Birthday blues and Springtime rag

Tube stops: Termini, Ottaviano, Colosseo, Baldo degli Ubaldi, Laurentina, EUR Fermi


Doesn't time fugit when you're having fun? It's been a while since the last blog entry: life got in the way as it invariably does and before you know it, you're trawling through your faithful aide memoir or diary, trying to stave off middle-age alzheimer's by remembering what you were doing three weeks ago or even two months ago.

Me, I can't remember what I did yesterday (although it did involve some students at the English language.)

Rome, the mega-leviathan of sprawling cobbled path-ways, clashing fashionistas and tumbling archaic brick-work is brightening up: the sun is shining and the weather is decidely Spring-like. On arrival at my new class down in EUR Fermi, I commented on how Summer-like the recent clime was. Already, I was dehydrated, sweating like supermarket cheese in its wrapper, and we hadn't even touched on the 2nd Conditional (If I taught private lessons at home, I wouldn't have to trek all the bloody way here... etc. etc.) When I looked up, three of my class were wearing at least three layers, two of which looked distinctly thermal.

...and I can shave my hair if I want.

In March, we celebrated my birthday in an epic way. Ever a fun of Glee, I opted for a karaoke-fuelled night, with fancy dress and obligatory spumante and cake. My character was Puck and before you could say 'juvenile detention centre', I was at Date's flat shaving off my hair only to hair a fine strip of it painted black like a mohawk. Oh, if only the Civil Service could see me now:

Imaginary scenario:
PERMANENT SECRETARY: 'Excellent, so you've arranged for the car to pick the minister up from the conference and bring him to the meeting with the Trade Unions, correct?'
ME: 'Absolutely. Although there is one small problem.'
PS: 'What is it?'
ME: 'Tiny, tiny problem.'
PS: 'What?'
ME: 'I took the limo for a joyride and wrapped it round Westminster Cathedral.'

I might not know how to conjugate Italian verbs
but I do know how to open a car door without the key

It was a great night at a bar near the Vatican: a heady mix of English language teachers (on the razz, the old rascals), Italians (who showed remarkable self-restraint until the early hours of the morning when mysterious bandanas appeared from no-where and everyone was singing what sounded like the national anthem. With a bass beat) and friends from home. I felt so lucky to have three of my boys from ol Blighty come and see me that weekend. I might have put them off ever coming back, my I felt blessed. The slowest version of 'Proud Mary' ever released, a few Glee tribute songs, several Spanish and Italian songs (one involving the translated lyrics: "mad mad mad on the terrace, bring bring bring me a butterfly" - I shit you not) and some good old fashioned clubbing tracks later and we all trekked across town to bed, fearful of waking up his Holiness.

The following week proved to be just as epic. I was enjoying my time with my new bed-fellows - literally, I was splitting my friends between my room and Date's, both of us accommodating roughly seven people at intervals over the course of ten days! With Matteo and Date in tow, we ventured forth to the Maxxi to investigate some quite antagonistic 'modern art'. I use the term briefly because I spent too much time being outraged at the petty, moralistic and child-like exploitation of the notion of modern art that this particular artist was using, much to the amusement of Matteo and Date.
A night on the (mosaic) tiles

My friend S, arrived the following Thursday and being a long-standing fan of all things exercisey bundled me into Fitness First with a day pass so that my liver could take an additional pounding and we did some rough site-seeing. By Friday, friends T & C had arrived and the games could begin.

Fast forward to Goa: hard-house music blaring, already steeped in quantities of alcohol previously unexplored and served in plastic cups at a nearby 'Happy Hour/Day' bar, hundreds of empty portraits hang on the wall of this twisted electric-lounge location. T had managed to become better acquainted with a fellow teacher at my school and C & S had had enough before the lights came up. We procured a lift home and whilst trying to tiptoe through the courtyard of my apartment block, we discovered where Tina Turner gets her amazing bandy-legged dancing abilities from: crazy tiptoeing.

Scenario: your house is on fire and you have
to evacuate it wearing ten-inch heels.
Tina Turner, what do you do?

Storm-clouds had gathered by now over the tropical horizon of the Eternal City... Me and Date split up. For a full breakdown of information, see my autobiography, circa 30 years time (I wish!)

And so to the present day: Good Friday. Getting towards the end of April, there is a time of expectation: the Summer seems like an actual possibility - although my years in England always taught me to be cautious. Easter or Pasqua itself represents a sense of surviving the Winter and being regenerated, being given a time to sort things out, spring-clean your life and think properly about the opportunities that the rest of the year will bring. For some, these opportunities are massive milestones in their life: my sister is due to give birth imminently (thanks to the cartons of pineapple juice that have just been delivered to her flat...) and S & M announced that they are now engaged, creating the perfect excuse for a much needed Prosecco or three in a cosy enoteca in Monte.

Auguri tutti e buono Pasqua e Pasquetta :)