her nails so long that they were doubling back and digging into her skin.  Ouch.  This pathetic discovery explained the screaming - for which I managed to dig up a little sympathy (for the cat) - but soon the situation became dire. 
 

When the weather got warmer the three thousand year old cat lost all possession of her bowels.  Formerly she’d left puddles of pee here and there (though not on my desk), but as temperatures climbed she started leaving her extremely smelly cacca… merda, pooh or whatever else you want to call it… ALL OVER THE FIRST FLOOR OF THE HOUSE.
 

No exaggeration.  And she liked this new trick so much that she would embellish it - pirouetting in the cacca and walking little brown-footprints all over the lounge-room floor, including around and under the dining table. 
 

You may appreciate this was not only utterly disgusting from an aesthetic and health perspective… but gradually my senses were so totally abused and my personal comfort so compromised… it became difficult at times to locate the throbbing blob… especially if hidden behind a door or bits of furniture.  Most irritating was when she messed RIGHT NEXT to the empty kitty-litter tray - as if it were a shared joke. 
 

The final straw with this incontinent-excuse-for-a-cat, was when my flat-mate was away in August and the cat dumped a gross deposit immediately after I’d finished mopping and cleaning the entire house.  I found said sloppy pile of muck, melting in thirty-five degree heat, right in the middle of the kitchen tiles, immediately in front of the oven, and it was forty minutes before I had a guest arriving for what I’d hoped was a romantic dinner.  Ironically, this guest was a scientist and government-registered Health Inspector who closed down restaurants for less!
 

It also seemed something of a conspiracy the cat behaved worst when I was the only one home.  I had restrained the impulse to kick her, if only barely, and had been feeding her that week as requested.  How did she know I hated her?  Was her habit of messing, senility or disdain?  Phoebe from Friends’ sympathetic song Smelly Cat definitely did not apply. 
 

Near tears of frustration I phoned Allessandro, complaining about my sensory plight, and he said I should clean it up as quickly as possible, have a shower, then sit down with a vino and look at the beautiful view from the terrace.  Encouragingly, he offered to take over the cooking when he arrived, as well as ring around friends to see if he could find alternative accommodation for me until the house I planned to rent was ready in September.  He saved my life that night.  Or rather the cat’s!
 

To add insult to injury my flat-mate had been regularly putting offending blobs of cat pooh into the kitchen rubbish, spazzatura in Italian, which in that part of the world needs to be driven up the dusty road to central collection points.  I asked her repeatedly not to do this, as she didn’t have a car and it wasn’t fair I had to deal with her pet’s disgusting refuse.  However she was so long-term sensory deprived, selfish, or both, that she persisted doing exactly as she wished and several times I found the rubbish had leaked in the boot of my car leaving the most offensive grime and smell.  For weeks I had nightmares in which I was trapped in a hell of perpetual stench… and I’d wake only to imagine creative ways I could kill her and the cat in a satisfying double-murder. 
 

Ok, I exaggerate, but I was getting desperate.  The height of summer is not the easiest time to find accommodation in Tuscany, but the situation had become untenable.  I moved out that very weekend to stay with a friend of a friend for three weeks.  Though not before my brother, Brendan, told me I’d suffered from ‘Boiled Frog Syndrome’: which means I’d stayed stoic or patient far too long and not seen the consequences coming - the way a frog who’s been put into cold water fails to notice he’s boiling to death if the heat is turned up slowly, thus missing his chance to jump out and save his own life.  
 

At any rate, for weeks after I escaped this Sensory Terrorism the world smelt blissfully sweet… and my days were quiet and serene.  
 

But I’ll never like cats again. 

 

 

 

 

A hike in the Chianti countryside

It seems from a recent growth in my blog audience, readers like the seduction angle or stories about breasts.  So here is a tame, though I hope humorous, extract from my yet to be published manuscript Wild Women Don’t Get the Blues.  

 

Naturally ladies and gentlemen I retain full copyright.

 

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After packing a picnic this morning I set off for a hike in the Chianti countryside.  A few key roads are un-signposted, so I do a little back-tracking before arriving at my chosen hilltop village close to 10am.  Immediately I fall in love with Volpaia’s quaintness - the few people around making it feel like a real village rather than one overdressed for tourists.  I wander about taking photos of the Castello famous for good wine, so it isn’t until 10.30am that I set out on my walk. 

Clouds overhead promise rain so I carry a light jacket and, as always when hiking, plenty of water.  By midday the sky has cleared and temperatures climb gradually to over 30 degrees. The map for the walk, provided by Sylvia in the Radda Tourist Office, is simple but useful.  However it’s with some reluctance I find myself walking down, down, down from the Castello into the valley, well aware that means having to climb back up.  I pass orchard altars, as you do: the first dedicated to Mary of the Seven Sorrows (obvious from the multiple daggers in her heart); another to Santa Caterina (Siena’s revered patron).  I pass a closed church and, had it not been, I might have curled up on a seat and gone to sleep, such is the lethargy induced by rising heat. 

One trail takes me into thick bush where large numbers of insects are impervious to my Bushman’s Repellant.  Resorting to using my hat like a giant fly-swat, I feel rather like Katherine Hepburn in The African Queen but without Bogart to protect me.  When the time comes to climb a hill and get out of the swamp I am exceptionally pleased, if a little lost.  Two streams I am supposed to cross never materialize so I figure they must have evaporated, and with only a couple more mistakes I find the other principal landmarks, avoid the zap of electric fences, and follow the slope of many a vineyard unable to avoid the temptation to nibble on the grapes.  Finally I arrive back at the car, ravenous and in need of water.  Despite my exhaustion I am pleased to have done the walk.  Not only do I need the exercise but it’s given me more time than driving allows to truly absorb my surroundings.

I devour a packed-lunch, wishing I’d put butter on the characteristically dry Italian bread.  Then in an effort to cool off, I wipe myself all over with the Wet-Ones my clever mum dropped into my suitcase weeks prior.  I am preparing to go in search of a glass of Chianti Classico when the strangest thing happens. 

A young man appears on the little terrace above where my car is parked, and starts speaking to me eagerly in Italian.  There is no-one else around.  Amongst the chat I recognize two key questions: are you solo?; and are you married?  I answer yes and no respectively, as I’ve done many times since arriving in Italy, smile and prepare to leave.  It is then he becomes intent upon getting his message across, and bobs down so he is closer to my eye level.  I think at first he is pointing to my diamond necklace, only to realize I haven’t put it on this morning.  I ask him to repeat himself but alas I can’t understand and shake my head saying scusi non capisco.  After a few moments he moves his hand toward my right side, appearing to mime the action of cupping my breast.  Do I imagine it?  I must have done.  So I give him another chance to explain, during which he mimes the same action reaching in a little closer.  Surely he isn’t suggesting he touch my breasts?  Surely not?! 

Now I should make the point that this young man isn’t aggressive.  Indeed he’s surprisingly polite given he appears to be asking something outrageous: his demonstrations stopping within a centimeter or two of actually touching me.  Nevertheless I stand dumbfounded - gobsmacked to use a phrase immortalized by script writers on soap operas - while he pleads with excited but melancholy eyes.  Eventually I snap out of it to reply decisively no, no, scusie, no grazie, and I shake my head and begin to move away.  Yet he continues pleading, this time with more gesticulation, and offering, as I understand, to pay me for the privilege.  Again I say no… no, no wondering how the hell I can explain that the suggestion of money makes it worse.  Then in an effort to make me reconsider the rejection, the young lad assures me with great passion and earnestness that he only wants to touch one breast – uno he says hopefully, pointing at the right one.  “What’s wrong with the left one?” I instantly think, appreciating in spite of my ego that the poor dear genuinely thinks moderation will help him close the deal.

Now at this point, it all seems far too surreal and I desperately need to laugh.  Yet I don’t think it will help if he hears me.  So for some ludicrous reason I apologize profusely for disappointing him and make as quick a get-away as possible; heading up the path and around the corner to the village where I laugh out loud for a good five minutes. 

I am still shaking my head and giggling when I meet personable Gabriele in the tasting room of Castello Volpaia.  I tell him the story but he doesn’t believe I am serious – clearly not admiring my breasts as much as the young lad.  Oh well, we can’t please everyone I muse and start laughing again.  Indeed I can barely believe it has happened myself.  My breasts are quite good I’m told - damn good for my age, if perkiness counts as much as size - but until I came to Italy it hadn’t occurred to me they were my best feature.  Yet to Italians, breasts seem to matter more than many characteristics and I’m finding that out more and more as time goes on.  Today, however, all I can think is “wow, if that guy is anything to go by, my friend Hayley could give up work for good if she moved to Italy”.

Jokes aside, the strange thing about this encounter is that it wasn’t particularly creepy:  surreal yes, definitely odd, but neither aggressive nor threatening.  There was an innocence about this chap - somewhere between seventeen and twenty I’d hazard a guess - born more of curiosity than perversion.  I guess seeing me on my own and unmarried… and hey, he checked that first so you can’t say he is without morals… he gave it his best shot.  When he couldn’t persuade me there was no mouthing-off or obstruction; unlike many blokes full of booze whose egos are battered by rejection.  So in the end all I can really think is “good luck to him”.  

Ah, you gotta love Italy.  

 

 

 

Starry Starry Night

Most of my readers are women.  I intend it that way.  But some new readers are male and they tell me they prefer funny themes to deep and meaningful ones; what women commonly call D&Ms.  So with Tortoise Sex and posts like this I’m hoping to humour them.

 

The title doesn’t quote Don McLean, though I like the opening bars of Vincent. 

I’m recalling the episode I mentioned in the blog Paros to Sifnos, which due to popular request I’m going to elaborate upon.

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During my fifteen minutes of fame on Neighbours, I was in Melbourne doing a Celebratory Charity Fashion Parade.  I’d saunter up the cat-walk trying to look tall, as you do, then rush back-stage to change clothes.  For most of the day, during rehearsals and the show, I had been exchanging banter with a handsome man I hadn’t met before.  He was witty, amusing, athletically fit, and I supposed also something of a celebrity as otherwise he wouldn’t have been in the show.  As I left to go home that evening across the room he called out “what would you say if I asked for your phone number?”.  I grinned and said my number extremely quickly (something like 9607431).  Not for a minute did I think he caught it.  Then I waved and was out the door. 

The next day there was a message on my answering machine.  And the next.  And the next.  Each time his message was humorous - teasing me into considering ringing him back.  The fourth time he called I was home so I picked up, and we laughed about the fact that he was as quick with numbers as he was pursuing something he wanted.  We set a dinner date. 

He picked me up in a fancy car (actually every time he picked me up he was in a fancy but different car).  We went to a restaurant on the waterfront which I had admired but never dined in, and the evening began well.  He was smart, funny, entertaining.  He was handsome and tastefully dressed, confident and ambitious, and sometimes refreshingly self-effacing when discussing various career and business topics.  The wine was good, the waiters attentive and I was thoroughly enjoying myself.  I knew I was out with a player, but as he was being perfectly charming that was all manageable.  Though I was amused when he seemed surprised on occasion that an actress (a ‘soap actress’ no less) might also be educated or intelligent.

What kind of women did this guy usually date? 

Somewhere between mains and dessert, he lent over the table to whisper something tender.  The tables were fashionably large and the restaurant buzzing so I could hardly hear him.  He repeated himself, adding a little louder a phrase of sweet flattery.

Before the thought “oh, he’s good” could fully form in my mind… a blonde lady on the next table (until then with her back toward us) turned sharply around and eye-balling him said “oh, I’ve heard that one before”.   He froze.  I giggled.  And the other man looked from one to the other like a Wimbledon Referee. 

If it had been a cartoon we’d all have had frozen thought bubbles above our heads, and the hilarity of the moment is forever impressed on my mind.  Even more ludicrous, however, was that when my date finally found his tongue he introduced me to none other than his ex-wife!    

His ex-wife!  Go figure, what were the odds of that?!  

Well, talk about laugh.  I had a spoonful of something in my mouth at the time and it’s a wonder I didn’t choke. 

It emerged they were on fairly friendly terms, and she assured me he’d be good company and she was sorry to interrupt.  However when her date (a wealthy real estate agent from Toorak) asked us to join them and began to put the tables together… I didn’t know whether to hug ‘my guy’ for looking so forlorn or laugh again.

For the next hour through dessert, cheese plate, indulgent digestive wines and spirits, the four of us bantered about all and sundry, until we found ourselves back in the Porsche following the other couple to a Toorak mansion for port.  It was the funniest of nights.  And then not only was the house a modern design masterpiece, it was packed floor to ceiling with incredible works of art – seriously as good as some public-funded galleries.  I was having a ball. 

God knows how Mr Smooth followed up on that date but somehow he managed it.  Once we drove around the Bay for the afternoon with the top down on his car.  Another time had lunch in a chic ‘celebrity spotting’ café in South Yarra (not far from where I lived).  And each time I would kiss him goodbye on the doorstep. 

He clearly liked a challenge, but was disappointed when some Melbourne friends subsequently informed me of his infamous Playboy status.  (This may surprise someone not Australian, but we don’t get all the same news state to state.)  “Oh damn” he said when I asked him was this or that media report true.  “I told my old school mate the other day how lovely it was to go out with someone who took me on face value and didn’t know anything about me.”  Quickly I replied “I’m not judging you.  I really enjoy spending time with you.  But I’m not sure I’m looking for the same things you are”.   “We’ll see” he said, and again we went out and again he got frustrated when I said goodbye at the front door.  I really was attracted to him, he was sexy and intelligent (far more than his public persona suggested), but I didn’t fancy being a notch on the bed-post. 

Then came the date to top all dates: when after a nice meal we ended up back at his place.  His home was beautifully designed, cosy, with a clever blend of old and new.  After admiring the Italian garden, complete with rich-orange terracotta tiles and sculptured pot plants, hedges and marble figures, we moved to the largest and most comfortable white sofa you have ever seen.  It swept around the circumference of the enormous fire place, and when you sat down on it the little dress cushions fell around you like a flock of soft puppies.  He sat down beside me and we started to kiss.  Every so often a cushion would go flying this way and that, and we’d sink deeper into the fabric.  Shoes were lost, jackets, belts, we were approaching a precipice and I was nicely snuggled, sanguine.  Snap, my bra was undone.  Snap, crackle, pop, the fire blazed. 

Then after a particularly delicious nibble on my ear he whispered: “would you like to see the stars?”.  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to move from the fire to go out to the terrace… but started to get up.  He pulled me back to him: “no, no, not out there, right here”.  And with that he swivelled up and forward to push a button on the side of the huge stone fireplace, before falling back down and pulling me into an embrace.  After a slight theatrical pause I heard clicking noises, sensed movement, and looked up to see the roof literally opening.  Shutters were moving, lifting and locking into place until a large semi-circle of sky was revealed directly above the sofa.  A reflection of the flames flickered in the glass sky-light and above that hundreds and hundreds of stars; a perfect starry, starry night. 

Reclining on sumptuous cushions, warmed by the fire, with Mr Smooth running his fingers through my hair, and my lips, neck and ears still tingling from his kisses, I couldn’t believe the situation I’d found myself in.  It was the most romantic and beautiful setting imaginable. 

But too much. 

I started to giggle.  Soon he looked crest-fallen so I started to kiss him.  I tried to calm myself, enjoy the moment, but before long I was giggling again. “Oh come on” he said “what’s so funny?”. 

“Well I’m sorry Mr Bond, it’s beautiful, really beautiful, but I feel like I’m in that final scene from the Spy Who Loved Me… you know, the one with the round bed when Bond uses a remote to shut all the blinds.” 

“No, I don’t know that movie” he lied.  And then I giggled again. 

I tried reassuring him with “you were actually doing rather well without that you know”… but the moment was gone.  The heat, ironically, had escaped out the sky-light.  And he didn’t ask me out again after that. 

I learnt something about myself though – I may be dramatic in many respects but I prefer less dramatic, more unique, tender, heartfelt seduction.

I understand the guy's got himself into all sorts of trouble since, and perhaps isn't the man he might have been, but it was fun while it lasted.