Category archive: personal

Good morning Bob, originally uploaded by bitful.

Our cactus only gets watered during British Summer Time (once a week). It's been thriving for about 5 years now, not bad for a cheap Ikea plant.

So every year in the last Sunday in March we put the clocks forward and water Bob (that's what we call it, no idea why), then make yawning noises and pretend it's Bob waking up after months of hibernation.

This year we followed the yawning with expressions of surprise and spatial disorientation, because the new (larger) sofa made us move Bob while it was sleeping.

I'm 42, Stuart is 39, and I hope we will be just as silly in thirty years' time.

Today I sent the following text message to a colleague:

Got you milk. Are you meeting j and j in town too? Lxx

The text was meant to be for Stuart 'Dr Bitful' 'Mr Boyfriend' of course, not for Stuart I work with (who was very kind and called me straight away to let me know I had made a mistake).

I guess it had to happen sooner or later. I'm just glad the text was family-friendly.

Today's Italian word is errore, which means mistake.

If you send Christmas cards, you are not green because you chop trees.

If you don't send any, you are a miser.

If you send e-cards, you are lazy.

If you don't send charity cards, you don't care at all.

If you print addresses from Outlook onto sticky labels (guilty!), you are lazy and impersonal.

If all you write is your name underneath the printed greetings, you could not care less.

If you include a long update on everything that has happened to you over the last twelve months, you have too much time on your hands and deluded that people actually care.

But if you include a personal wish, a few warm words that are tailor-made for your loved ones, you are a (Christmas) star.

Having said that, any of the cards listed above makes me happy. So email away at lucabelletti@gmail.com! I hear Critter Carols could be this year's Elf Yourself.

I often ask my mother if she would like to come and see me in London (she lives in Italy), and she always says no. She either feels tired, or ill, or too old to travel.

A couple of weeks ago she said yes – darn ;-) – so I booked her flights before she could change her mind, and Dr B.'s parents insisted we go and see them when she is here (they already met last spring).

She has travelled on her own in the past but was not too sure about it now that she is 83 years old (she had me veeery late), so I found a service that escorts passengers from the aircraft to arrivals and helps out with formalities and luggage. She asked instead if I could go and pick her up.

In Italy.

So I'm flying there today and back with her tomorrow, and in a week I'll fly her back to Italy and spend a few days there. Things a good Italian boy would not do for his mamma, eh?

I am about to leave and am very excited, but I will probably be fed up with her so quickly that my Twitter tweets (or Facebook status updates) later this afternoon are guaranteed to be on the rantful side.

Yesterday I told you my name. Today I thought I'd show you my face.

I have been fascinated for a long time by people who take their own picture every day and then paste them all together in a video, like 200 Days in 20ish Seconds and Living My Life Faster. So much so that between 1 January 2007 and 29 March 2008 I took a photo of myself almost every single day.

Did I put them all together in a nice movie? Did I bugger. I tried once with Windows Movie Maker but I found it too fiddly. I tried Photoshop so I could achieve pixel-perfect alignment but the task was monumental. I uploaded them in batches on my lucabelletti account on Flickr (don't bother checking it out, there are no public photos now), but the free account photostream only shows the last 200 pics and I did not want to upgrade to pro.

Last March I discovered Daily Mugshot and found that it does exactly what I need. I gave it a few tries, by using a webcam, or uploading a picture from the hard drive, or sending one from a mobile phone, but it was only when I got an iPhone that I found the method that suits me the best: snap pic with iPhone, email to Daily Mugshot, pic appears in my 'mugshow':

I'll grant you it lacks the perfection of manually assembled examples where pictures are resized and perfectly centered, but it was a very easy choice between having 'nothing out there' and 'something that updates automatically whenever I email a photo to it'.

Cherry on the cake: the guy who developed Daily Mugshot is a star (I had a question on how to do something, and he did it for me straight away). Thanks Keith!

I also take a picture of me in underwear (front and side) every month to record my desperate attempts to combat the inevitable sagging that old father time is cursing my body with. Check back tomorrow for those. Er, scrap that actually, I think I'll spare you that one.

Daily Mugshot

When I started writing this blog it was completely anonymous. I wanted it that way, I did not necessarily enjoy it because I wanted everyone I know to read it, but I felt that it had to be that way and that I had no choice.

My first ever web page in early 1999 had all my details on it. It was personal but at the same time since it was entirely hand-coded it was meant to me looked at by potential employers or consultancy clients in the IT business. It had a photo of my cat (a must at that time), it talked about my boyfriend, it even had my home address so people would know where I was based.

I sent all my contacts a link to it, and a friend came back to me horrified that I had published my full address. He begged me to remove it, and I did, and I am glad I did, because at that time the last thing I needed was a stalker.

Fast forward to 2002, when I made up a unique blog name (bitful) and started connecting to a blogging community (the way we use to do it, by linking to each other's blogs, since FriendFeed and Facebook were at the time but a twinkle in Tim Berners Lee's eye). I kept everything separate even when it took a lot of effort, and only disclosed my blog's URL to very close friends. Similarly, I would never post pictures of myself or of my friends on my bitful account on Flickr, and maintained two separate Yahoo! accounts, one for mail, the other for social stuff.

A lot has happened since then. I am probably more comfortable with myself. I also am very lucky to be doing a job I love in an institution I respect, with colleagues I trust. And little by little, the boundaries I had carefully drawn to separate my two online identities became blurred. I have always been much more active online as bitful than as lucabelletti, and I was eager to connect to people as bitful to create connections between them and my online identity.

I have come to a point where I am perfecly happy to feature my name openly on my blog. I feel it is for me a very natural progression, as I cannot see the point of hiding it any longer, and the public and private identities are now one and the same. They serve different purposes perhaps, but they complement each other, as two facets of who I am. I know many people who are still terrified of such openness, and I respect their position, but I know this is right for me now.

And after all, if you search for my first and last name in inverted commas on Google you already get links to my FriendFeed, delicious, LinkedIn, Plaxo, Twitter, and (empty) personal homepage/sandbox for work projects (as well as stuff from other people I share my name with).

So yes then, my name is Luca Belletti, I run a blog called bitful, and you are very welcome to my life.

You know I like to log things about me, right?

Then do you think I would miss the opportunity to record a daily summary of my activities and get pretty charts to boot?

Of course not.

So now you can find out how I am doing and feeling, how little I sleep, if I stick to my rule 'no alcohol on school nights' and if I am still caffeine-free by checking out my Morale-O-Meter:

One of the most obvious effects of having given up caffeine completely is that, after four days of 24-hour headaches, I started to sleep. Oh yes I sleep, and how I sleep! Naps in the afternoon at the weekend, snoozes on the couch in the evening, and once even on the way back from work on the tube. I think I might have dribbled a bit. I hope I did not fart.

Until today, my favourite 'me' time was left untouched. Bright and early at 5.30AM, day after day, I answer the call of the bladder, look at the time and rejoice in the fact that I've got one and a half hours to do exactly what I want to do. That is when I reply to emails, check Facebook, read feeds and news, catch up with recorded TV and with stuff on iPlayer, listen to new music and plan the day ahead.

The other morning I went for the usual early morning slash… and I went back to bed. Until 7. And then I had to do what everybody else does, which is get ready very quickly and rush through the door.

On one hand, I did not like it. Leisure is always preferable to pressure.

On the other hand, I managed to do the essential tasks I had to in about fifteen minutes, instead of diluting them into ninety minutes of perfecly useless (but one hundred per cent pleasing) surfing.

If only I did not feel fantastic without caffeine, I'd have a triple expresso just because it's more fun.

If you follow my short updates on Twitter or Facebook, you will now that I have given up caffeine on Saturday, and that I've been crippled by headaches ever since.

I knew my caffeine intake was way above sanity (about 10 cups a coffee and a couple of 500ml bottles of coke zero during the day, and two or three mugs of tea in the evening) and wanted to do something about it.

Knowing myself pretty well by now, I had a very good feeling that cutting down was going to involve a lot more energy than stopping altogether. After all, I failed every single attempt to cut down smoking, but when I went cold turkey five years ago, it worked and I have not smoked since.

So I started my Saturday with a mug of peppermint tea. Incidentally, I like peppermint tea, so it's not a big effort. I had a couple more cups during the morning, then at around lunchtime the headache started.

I must add at this point that I was also trying to cleanse and detox by trying out the Master Cleanse during the weekend, so I thought the headache was due to insufficient calories, or a reaction to maple syrup (Dr B. said it gives him headache).

However, by evening the Master Cleanse was out of the window, I ate and I drank and a darn good idea it was. But the headache was still there, I went to bed with it and I woke up with it too. It followed me all day on Sunday, laughed at the painkillers I threw at it, and again on Sunday night I fell asleep with the back of my head throbbing and sending discomfort down my spine.

Yesterday and today I have been feeling better, the headache is coming and going, I cannot put my finger on what makes it worse – but I have noticed that working out makes it disappear.

I am very surprised by my body's reaction to caffeine withdrawal, it feels oddly familiar and I recoil in horror because it is very similar to the first few days of each and every one of my (near-monthly) attempts to stop smoking. Is caffeine really that addictive? Or – shudder – am I allergic to peppermint tea instead?

Last night I went out to hear a recital by a recent aquaintance from my Gay Rounders team. But after circling my destination for about one hour and failing to reach it, I went home.

Those who know me at this point will not be surprised, as they often joke that when sense of direction was being handed out, I was unable to find the queue. And that's exactly why I looked up the venue on at a map before leaving, which clearly showed I could take Middle Temple Lane from Victoria Embankment or from Fleet Street.

I tried both ends and could not find the street. I checked the map again, and even my mobile's GPS failed to take me there. So I googled for instructions, but there seemed to be nothing in the first page of results. None of my friends was going to be there, and I could not call the singer because the concert had started.

I now read that I needed to

'Watch out for a wooden gateway with a sign to Middle Temple Lane. You might think you are going into someone's private yard but it's the north entry to this cobbled street of solicitors' offices in London's "legal village".' (City A.M. June 2007 review of La Grande Marque)

Of course. How could I not have known?

Yesterday after work I attended to the first class of a twelve-week Spanish language course.

My teacher is very lovely because she brought cupcakes. She also has an open smiley face. She comes from Argentina and her accent is as sweet as dulce de leche. Not as lovely as the Castilian Spanish I love so much, but I like it too.

My classmates are nice. Many of them have taken classes in the previous levels with the same teacher and they know each other already, but they are very friendly with all of us newcomers.

The level of the class is perfect for me. My vocabulary and pronunciation are good, but I am very bad at grammar and verb tenses, and this is exactly what we are going to do during the next two weeks.

Our teacher asked us to introduce ourselves and asked each of us where we learnt Spanish. I said I learnt by reading Harry Potter books in Spanish and that I could therefore talk at length about witches, spells and broomsticks. My classmates giggled. I hope they like me.

Being born in Italy, and having lived in France for six years, I used to have an overly medicalised view of health. People in Italy go to the doctor as soon as the smallest thing appears to be ever so slightly wrong with their body. Doctors in France shower you in medication as the universal solution from any condition, from ingrown toenails to lethargy.

In both these countries, my GPs prescribed free yearly checkups (blood scan, ophtalmologist, dermatologist) because of my family history and genetic disposition for diabetes, skin cancer and thyroid condition (my dad) – and glaucoma and blood pressure problems (my mother).

Once I moved to the UK, I was surprised not to be receving the same sort of attention but soon realised that if you have no symptoms, you don't get to be checked. I used to fret and worry about it, but I have recently started accepting it and playing by the rules, which means no symptoms equals no need to take unnecessary tests.

My approach is now to try and find a balanced way of taking care of myself, looking for symptoms without worrying, and taking the initiative to use the free services I can benefit from.

• I try and eat well at least 80% of the time
• I exercise at least three times a week. As a rule, I try not to let more than two days pass without some form of exercise (usually weights training or running, but at my age a very brisk 45-minute walk at lunchtime counts as exercise too)
• I monitor my weight and take action if it goes up
• I go for an eye test every year (free if you are over forty and a close relative has glaucoma, but also free if you work as I do with VDUs)
• I have not done so yet as I have just found out, but I am planning to book a diabetes test at Lloyds pharmacy (again, free if like me you are considered to be at risk)

Considering my ill luck at the gene lottery draw, I owe it to myself to be a little more careful than the average bloke.

I spent yesterday afternoon playing rounders in Hyde Park. A friend had organised a tournament, the turnout was staggering and our team ended up second of four.

It was a gay tournament, and unsurprisingly I was able to share with many others my memories of always being picked last in sports at school. And reassuringly, I found out I was not the campest runner.

I did not get to play much, as I was out straight away every time. But that's not too bad considering that only a couple of weeks ago I had no idea there even was such a thing as rounders.

What was somewhat scary was that while I was going to first base during the last match my feet froze mid-run. I put my hands forward as I fell and landed on my middle finger, which I can now not bend nor stretch completely.

The feet-freezing thing was weird. It felt as if they were tied together, they just stopped moving all of a sudden. Maybe a member of the opposite team was grabbing my ankles (I guess that's not allowed though).

I am sure my hand is fine (some sort of ligament sprain surely). However, I so would like to show the world my middle finger today (a Monday morning thing) and, well, I am unable to.

Ho messo su quattro libbre in una settimana
I have put on four pounds in one week
Literally: '(I) have put on four pounds in one week'.

Three and a half weeks ago I decided to stop counting calories and to stop weighing myself every day.

I have put on five pounds during the first two and a half weeks, and another four during the last seven days.

One look at the mirror confirmed that sadly it was not muscle mass gain.

It's no big deal but I cannot afford to put on any more weight, so the old food diary is out again – but I'll still only weigh myself once a week.

Joy.

Saluti da Manchester
Greetings from Manchester
Literally: 'Greetings from Manchester'.

Well, I say Manchester but really it's lovely suburban Altrincham, which I think I've just realised is in Cheshire.

Walked around, looked at mansions, went to a pub, played a Robots-themed board game with our friends' child.

Having a rest now, dinner will be ready soon. It feels wonderfully pleasant to be relaxed, such an unusual and therefore cherished state of mind.

Whenever I travel I always make sure I have enough stuff to do late at night or very early in the morning when everybody sleeps. I usually take my laptop and get some work done. Sometimes I even read a book – crazy, I know.

I am now at Dr B.'s parents only with an iPod Touch, the gift of Wi-Fi and the last seven days of BBC telly, courtesy of the iPlayer. The video is beautifully encoded and optimised for the iPhone and iPod Touch, and being able to browse and pick stuff I've missed is thrilling.

I fear the number of books I read in a year – already a pathetic single digit – is going to go even further down.

And now please excuse me while I finish watching Pulling.

Massive pillow fight in Leicester Square yesterday afternoon:

I had to join in, even if it means I almost dropped my camera. I also have some photos of the pillow fight on Flickr.

It was very pointless, yet exhilarating, and it put a smile on my face – until I thought of whoever would have to clean up the mess.

Today I decided to stop logging my food intake. I have done so on and off all my life, and without interruptions since August 2005.

This is a very big step for me, and there are three reasons behind it:

1. it is taking up far too much precious time to maintain it,
2. logging what I eat does not stop me from overeating occasionally, especially under stress, and
3. I have come back from two and a half weeks in Australia with a list of everything I have consumed in local weights and measures, and I do not think I have the animus to sit down and figure out what schooners and kilojoules are.

I will from now on only record my weight once a week. I will probably miss looking at all my complex charts illustrating weight fluctuations over the years. I will also probably gain some time to do something a little more useful.

People often ask me why on earth, being an European Economic Area (EEA) national living and working in the UK, I am planning to apply for UK citizenship.

I usually ramble about how I plan to live in the UK indefinitely, and I consider this my true one and only homeland, and what would happen if fascism were to grip Italy in its vile hold again (all references to the current Italian political crisis are very much intentional) and diplomatic ties were severed with Europe, and I would be kicked out of the UK?

I now have a more rational answer, which is

"EEA and Swiss nationals have the right to live and work in the United Kingdom. This is called the right of residence. You will only have the right of residence in the United Kingdom if:

1. you are an EEA or Swiss national; and
2. you are working in the United Kingdom; or
3. you are able to support yourself and family in the United Kingdom without the help of public funds."

So the day I cannot work and/or support myself without the help of public funds, I get the boot. Nice.

Now, where are those forms…?

A bit of a long story, and one where I don't come appear to be particularly bright. Bear with me.

During the Christmas break 2002, the friend I shared a flat went to see his family in Ireland and came back a captured leprechaun in a can for me:

I only had a vague idea of what a leprechaun was, so I thanked him politely and read the instructions on the tin that said:

DIRECTIONS:

1. Close all windows in room and pull across curtain
2. Open can carefully keeping your eyes fixed firmly on his face (blink and he's gone)
3. Make him promise to behave (leprechauns must keep their word)
4. Extract secret location of crock of gold

GOOD LUCK!

I shook the can, it made no sound, it felt empty. I asked my friend if there really was a leprechaun inside, he replied 'Of course there is'. I was none the wiser, his answer may very well have been ironic. I decided that one day I was going to open the can in the dark and make a wish.

Five years later, the can was still unopened, and kept in a box out of sight! So the other day I took it to our windowless bathroom, closed the door, switched off the light, removed the plastic top from the can, unsealed it by pulling on the ring… and I felt something fluffy and fuzzy brushing at my hand:

I switched on the light. There actually was a leprechaun in the can:

And damn, I was so startled I forgot to make a wish. If it works retroactively, how about 'I wish I was not such a gullible git?'

Not so easy, this one, because of the memories involved:

In September 2002, when I moved into the flat I shared with a friend in Tooting Bec, a friend from NYC came to see us. He is an artist, and after an afternoon spent sightseeing he came back and gave me three postcards that I put into standard Ikea frames and placed just above my bedroom door.

Since then I have moved twice, and never found a place to display them. I cannot believe they I have kept them in a box for four years and never once did I think that perhaps I did not need them. So bye.

The fourth frame is from a charity shop and I like the fact that it is made out of a carpentry ruler (I am sure there is a more accurate technical name for it, but you know what I mean I hope).

I am hesitating a lot about it because I still like it, even if it goes with absolutely nothing we have at home. However, not only has it been kept in a box for four years, but the back stand is broken and useless.

I am going to keep the postcard (a reproduction of the old Vauxhall Gardens refreshments price list, with a theatre invitation from a friend on the back), then bye to this frame too.

Buon San Valentino!
Happy Valentine's Day!
Literally: 'Good Saint Valentine!'

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080214_01.mp3]

People with a delicate stomach or sensitive to blood sugar imbalance, please turn away now.

Dr B. has been so good and generous to me lately, and I wanted to show him so much, how much I love him (so much), that I woke him up at 7 with this dozen of red roses and breakfast tray. Baking fresh bread meant I had to get up at 5 – but I am usually up that early anyway:

More details on the annotated picture at Flickr.

The month of February is quite unfair to poor Dr B.: our anniversary is on the 2nd, as well as his dad's 70th birthday on the same day, then my birthday on the 11th, and today this. Honestly, I feel a little bit of Hallmark fatigue myself.

I thought I'd get him a present (we usually don't), and I found him a breakfast set like the one in the picture above, from eBay (I also gave him the same one again last year, it's a bit of a running joke because he only wants to drink his tea from that one cup), but it arrived chipped and broken because it was badly packaged.

I therefore opted for a wireless keyboard and laser mouse instead (less cables = less clutter = a happier me), but the ergonomic keyboard will only prove to be successful once he has tried it tonight.

Il pane fatto in casa è più buono
Home-baked bread is better
Literally: 'The bread made in house/home is more good'.

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080214_02.mp3]

If you want to find out more

Good is translated with 'buono', but when it is part of a greeting or wish it is shortened to 'buon'. I suppose it slips off the tongue better: 'buongiorno' (good morning), 'buon compleanno' (happy birthday), 'buon viaggio' (have a good trip).

I think I have mentioned it already, there are no (OK, extremely rare) irregular forms of 'more + word' like in English (better, stronger, etc.): you always say 'più' and then the word. So 'better' is simply 'più buono'.

Ho mangiato troppo a pranzo
I ate too much at lunch
Literally: '(I) have eaten too-much at lunch'.

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080213_01.mp3]

My lunch usually consists of some chicken (pre-cooked and packed from the shop, or steamed or oven-roasted at home, no skin) and some cherry tomatoes (straight from the packet, unwashed, I probably have enough pesticides in me to kill all those friendly bacteria). Day in, day out. I could not care less about food variety, and that, together with a bowl of porridge at breakfast and some fruits for snacks, fills me up and keeps me going until dinner.

Today I went out with some colleagues for lunch to Abu Zaad, our favourite Syrian restaurant in the area. I had some Baba Ganuji (aubergine, fresh pepper, parsley, garlic, lemon juice and olive oil) as a starter (with pita bread), and a Chicken Shawerma (roasted thin slices of marinated chicken) for my main course (with rice).

I had forgotten how big the portions are there, and then we were not going to have dessert, but the bill arrived with two plates of baclava and I did not say no.

And then I spent the afternoon with cold sweats, drowsiness and a splitting headache, unable to concentrate. How do people eat lunch out regularly and then work in the afternoon?

A cena mangerò solo un'insalata
At dinner I will only eat a salad
Literally: 'At dinner (I) will-eat only a salad'.

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080213_02.mp3]

If you want to find out more

All the verbs that end in -are in the infinitive (the equivalent of 'to + verb') form (camminare, mangiare, studiare, lavare, dare) form the 'I will + verb' future by changing the ending in -erò (camminerò, mangerò, studierò, darò).

Ho un nuovo giocattolo
I have a new toy
Literally: '(I) have a new toy'.

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080212_01.mp3]

Last Friday Dr B. received a substantial bonus at work and decided to change his plans and go crazy for my birthday present.

As a consequence, I am now the happy owner of an iPod Touch 32GB. No, make that the very happy owner. And now please excuse me just one minute while I go and stroke its shiny black surface again.

Not only that, but he made me a birthday dinner, and got me a bottle of Bollinger champagne and a box of Charbonnel & Walker truffles, the most expensive chocolate he has ever bought (and the best I've ever eaten).

Out of the three flavours in the box (Marc de Champagne, Bucks Fizz and Pink Marc de Champagne), the plain chocolate one were definitely the best.

After all this pampering, even if I get just a half-asleep "Good morning" while getting ready for work on Valentine's day I'll still consider myself a very lucky man.

Sono un uomo molto fortunato.
I am a very lucky man.
Literally: '(I) am a man very lucky'.

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080212_02.mp3]

Oggi è il mio quarantunesimo compleanno
Today is my forty-first birthday
Literally: 'Today is the my forty-first birthday'.

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080211_01.mp3]

Oh poo, I'm forty-one today. Forty was not that much of a shock, but forty-one, man, that's ancient.

Sono vecchio, ma mi sento giovane
I am old, but I feel young
Literally: '(I) am old, but to-me (I) feel young'.

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080211_02.mp3]

Last September I got rid of half of my clothes. So howcome today I managed to select another third of what was left, to be given away too?

I did the same with footwear yesterday: I thought that last September I had only kept a few pairs, but I ended up counting 21, of which I am keeping 12.

I was aware that I had kept some stuff because of sentimental value, clothes that reminded me of a particular circumstance or a person. Guess what? it's in the pile that is going to go. They are just clothes. I hesitated a little bit, put stuff on one pile and then another, until I knew that I was determined enough to part with some of the stuff. The memories are still there, stronger than ever.

All the clothes I had, minus shirts and coats

All the coats and shirts I had

The clothes that I am giving away

The clothes that I am keeping

This was a tough one, because I had very recently taken a lot of books to charity shops, so those that were left were probably there for a reason.

The reason was that they were gifts, and even if I had read them and was unlikely to read them again in the next ten years, I could not give them away.

So I entered all of them into my LibraryThing account, and tagged them with 'read', 'gifts' and 'donated'. Because I'd read them, they were gifts, and tomorrow they are going to the Oxfam Books and Records that is very conveniently located just opposite the Central London location where I am working today and tomorrow.

Dr B. joined me and got rid of all his outdated IT reference manuals. We only kept unread books, some reference material, recipe books and recent travel guides.

I have taken a few pictures of the volume of books 'before' and 'after':

• all our books (unsorted) before decluttering;
• all our books (sorted by type) before decluttering;
• all the books after decluttering.

And yes I know, books are not clutter per se, but when you are fighting for space and space does not come cheap, I am sorry but they have to go.

I was thinking of giving up something for Lent but nothing came to mind.

Then suddenly I saw the clutter that I let into my life and that I am not happy with. Clutter that I cannot get down to reducing because it is too daunting a task. Clutter that is completely useless and bothers me.

I have decided that this Lent I am going to take something away every day. It can be something very little (like tidying up the outside pocket of my backpack – one does not need to carry sugar-free chewing-gum in four different flavours at all times!) or something big (like finally putting those two drawer units on craiglist and reclaim one cubic metre of spare room – after two years!).

To begin with, yesterday I said goodbye to three old email accounts I have not used in six years. I had a three-monthly recurrent reminders in Outlook to log on to them, check for messages (only one of them allowed redirection) and send a message out from each account to keep them active and open.

There was no option to actively close the accounts, so I simply said goodbye, removed the Outlook reminder and smiled at a simpler life.

Every now and then life's great tapestry reminds me of the reason why I left Italy and settled in the UK.

My eyes reacted badly to a new pair of contact lenses the other day, so I wore my glasses to work (I am so vain that I normally would not be seen dead in them).

Nobody commented. I am sure my colleagues have opinions, but not a single one felt that there was a need to express it.

Some people might find this impersonal, I call it being civilised. This non-behaviour has such a massive impact on me that even if my eyes seem to be fine today, I am still wearing my glasses, just in case.

All I want is to be left alone, and leaving people alone is one of the principal traits of this great country.

Update (19 January 2007 at 7:13PM): in the end I wore glasses for three days at work. On day three, four people made a comment. Their nationalities: Irish, American, Nigerian and Londoner from Irish family.

Ti piace Harry Potter?
Do you like Harry Potter?
Literally: 'To-you is-liked Harry Potter?'

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080112_01.mp3]

I cannot quite put my finger on why I have enjoyed reading all seven Harry Potter novels. I can see why they have such mass appeal, yes, but I thought I was immune to that. Plus, magic and wizards and shit? Yawn. A book with over 300 pages? Fear.

I don't know, either I have the literary sensibility of a seven year old (with the emotional development to match) or it must have something to do with the affection you develop for the main characters. I noticed this the other day when I kept being moved while watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and not just because it was playing on the HD-DVD XBox add-on that Dr B. got from his brother for Christmas (days before all but one of the major movie studios pulled from the HD-DVD format and embraced rival technology Blu-Ray exclusively – grrr).

I have now just watched A Year in the Life of J.K. Rowling, a documentary that Dr B. had recorded over Christmas (repeated on Friday 18th January at 20:00 on ITV 2), and it gave me a little more insight into this, as I understood that the author is absolutely passionate about her characters, so much so that she has constructed in her mind their whole future, because she felt she needed to know how they would end up. And not at all in case she runs short of money and is talked into writing book number eight, of course not.

Mi piacciono i libri di Harry Potter.
I like Harry Potter books.
Literally: 'To-me are-liked the books of Harry Potter'.

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080112_02.mp3]

If you want to find out more

• 'I like' is expressed in Italian by 'To me is liked'. This means that if you like more than one thing you must change the 'is' to 'are', which is done by changing 'piace' to 'piacciono'. A bit complicated, but it's an expression you'll hear several times a day so it's worth learning it.
• The genitive case (i.e. when you want to widely express a concept of 'belonging to' like 'Ann's job', 'Picasso's creativity', or 'Harry Potter books') is very easy in Italian. You invert the words from English to Italian, and add 'of' in between the two: 'Il lavoro di Ann', 'La creatività di Picasso', and 'I libri di Harry Potter'.