The Italian Inquisition

Ciao!

A while ago I had a boyfriend. I know, I know. I actually used to own a man. It wasn't a dream or a lie I made up to convince my parents that I'm not a lesbian.

Unfortunately, as with all of my relationships it fizzled out. We both agreed that this wasn't going to work. At least, I think that's what we agreed, English wasn't his first language. And Italian isn't mine.

Although I loved the idea of a romantic liaison with a Latin Lothario it turned out to be very unlike the promises made to me by films and my Grandfather's Mills and Boons books (Yes I said Grandfather - Don't ask).

Rather than the full blown passionate love making for three days coming out of bed briefly to eat pasta like his Mamma used to make it was more like dating a wet dog. Who actually did make pretty good pasta.

Anyway, we moved on with our lives. He in fact moved to a whole different country. I don't believe I had anything to do with that. Not this time.

We continued to keep a vague interest in each others lives. Occasional emails that sort of thing.

Anyway, recently I went on a small visit to the country he now resides in. To the city he resides in nonetheless. So I thought it might be nice to meet up. It would be rude not to. Right?

Well, as it turns out, my idea of rude is not the same as that of an Italian.

Our virtual conversation went as follows.

Me - 'Hey I'll be arriving on the 17th and leaving on the 21st? Any time around then good for you?'

He - 'Yes. That is good.'

Me- 'Great. I'll be in touch closer to the time.'

He - 'Am I still entitled to fill you up?! hehe!'

This is the point where the pianist in the bar stops playing. Birds fall out of the sky. The traffic outside shrieks to a halt. Drivers poke their heads out of their windows and shout up to me. 'He said what?!'

Yep. 

I believe you can guess what my response was. Let's face it. If there was even a tiny chance of that happening (which there most definitely was not), he had certainly squashed that in one poorly judged move.

My sister pointed out that what with English not being his forte and also he was now learning his third language, maybe he had made a mistake. Perhaps he meant to say 'Feel you up'.

Of course, it's possible. But that isn't exactly what a girl wants to hear either.

Needless to say, I didn't meet up with him, so he didn't get a chance to clarify what he meant. 

Che Peccato

One's company. Two's stealing my bloody quilt.

Hello World. Or part of it. Hello.

I would like to continue the discussion I was having with myself a few weeks ago that you were listening in on because you are nosey bastards. The one about how relationships come about.

So let's say that you managed to maneuver your way around the war zone that is the first date relatively unscathed. But not, I imagine without the scars, the night terrors and the profuse sweating. No one can escape that.

No word of a lie, I once had a haircut coincidentally booked on the day of a first date, and so I went straight home and washed it and restyled it to look more 'normal' so it didn't look like I'd 'made too much of an effort'. This is the sort of idiocy a human being has to deal with when on the hunt for a member of the opposite sex. Or same sex. Or let's just be honest. Sex. Or is it? Perhaps it is more a sign that I am a mental person. You decide. 

Anyway, so let's say hypothetically you have had one, two, God forbid three dates with another human who doesn't make you want to peel your own face off slowly and deliberately with a toothpick. 

What then?

Now it's the truly difficult stage. The 'Letting someone ruin your life' stage.

I'm not being melodramatic here. I couldn't if I wanted to. My cape is being dry cleaned.

Now is the stage where you decide that you are willing to surrender all of those things that make being single wonderful. 

Lying sideways across your massive bed. Dropping everything to go to the park with friends and wine. Watching whatever you want on telly no questions asked. No judgement. Eating chocolate spread on digestive biscuits for breakfast, lunch, dinner and elevenses. Not having to subject your body to the torture it has to go through to convince your partner you were just born this naturally soft, hairless and smelling like an ice-cream factory.

Is it worth it? Really? What do we get in return for giving up our precious spare time, and all that money for all those dull-but-let's-pretend-they're-super-fun-activities-until-we-have-been-together-for-a-year-and-then-I'll-admit-I-hate-bloody-theme-parks-and-horror-films?

Umm... Sex I guess is the obvious one, and cuddling, and umm.... help to build Ikea furniture?

I'm sure there are lots of things. Probably.

I suppose if someone is worth it then you let them crowbar their way into your life with their stupid face and the annoying way they chew.

I know a lot of you who read this are in relationships, and may sometimes feel a bit green eyed about the lifestyles of us singletons, and I'm not surprised, I have to admit it's a pretty fantastic life with no one to answer to. But I hope this also reminds you that you have met someone who was worth leaving that life behind for. And that's not to be sniffed at.

Sorry. I got a bit schmaltzy there. I don't know what happened. I'd best go outside and kick a puppy.