Zen, and me

Last Wednesday was World Pasta Day. Guido looks for any excuse to get his Ragu out. I’d have written a post about it but there’s only so much cannelloni one person can consume without having to lay down straight after.

“You should try to find your inner Zen,” said Cara. She teaches a yoga and meditation class at The Fish Kettle cafe every Sunday morning. “Food isn’t a substitute for happiness.”

Only a woman the width of a Twiglet but who still bends at right angles like a pipe cleaner could offer you such advice. Personally I’d just love a hobby which meant I didn’t have to lose twenty pounds at the end of it.

Readers will know I’ve been down the weight loss road before. It has pot holes. Need I remind you of – The Banana Diet?

“It’s not your body which rules your life, it’s your mind,” said Cara.

She was eating a plate of Guido’s homemade heavy cream scrambled eggs on rye at the time. I’d rather have his muffin.

“Take me, for example,” she put her fork down, “before I discovered transcendental mediation my life was a void. It was a juxtapose. My entire being was an orgy of hidden horrible turbulent depths. I felt like some nightmarish water spout was going to suck me right up and spit me out into a barren wasteland on life’s shore. God, these eggs are terrific. I have no idea how Guido cooks them.”

I sipped my full-fat latte.

“In my opinion it’s the chicken who did all the hard work,” I said.

Listen, she’s not the only one who can hypothesise you know.

Cara slid a book across the table. Even though it was upside down I could still read the title – Meditation For Beginners. My heart sank. I was just hoping it was more comprehensible than the Spanish For Beginners book Guido bought me. He got really cranky when I inexplicably started making up Andalucian words. Anyway, yesterday on the way home from work I took the book out and started reading it on the London Underground.

I peered up over the top of it and could see that there was a Hot Guy In A Hoodie (HGIAH) sitting right opposite.

I stared at the page.

Get into a comfortable position.

I tucked my arms in. I wiggled down into the seat.

I looked back at HGIAH. He had beard.

I stared at the page

Close your eyes.

This made looking at the HGIAH far more difficult. It was also going to make reading the book completely impossible. So, I only shut one eye.

I squinted at the page. At first I thought I read, stop breathing, but realised that was utterly ridiculous as I would drop dead.

Stop thinking about your breathing.

I wondered if HGIAH was thinking about water spouts.

Focus on your inhalation and exhalation.

After a monent I realised I was panting erratically. This pricked HGIAH’s attention. He leaned over next to me rubbing his beard. He looked perplexed. He pointed to my book.

”Personally, man, I think it’s the body that rules your life, not the mind,” he said.

He had aura and he had depth.

If he hadn’t got off at Victoria Station I reckon we could have discussed the life enhancing aspects of a muffin.

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Over you

When my gay best friend Marc flew halfway across Europe, to Naples, this Summer to try to kiss and make up with his Italian boyfriend, Secondo, I crossed my fingers tight and hoped for the best. Really I did.

”I’ve got my fingers crossed,” I distinctly remember saying to Guido in bed at the time. That got him worried.

Of course I speak metaphorically because when someone you care about flies thousands of miles on a thong and a prayer looking for lasting love with a hot guy he’s known for only a few months, what else can you do? You hope love will out. Well things don’t always go to plan, do they?

Fast forward to last night and Marc was laying crying in our bed. I noticed my pillow looked damp and dented, and not in a good way.

“How could I have been so stupidly naive?” sobbed Marc.

He has passion.

“I mean, can you blame a guy for flying to Italy to surrender his body and soul to a man who’s a doppelgänger for Emmanuel Macron?” he asked.

I sucked my index finger. Then I chewed my nail. I don’t think I agree with his policies but I’d definitely vote to see Emmanuel Macron topless.

”Have you any idea when Marc’s extricating himself from our bed?” said Guido out of the corner of his mouth.

He was hovering in our hallway, wearing only a pair of plaid tartan boxer shorts. I have to tell you the sight was not unappealing.

“I mean, I totally get that he’s tried his luck with a guy who’s hotter than the French President but it’s all ended in a horrible romantic car crash and now we’re picking up the pieces.”

“His Love Boat has sprung a proverbial leak,” I said. I peered into the bedroom. There were wailing noises. “All I can say is Marc seems to be welded to our over blanket right now.”

Guido started pacing back and forth.

“I get it. Really I do. But I’ve got to get into that bed tonight and then back up out of it at 5 a.m. tomorrow to start frying homemade hash browns. Just sayin’.”

Whilst I realised the customers of Denmark Hill were counting on him, I told him to shoosh.

I went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.

”I’m never dating another Italian again,” said Marc blowing his nose. “In fact I’m never dating another man again.”

Ruling out an entire European nation was one thing but in my opinion discounting a whole gender was a bit worrying for a gay man.

”Okay,” I said, “here’s the deal. If you agree to shift your nervous breakdown from this bed onto our lumpy sofa then I can promise you hash browns for breakfast.” I gave a big smile.

If that hadn’t worked I was happy to lure him with the promise of a slice of Larry Mufffin’s Buttermilk Pie.

Later in bed Guido showed me his appreciation by offering me sex before lights out. He looked at his watch.

“We’ve got time for a quick one if you fancy it?” he said.

Obviously I switched out the lamp. I lay thinking about Emmanuel Macron and whether he wore plaid tartan boxer shorts in the sack.

Marc. This one’s for you.

Headless and heartless

“D’you think I’m an oddball?” I asked Guido over dinner last night.

“Yeah,” he said without a moment’s hesitation or pause for intake of breath.

I realise this could be worrying. See below.

“Okay, forget the recent incident in bed when I got naked with that tub of ricotta cheese,” I said. “It happened to be the closest thing to hand at the time and I don’t remember you complaining.”

Sometimes in life you’ve just got to improvise.

“I hear what you’re saying but what I’m really asking you is – and please don’t in any way feel obliged to rush to a conclusion before you answer my next question – think it through fully before you answer it, but – am I weird?”

“Yeah,” he said.

Guido stopped chewing. He put his fork down. He stroked the back of my hand.

“Hey, what’s worrying you?”

We we’re eating dinner in a restaurant called il Giardino. It’s right on the square in Pollensa old town on the island of Majorca. It’s a lovely place, but I wasn’t really hungry and I’m pretty sure Guido wasn’t either.

Neither of us expected to be here right now because I have a stucco house in Notting Hill to refit before the end of the year and, as you know, Guido’s busy having a nervous breakdown simultaneously working two cafes.

This means that a thousand miles away in London:

1. an over enthusiastic, sweaty, highly tattooed, (did I mention sweaty?), demolition man is swinging his big hammer unsupervised in a listed building

2. overnight Guido’s parents have reverted The Spanish Onion lunch menu to circa 1974, and;

3. Banjo, an agency chef on a gap year from Melbourne, has been let loose at The Fish Kettle with an overt interest in avocados

I have to tell you it’s the perfect storm.

”Because your cousin Sofia told me with great pleasure that your cousin Mariana said I was a complete nut job.”

For the purposes of this blog I will now only refer to Guido’s cousins as The Ugly Sisters. I didn’t have the heart to tell Guido his cousin Mariana went on to tell me his cousin Sophia had called Guido a heartless opportunist. I have to say in the scheme of things I’d much rather be heartless than headless.

”Ignore them,” said Guido. He lifted up his fork again. Maybe he was hungry after all.

There is a reason I’m telling you this.

I put a blog post on here in September 2016 about Guido’s much loved Uncle Gustave. He owned a farmhouse and some land here. He was very old. He died in his sleep two weeks ago. Apparently he was found dead tucked up in bed clutching an empty bottle of VSOP brandy, a photograph of Ava Gardner on his pillow, and a big smile on his face. I can think of worse ways to go. We flew out for the funeral, much to the consternation of The Ugly Sisters, as the family gossip rumour mill is that Uncle Gustave’s left his entire estate to Guido.

It’s certainly amusing what the prospect of money does to some people’s head space.

The funeral is tomorrow. We will bid Uncle Gustave a very fond farewell. I’ll be the one wearing black acting like a total nut job. Guido will be as gracious and respectful as ever.