Talking Italian

On Friday I’m off to Rome! I can’t wait.

It’ll be warm, it’ll be sunny. The food will be great, the wine will flow.
I’m already a bit worn out with so much contented sighing and I haven’t even left London yet.

I’ve been to Rome so many times that it’ll feel as familiar as a pair of comfy shoes (stylish designer obviously, possibly Italian).
What to do whilst I’m there? Well there’s shopping, of course. I’ve seen most of the sights so I’m on the look out for unusual stuff that’s not mobbed by the gazillion tourists that will be clogging the place up. Any suggestions would be gratefully received. I was about to add “clean ones only please” but then thought “what the hell!?”. Lay them all on me!

Perhaps I’ll just park up in a bar on a square and watch people. It’s my favourite thing to do anyway. I may as well just find the best spot and start gawping straight off.

There’s the Italian chaps to keep an eye on too…

This is my usual conundrum.
Italian boys are such a contradiction. They all look/act gay yet are so vehement about their passion and adoration for women. Mind you, it’s been said to me before that the difference between a gay Italian and a straight one is a bottle of Peroni. On a previous visit, the other half and I were propositioned by a supposedly straight guy who was quite open about the fact that, as we were tourists it was unlikely that we’d ever meet his girlfriend, therefore he was perfectly safe and not actually gay at all – because no-one would find out. Hmmm… Regardless of whether they are gay or straight though, they’re all unbelievably, excitingly and dangerously flirty. It’s baffling, maddening and fabulous all at the same time. Damn those naughty Italian guys.

I suppose I’d better talk about food (How Great is Cake? I’ve almost forgotten whilst thinking about gents of a Roman – or even roamin’ – persuasion). I intend to demolish a modest amount of Tiramisu, maybe a small hillock of pizza and a few shovel loads of risotto. I LOVE risotto. However, this provides another quandary. Carbs are the enemy of the gay. I still have a small way to go before being ready for summer and I don’t want to undo it all at the final hurdle. I’ll never be the snake-hipped twenty-something I used to be so I need to make sure that I stick to lots of fruit and veg. What the hell am I saying?! It’s never going to happen. Bugger. Bring on the lard.

Also I may meet up with a fellow blogger if we can co-ordinate schedules – that’ll be super-exciting!

Ciao all!

PST

Well...

Here goes. I didn't actually promise I'd do it but here y'all are.
Just remember, it was taken when I got home after a really busy day which aged me by at least a decade. I look like I haven't shaved in weeks.

At least you can see I'm wearing a pink shirt (a range of pinks actually).

Please bear in mind what I've just mentioned and be kind...

Panini

Just had one for lunch with chicken, cheese and roasted onion – sounds a weird mix but it was delicious. It was a sandwich I wanted to last forever, but alas it came to an abrupt and greasy chinned end and I sat quietly and sadly for a few moments before continuing with my day.

I’m soooo tired lately. I can’t work out why. I slept a fair bit over the weekend too.

We had a lovely weekend pottering about and meeting up with friends. Spent part of the bank holiday in Brighton too. It’s a while since we’ve been, so it was good to get back to the flat and to get some sea air. It was a bit strange as the town felt deserted. The weather was ropey tho, which may explain the absence of the usual holiday weekend crowds. It gave us the opportunity to walk along the beach and get suck in a few lungfulls of fresh air, combined with a few gallons of sea spray as it was fairly rough.

We’re back to Brighton again this weekend as we’re having some friends to stay. I’m quite looking forward to it as we haven’t seen them for a bit and it’ll be fun to catch up over dinner and a few barrels of booze.

As it’s nearly Summer I’m attempting to cut down on eating rubbish but it’s so darned tough. My whole blog revolves around my love of cake for goodness sakes. Actually, that’s not strictly true any more is it? I’ve rambled on about numerous non-cakey subjects of late, often encouraged to do so by naughty blog visitors who have interests other than baked goods. Anyway, I’m trying to cut down so that I can be trim and toned for those all-important shorts and smaller outer garment appearances whilst on hols. Eat less cake, exercise more. Gloom…

For those who have demanded it, I shall endeavour to remember PST this week, evidence may be available but I haven’t decided yet – I seem to have gone a bit shy.

Pink Champagne

It’s great. I like it. But how in hell do you get rid of the taste of it the next day? Short of shaving my tongue, I’ve done pretty much everything I can think of. All to no avail!

Last night the other half and I went to see Equus with our lovely friend Chris and a couple of good-time girls who Chris works with. The play was brilliant and Daniel Radcliffe, as well as being awesomely buff and disturbingly sexy for a 17 year old, was excellent. I’ll never be able to think of him as Harry Potter again, not least because I’ve seen him running about the stage totally stark naked. He really was great in the part and deserves much credit.

Afterwards we went to a gay bar in Soho for ‘one’. I held firm that, as it was a school night, I needed to be home in plenty of time to fit in adequate beauty sleep. There were murmurs of general agreement but I should have realised that the low-level response heralded the onset of a much meatier night out.
We moved on to another bar where pink champagne began to flow – one of the ladies was responsible. Us boys, being of a pinkish persuasion anyway, set to with gusto. Chris lives in Edinburgh, so he wanted to maximise gawping at cute London boys, another sign that I wasn’t going to be able to tear people away from what was beginning to slide into ‘a bit of a big night’. I was brave and declared that it was time for me to head home and I would take my leave. Everyone agreed that we should leave too. “Hurrah” I thought. “Bugger” I thought immediately after, as I was grabbed by both arms and hauled into the club we were passing. My bag was whizzed into the cloakroom and I was shepherded to the bar, protesting weakly – I’d had vodka, champagne, no food and I’d come straight from work. I gave in. I drank more pink champagne. I figured that it was already late, I’d feel tired today anyway so I might as well make the most of it, drink more and watch the cute and the lovely gays of London bustle about the club.

Whilst eating 3 minute noodles in our kitchen at 3am with the boys I remember thinking “What the f… am I doing?!” The thought didn’t last as I was immediately distracted by shovelling another heap of noodles into my mouth.

Some questions…

Why noodles?
It was all we had in – no bread, no cheese, no fishfingers (always great on a sandwich when you’re smashed!)
Why am I finding a 17 year old sexy when my mind tells me it’s just not right?
I can’t help it – he’s uber cute.
Why can’t I get rid of the taste of pink champagne?
Please! Someone come to my aid on this one.

And to top it all off, of course, on waking this morning I felt as rough as a bear’s arse and looked like a total bag of spanners for the whole day.

Harrumph!!