Book plans

I have been thinking about it for too long now, so I think it's time to start acting on it. Writing a book I mean. Funnily, like with buses, when you think of one, three come at the same time.

The first one is, as many of you by now know, the account - in the guise of a weblog, later of a much celebrated TV screenplay - of the adventures of our Tots who attempt to storm the sacred tower of quintessential bourgeois lifestyle: the family. A comedic story full of characters and absurdities, but ultimately with a feel-good twist that leaves everyone happy and liking gay people a little more.

The second one is the serious cashcow. Those who are in the know, know. Things slip away so easily on the net, so we won't actually give anything away. Suffice to say: Malcom Gladwell, you had your chance. It's time to move on.

The third one came to me today in a flash of inspiration. I don't really know the details of it yet, except that it's about Italy and the end of the nation state. I don't plan it to be a deep political commentary. I want it to be a highly readable and globally relevant political scandal - the equivalent of Lolita in the world of global politics. I also want it to be a slap in the face of Italians - not Italy, for once. I want them to look in the mirror and hear what for generations no one's said to their faces: that they should just give up and stop pretending to be a people to be taken seriously by others. I want to debunk all the myths, starting with the sancta sanctorum (Italian cuisine) and then moving in circles to leave nothing standing. Since the best of us are leaving or have left the country, why should the losers who stay be granted anything but contempt?

That said, I suppose becoming a writer implies more than a few minutes every night in front of a computer. Or so I am told by Tot C. Lucky I have someone in the house who can give me a few tips...!

2010. A year in review.

2010 has been a terrible year for blogging. This is ironic, because this year has been one of the most eventful of my life. One thing stands out above all: the inability to control my time, to live it as I always have, leisurely, calmly, at ease. I feel like I have constantly been in a rush, swamped with tasks to complete and goals to achieve. 3 big ones in particular: to conceive N., to open the hub and to move into our new home. I am glad to say all 3 have been accomplished. But all have their silver lining. Life, after all, is never quite as clean-cut as movies are.


First: N.'s conception. He - and the siblings that hopefully will follow - will have a whole blog dedicated to their strange and beautiful life. No, it won't be one of those tedious and saccarine lists of endless achievements by the new-born (HE SMILED! HE COUGHED! HE SHAT!!). It will be the first draft of a serious/ridiculous sit-com, starring us in this social experiment that promises to rock the world. You wait an see. Lady V is of course on the case, but I dare say I'll have a role to play beyond dutiful dad. The writer inside started stirring the moment Rolling Stone gave me a column to play with a month or so ago.

So I won't really go into too many details about the story of how N. came into being. But if I look back at the last year, I can't help thinking of what Lady V and I went through almost exactly a year from now. How incredibly painful and yet how important a moment in our life that loss has been. I dare say fundamental in our journey. I would have never known how much I care about her and about what we are doing together if I hadn't touched with my heart the power of loss. And therefore I am grateful this year has given us life out of loss. Joy out of pain. And even though N. will see the sun for the first time in 2011, for me he is a child of 2010.


Second: the hub. Of the three, this one is perhaps the one with the darkest of linings. It started off both dark and rose-tinted, with a war erupting while 1 year of preparatory work was about to come to fruition with the launch of the first Italian centre for social innovation. I don't regret the war. I was one of those who started it because it was necessary, the catastrophic course taken by J. was going to destroy all the work I and many others had done. And while the war isn't completely over, and some rumblings can still be heard, the outcome is clear. The hub has become something much closer to what we wanted. But like in all good tragedies, I have understood that I can fight hard and long, but that fighting takes a heavy toll on me: I loose faith and amidst the success I can be left like an empty shell.

I have learned that in order to do what I want to do in life I have to find a way to avoid conflict, not to make it a central part of my existence. Because, just as I proved to myself how good I could be in my work (the launch of the hub in Milan called in over 1000 people, and 270 became members within 9 months of the launch), just as my leadership was paving the way for the accomplishments of those around me whom I had chosen, I found myself at the centre of conflict, questioned, accused, untrusted by these very people I had given my trust to. Is this the inevitable consequence of success? This year has made me think long and hard about the delicate balance between leadership and participation. My time in Milan has triggered a lot of doubts, with violent conflict erupting constantly around me despite the obvious sucess of it all. Irony and tragedy. I found myself drawn to F's totalitarian theories: command and control. Can I really reconcile this with my strife for a flatter, networked, democratic and emergent world?


I certainly find that this last year of life in Italy has drained me of all faith towards humans in any position of power, but has also left me in a doubtful position towards humans without any power at all. Neither really seem to understand what their responsibilities are. Both seem stalled in a fruitless battle, unable to move forward. This year was the last I spent working full time in Italy. My dealings will continue, but from afar. My vision becomes too blurred in that country. Too much decay. Too much infighting. Too much incompetence masked as experience. Too much blunt hypocricy. That country is not good for the soul and certainly not good for talented individuals who want to change the world. A world of old men fearful of the deluge that is rising around them. They will all drown, and personally I hope the floods take as many as possible down in the deep dark corners of the Oceans with them. What used to be a love-hate relationship with Italy has now become bored disgust. Funny that even a staunch supporter of the country - and of its decaying capital in particular - like Tot F should in the end take a graceful exit towards better pastures. Funny and timely. For both of us.


Third: the house. Well, of all three this has been the closest to a complete FIASCO. It all started quite well (doesn't it always?). Workers move in, a schedule is set and everyone reassures us that "these guys are pretty good, not like other builders!". And sure enough, when the first completion date arrives, so does the first completion date rescheduling. From June to July. Then again, from July to August. But by the time the third date-change arrives - from August to September - our bags are packed and the moving-in date set, so the move happens anyway, despite the house being in a complete state. Hence, 3 month of hell start, moving in-and-out of the house to try to accommodate builders' needs in the vain hope that they will finish in time, this time. September, October, November go by. Lady V is getting bigger, Nicolo' is moving around faster, yet the house remains unfinished. And while we hoped it would be done by Xmas 2010, it is now NYE and the house is still littered with unfinished jobs.

Our hearts are now consciuos of the fact that this house, in some way, will never be completed as we thought it would. But, without a proper bang, without a housewarming party, without the breaking of bottles onto its front doow, I can safely say it already feels like home. The dining table has already hosted many dinners. The library/projector room is full of wonderful books and arty filth, action flicks and trashy TV DVDs that have already started being screened onto the white wall. And - to me most importantly - I have a room to call my own again. After 2 years of sofa-beds and rented holes, of packing bags and loosing clothes, finally a place that will be my nest for years to come. I needed it. 2010 ends on a good note. Home is where your loved ones, yes. But also where you know you have a bed to call your own!


The last, but certainly not least, mention in this list of achievements (although it cannot be said to be entirely mine) is Tot T's transfer over to the Old Continent. I don't think I have managed to express to him how grateful I am for this, and how brave I think he is. Jumping into a completely new life, despite its familiarity, away from the comforts of home. Embracing an adventure with little certainties and a lot of question marks. Fun, yes, but also challenging, for him, for me, for all. And yet, so far, so good. This is an achievement. Not many relationships manage to get this far. I consider myself lucky since ours has and it still gives so much joy to us both.


Again, here too there is a silver lining. For one Tot brought over to the Old Continent, there is one lost to the New one. A splendid new life, close to Little J, and to glorious S in NYC. But still, I miss her. I wish I could just jump in a cab and go feel up her beautiful bosom for comfort. I wish we could just be silly together, watching an array of ridiculous movies, drinking G&T (me) and VodPom (her) into the night, talking nonesense until the wee hours, inventing the scripts that will make us rich and famous, discussing whether the Vatican should be razed to the ground (me) or declared a protected species (her).

Finally, this year's review would sound far too serious and would not be complete without some of this year's lesser (in comparison) achievements, rigorously in list-form, in true Tot fashion:

- No. of first-ever public DJ performances: 1
- No. of kick-ass porno parties held in order to show off abovementioned DJ skills: 1
- No. of costume-changes during abovementioned party: 3
- No. of flights taken (33, I counted them!)
- No. of litres of oil produced in Tuscany: 28
- No. of new friends that I can call such: 5 (DJ S - yes, can't say I really knew her before this year - Andrea, Nadia, Lord Leng and Efi)
- No. of days of bliss in Vermont: 7
- No. of days of near-bliss had it not been for the death-marches in Maine: 3
- No. of new dances experimented: 1 (line-dancing. awesome)
- No. of barwomen befriended in Brooklyn and convinced to come work in London: 1
- No. of new countries visited: 0 (unless we count Maine as a country, which I don't. very bad. not to be repeated in 2011)
- No. of fab weddings attended in sumptuous English estates: 1
- No. of old drugs aborted: 1 (cigarettes, 3.5 months without them and counting!)
- No. of G&Ts turned down in order to make sure soldiers were in tip-top form to produce a hearty N.: countless.
- No. of G&Ts downed following said conception: countless.
- No. of rippled abs achieved through sweaty gym sessions: 0.
- No. of hours spent in front of mirror worrying about said abs: enough to get a perfect six pack if they had been spent at the gym instead.
- No. of new dishes mastered: probably 2 (brasato di manzo, prawn stir-fry, can't way it's a huge achievement, but it's something...)
- No. of trees killed in order to celebrate a Christian festivity: 1
- No. of Bejeweled Blitz games played try to beat DJ S's score: over 400, and counting...

As for next year: lots of resolutions, of course. And judging by how 2010 went, this time most of them will be achieved! Rah.

string theory

Today I had one of the most bewildering experiences since working in Milan. And it is so bizarre I need to recount it here in detail, lest I forget it when I am in my late 60s.

I get summoned by this reputable design professor at an equally reputable design university in town. The reason? He has a project for me, but needs to tell me face-to-face.

I arrive around lunch time, entering his studio with a younger professor I know personally and who has been invited to witness the meeting. He asks me to close the door firmly. I comply and sit down next to him.

"I have been a very fulfilled man in my life, sexually speaking - he starts - I have been married 3 times and at 65 I am proud to say I can still please my wife, who is 25 years younger than me".

A little drop of sweat fills my forehead.

"Yet - he continues - at my age one needs some... how shall I put it... perks. Which is why I have invented something that I wish you to bring to the market".

The younger professor looks at me in complete shock, although I try to avoid his glance because I fear I will just burst into laughter and blow it all up. The elder professor produces a black string from his pocket, and with a few swift movements he ties it into a sort of noose.

"You see - he shows me wrapping it around his thumb - the string acts as a cock-ring, but doesn't feel as uncomfortable and it can be adjusted as one pleases. No more one-size-fits-all solutions. And this only costs a few cents"

I recover from the initial shock, point out how he could market his "invention" and promise a thorough investigation when I am London (Milan certainly isn't a place where his invention would go down well). He grins and pats me on the showlder.

"Here, have the string. It's not only old men like me who need it to avoid taking Viagra. Young men like you can enjoy it too".

I thank politely, slipping the string into my pocket with a little shiver. Sadly, as I search my pockets to take a picture of it for the blog tonight, I realize a friend I was telling the story to earlier on has taken it with him. Clearly the string is far more attractive than I had imagined...!

To the cock-ring market: get ready to meet your fate!

War

Now you'll get what you asked for.

Coming up

First, there was Milanese uber-style. This - dear reader - is indeed where I work. Or at least, part of it. And so far, so good:


But on Thurday, this will happen:


Mainly because we are planning to light up the room with teacandles in paper bags. Duh!

Honestly, this launch party isn't coming too soon. We have been waiting for it for MONTHS. But now that it's closing in on us, I am really feeling a detached sense of otherness. Almost as if all this were happening to someone else. Myabe I just lost my mind in this topsy-turvy place... or maybe my body is just craving gin...

Poised

I haven't been to Holland in ages. 20 years, if I am not mistaken. More or less. And my return is not - as I once hoped - to take advantage of all the sexual promiscuity and licit drugs the country has on offer, but to engage in a final battle with someone I once trusted and now think is a threat to my own future.

The gloves are off. There will be blood. This is no country for old men (or women for that).

Days of shame

It all started with this encounter. The mayor of Milan meets our World Saviour Muhammad Yunus and declares: we're opening a Hub for social enterprises in Milan. General panic follows in the ranks of yours truly. And the next thing we know, we're invited to meet Her Majesty Herself during a tour she's making on Saturday morning of an exhibition on sustainable architecture.

Describing the scene is really hard. Imagine Versailles at the height of Luis XIV's reign. Once a day, a selected group of beggars is let into the King's parlour, where their pleas are heard. The master of ceremony is the personal secretary, a small kind-faced woman hiding a will of steel. She decides who is to enter the chamber, so de facto decides the destiny of the city.

We join a large group of beggars into the museum, some 25 of us. The mayor makes slightly irrelevant comments on what she sees. Everyone nods emphatically, smiling even if there is nothing to smile about. By the time the exhibition is over, we move into the cafeteria area. The entourage moves a couple of tables close together, as the mayor sits in the centre of the display. A waiter comes up and warns no tables should be moved as the architect would become very upest. Everyone nods politely. Such is the power of design in this city.

The secretary points to us. We are the firsts to go. "Who are you?" - blah blah blah. "What do you want from the City of Milan?" - I really don't know what to answer. It's so obvious it almost hurts: you are opening a Hub and there is one already. Can't you just give us the money and be done with it? I mutter something about synergy and collaboration. She nods and says we should speak to so and so. And before we know it, she's speaking to the next beggar. It's all over in a few seconds.

And I feel dead inside, all my principles crushed. And the circus moving on...

The entry point

Some of your have been vaguely clamouring about my lack of posting. It is of course all because of the fact that I am a VBIP, a Very Busy and Important Person.

This is what I was up to recently:




Yes, basically sitting around and drinking. Same old same old.
In fact, last week was a very important week, the one signalling the entry into the H space and therefore one very big step closer to my return to London.

Now all I have to do is fit it with lots of furniture (pics to follow soon of me being all butch and carpenter-y) and subsequently people.

Easy peasy.

oh well

A question about the future

I don't want this to be a serious post, but I think it might be in the end. I am a little tipsy, in an unusually warm late-September night, and pondering about the future. And since the great majority of readers that stumble on this blog are my kin, I feel rather enticed to the idea of a good banging session. Plus, I need to get it out of the system, and the Internet is just perfect for a bit of global ranting.

Let me beging by saying: I was screwed. Not in the fun, lubed-up manner that we have all become accustomed to and that we all (some secretly some less) love. Nay. I have been screwed in the professional manner that is unpleasant, grating, humiliating and rather annoying, especially when the artful perpetrator was allowed to screw me not once but twice. The perpetrator is of course JR, the illustrious founder of the H.

I had maneuvered my position quite skillfully, or so I believed. I was to stay in the Southern provinces for as long as it took to consolidate JR's power on this side of the Alps. When successful, I would return to the Kingdom and be given a nice, pleasant castle with a good amount of land, a few lads on it to work, a view of the sea. With the new year, this agreement was to be set on paper and sealed. My return triumphant and my life back in order.

And then, something happened. A glitch in the system. A cat running twice past the doorframe. A deja-vu. I went for dinner with K, Tot T's former flatmate, and discovered why one should never leave the court. You might be fighting valiantly for your king in faraway lands, this is not going to stop him from betraying you and giving the land he's promised you to anyone who cares to ask. Not only did I get the backstabbing treatment, I also got the cold shoulder from his generals. I now seem to be treated like a pariah, and have no way to defend myself or to fight back, simply because I am not there. And even if I were, would I want to? Is this why I joined the H?

At first there was denial, I just could not believe this was happening. Then there was anger, I just wanted to grab someone's throat, wanted to shout and kick and punch and scream. Now there are resignation and indifference. Not only do I not care about this specific land any longer. Not only do I think the land wasn't THAT good after all. I simply don't want to serve this king. Period. In fact, I don't want to serve ANY king in the near, middle or distant future. Monarchies are, if you ask me, highly over-rated. Everyone should be his or her own king.

So here we are. As my conquering of the Southern provinces comes to a near-closure, the moment to decide what do to next approaches. And while before I felt I had the luxury of certainty, now I feel I am returning to a land where I have to start everything from scratch if I want to be my own boss. Trust me, setting off alone on a long and dangerous journey is pretty exhausting, when not outright insane. I've done it once, I have learned a lot, and I am not willing to do it all over again. But I will do it if I find something really worth fighting for. And I know I am good at it. I have proof now. I have achieved in just over a year what no one else has. I am returning victorious, a hero. I now have utter confidence in my abilities and I won't be fooled any longer.

So here comes the question, and the core of the post. When the days start getting longer again, I will be slowly making my way back to the Island, first for a week every month, then for two, then for three. And as I do that, I will need purpose and clarity, lest I go mad after months of passionate and focused work. So what - let me ask you all - should I do? What should I set my brain and abilities to achieve?

There are a few options in my mind, of course. There's carrying on administering the southern provinces, carving out a distant role for myself, with frequent flights back to probe, check and rally. But I cannot have my body in one place and my mind in another one. This is against nature, it'll make me sick and make those around me sick. I want to be back with both my body and my mind.

I cannot go back to the king's castle either. When I loose faith in someone, I never re-gain it. He lured me into working for him with false promises not once, but twice. I am not going to give him a third chance. That would make me, not him, the fool. No, this is a chapter that is closing for me, and sadly so. I loved this job. But we need to move on.

I could drop the weapons and pick another tool. Should I learn how to carve wood? I've always dreamed of making things, not just talking about making. It would be strange though, my brain at rest while my arms work. I don't know that I can do that. I have always associated work with my brain, my body an appendice used to carry my brain from a place to another one. Things could be different though.

I ask you, my friends. I ask you because you know me better than anyone else. Because I think you have insights I do not have. And because I am drunk and feel like posing the question. So give me your answers and let me hear you imagining my and your own future.

A 3 act play

Act 1

Tot T leaves Milan after 3 months of absolute fun. Tot A decides not to plunge into a deep, dark depression (which as Tot C always explains can only be fought with large amounts of gin).

Act 2

Tot A embarks on a number of distracting and self-improving activities:

1. Chinese language course.
2. Physical activities in the gymnasium.
3. Business dinners to raise cash for the f*cking H*b.
4. Healthy eating (chili tofu, right?)

Act 3

Tot A gets drunk on large amounts of gin and cries incessantly from 8 pm to 1 am. Gets taken to hospital and sedated. Wakes up with massive hangover.

The End

Blame

Blame is something that gets thrown around quite a lot, but never like in this case does it deserve to be put on someone. That someone is going to go back to NYC very soon, so has no consideration for the damage left behind him.

This is what I was forced to see tonight:



Now, for those of you who might wonder why this has happened, one has to go back a few years, to a time when the Gay Blades were so cool, even I was posting about them.

And so it happened that, on their European tour to showcase their new genre - Death Indie, errrrr.... - they stumbled upon a small city in Northern Italy. No, not Milan. That would have been ok. Instead, it was the execrable Idroscalo, a swamp surrounded by cheap brothels and disco bars some 20 km outside Milan:


I was forced to drive there - stone sober of course, given the increasing police controls on Italian roads - and stand in the midst of a few retarded teenagers waiting for Gay Blades to come on stage.

But before we could be delighted by them, a... how shall I describe it... a thing that produced noise went on stage. Their personality was that of a crayfish in an expired Pret sandwich. Their music sounded like a 1000 babies clubbed to death. Well, maybe I exagerate a little. But they were on all accounts a torture. Their name: Manetti. You just saw their video, and I am sure you are still in pain because of the experience. Now imagine 45 minutes of it.

Moving on to the Gay Blades, after a promising start, the New York duo - as they constantly reminded us between one song and another one - discovered (or invented?) Death Indie (because Indie had to die before living again, apparently). As you can imagine, it was a mixture of embarassement and discomfort. Especially because they were perfoming to an audience of 14, one of which was a guy on a wheelchair, another one a strange man that had stripped to his undies and another one a retarded teenager, who got told by the singer at one point: "Shut the fuck up!" Who does that, honestly?

Thankfully, we had boules (bocce, as the Italians call them) to distract us. I won, of course.

2 boys, 1 Milan

There has been plenty of romping around town these days, in preparation for the moment when we practically leave for 2 months. Yes, our Milanese time is rather short, so we're bound to make the most of it while we can.


First and foremost, Tot T has turned into a thief. He first confessed to me to "never, ever getting over stealing a candy from a shop at the age of 6", when he was forced by mother Lynne to return it (half chewed?) and apologise to the slumping teenager who worked there during the afternoon slots. Then, as if by miracle (and thanks to the intervention of a few large G&Ts), upon stumbling home he eyed a row of green rococo pillows lining a barfront not far from la casa.

Needless to say, before I could even realise, he grabbed one, shoved it under his t-shirt and walked home with the grin of a mouse who's eaten all the cheese.


The pillow has been named Madonna (the Pillow) since she too has a tendency to snatch stuff, mainly babies. Only the following morning, did the full reality descend into Tot T's brain. Yet, after a few protests that sounded very much like Adam's recriminations against Eve after HE ate the apple, he decided to adopt Madonna the Pillow, which is now as inseparable from his bum as... well as... erhm...


Other remarkable events include going to the Mix LGBT Film Festival of Milan, conveniently located 200 yards from la casa. The homosexuals have been spilling onto the square opposite Il Piccolo, the main prose theatre in Italy, for days now, moving in synchronicity to the sound of thumping house music and ready to face muscle-crunching squeezes through the theatre's narrow doors in order to see the likes of Antartica by Yair Hochner


or The Way I See Things by Brian Pera.


We, however, were not so lucky in our choice. We believed the hype, ignored all those alluring pictures of semi-naked men (what were we thinkink?!?!) and chose to go see Sally Potter's new flick Rage.


I rarely regretted a cinematic decision so much. In just under 100 minutes, Sally and her accomplices Judy Dench, Jude Law, Dianne Wiest, John Leguizamo, Simon Abkarian and Steve Buscemi bore us to death through an infinite series of interviews to fashion people involved in an obscure and silly series of events, which may or may not represent a conceptual metaphor for the meaninglessness of life.


It was one of those circumstances when you know there are a lot of intelligent people who've given too much thought to producing something terribly obscure which makes them feel all terribly interesting, but which in fact is a load of rubbish. Next time, I am sticking with the films advertised with naked men on the front.

Finally, we're doing the rounds of our local restaurants, in search of the perfect meal. Our luck in this chapter took a sharp dive when we trusted Time Out's recommendations and ended up at Ol's under the false promise of candlelight and large platters of meat.


What we actually found were thousands of teenagers and tweens (pre-teens) running around in packs, and heavily sweating waiters and waitresses from India and Eastern Europe respectively struggling to contain their enthusiasm for the end of the school year. We were also seated next to what appeared at first a stag night, but later appeared to be a motorcycling club for boys in their 30s. Much beer was drunk. Many references were made about loose women. And so on.

What next? A real fashion show? Thank god it's Friday and we're off to Tuscany for the weekend... as Tot T's clan descends onto Italy. Expect many more stories...

Byzantine

If I were to write something about Italy today, I would write this article. Absolutely spot on. And - most importantly - containing the word I have now started using on a daily basis every time I slam my face into the reality of this topsy-turvy nation: Byzantine.


Indeed. Italy has now officially become the New Byzantium.

Hometown, sweet hometown

It seems like several of us are back in our hometowns this weekend, partially because it's Bank Holiday in the UK and US, partially because we're living too close to it (ITA).

So here you get a few pictures to titillate you with what you'd have been able to see if you had come with me.


First of all, flowers. Yes, dear reader. My hometown has one of the largest immigrant commuities in Italy, many of them living in appaling conditions in inner-city collapsing buildings, rented out to them at extorionate prices by ruthless landlors. While these immigrants are explited in factories around the city or funneled in the any type of illigal activity, with virtually no money being spent on supporting their education/integration or accommodating them properly, my lovely hometown (one of the richest per GDP per capita in the world) thinks it's FAR more important to cover the city in lavish monuments to bees' best friends: flowers.

When finding itself with some extra cash, something which apparently happens rather frequently, here's another way it thinks wise to spend it:


No comment necessary.

Thankfully, I am going back to Milan tonight (mind you, its spending habits are even worse, considering the huge social problems it has and the near-absence of resources it pours towards them). I say thankfully because perhaps I'll get a chance to see the Frecciarossa again...



Now I know SOMEONE who might like to see that too...!

New casa

Home sweet home. Or so the saying goes. Well, tonight I moved into what will hopefully be my last Milanese abode, at least for this round. And it started of course with large amounts of gin and dinner at my sister's, where all my stuff was stacked. Her bf, Opus as we like to call him for his fanatical sympathies, volunteered a lift, and who am I to turn a faithful down?

So this is how it started, luggage piling up and ready to descend once more the 4 flights of stairs only recently climbed after leaving San Vittore.


A few minutes later, the very same luggage was made to climb the 4 flights of stairs leading up to my new pad. Maybe my friend Ben wasn't SO wrong when he genuinely enquired if they had elevators in Italy. Certainly not in the houses we take possession of.




I spotted straight away the unwanted intruder, a small TV set looking at me rudely.


I immediately disposed of it in the only way these creatures should be dealt with: I hid it under the staircase. I would have set it on fire, but I guess the landlady would have demanded my kineys as compensation.


The fridge was left pretty empty. In fact, they even removed the toilet paper from the loo, something which says a lot about the Milanese sense of saving.


Thankfully, I took with me the essentials:


And finally found a trace of the previous tenants - or of the landlady, hard to tell.


I think I'll sleep well tonight. My own home after some 9 months living in someone else's house. God I missed this...

Juggling is an art

Juggling is an art. And not all are good at it. I, if I may say, am a master at it these days. That is, until all the balls will come crashing down on my head. Or, as the picture would suggest, explode and leave only a bloody mess behind.

But let's start looking at the fakts.

Juggle 1. The Job

Anyone who's done a start-up in his/her life will tell you immediately: don't. It's the most exhausting thing you'll ever do. But starting something as complex as a Hub - not just an office space, but a social network, a charity, a social enterprise, a community organisation, a cool members' club AND a consultancy firm, all wrapped up into one bundle of joy - starting something like a Hub required a degree of insanity few are capable of. Juggling here is done with triple axel jumps on the side. Now in the next few weeks I am expected to secure a 6 year lease, close a deal with funders and investors, raise a good sum of dosh, start a new company, organise works so the space gets turned into a super-cool club, and do it all before my holidays kick in... Easy peasy!

Juggle 2. The Social Life

When one leave the Motherland, one doesn't expect to have to go back to it and rebuild social relations with meticulous care, while making sure those back in the UK are kept happy as well, so as to avoid rumbling comments like "he's already fogetting us" or "I told you he'd never come back" (hands up who didn't think that at least once). In Italy, my physical proximity to people barely seen for decades develops in them a sudden urge to see me more than they would have ever wished for just a few months ago. It's the novelty of having me at hand, the irresistible urge to call and say "where are you, I am coming over", ignoring my plights of having too much work (see Juggle 1). The result is a bombardment of requests to engage socially by people of all sorts. The old friends and family members. The ones I only just met, dazzled by my incredible charisma. The nutters. I say yes to all, and still manage not to really have a proper social life...

Juggle 3. The House

Well we know this comes with a grand plan attached, which I am not going to discuss on this blog for obvious reasons (privacy mainly, something Lady V is not really familiar with). But purchasing the house, as we know, is part of this idea to create something rather extraordinary, and as such is already proving to be a feat in its own right. Buying a house (and moving into it) is supposed to be the second most stressful thing in life, after getting a divorce. We're also rebuilding the whole thing, to such high standards that the editor of a world-famous magazine has just asked us to cover the story of the works as a feature. Which of course means juggling not just architects and contractors, but journalists and photographers too...! Well, I can safely say we have already achieved on this front, with completion signed off yesterday. Number 10, here we come! Nightmare works: about to begin.

Juggle 4. The Other House

As if buying one house were not enough, I am also homeless in Milan as of the 15th of April, and had to find another abode asap, to avoid sleeping under a bridge (not that there are many in Milan). So, from London, I have been scanning every website and listing to find a small yet charming place, especially in consideration of Tot T's arrival on June 1. We know the young American has very strong opinions on housing, and of course only deserves the best Milan has to offer. I dropped the insane prospect of living in a fashion shoot (see previous post) and started searching all over again. A strange man offered me a 3-bedroom flat behind the Duomo. When asked what the catch was, he said "hurry send money quick or else I give flat to someone else". It felt like one of those spam messages from Nigeria. Well that was not too hard a scam to spot. In the end, I went for this one:




Sweet, not too expensive and with a bunk bed. Expect serious accidents when Tot T hits Milan...

Juggle 5. Tot T

As per above, Tot T is about to hit Milan with a large slapping noise. My bf cannot certainly be described as a chore in any shape or form, or something to "juggle", much as I like the idea of him as a bouncy ball, but the truth is, having a relationship with someone at the other end of the Atlantic pond is challenging at best. Skype calls need to be carefully planned. Visits need to be timed to be close enough but not too much. And the pains of distance ignored as much as possible. Juggling is not the right word for a long-distance relationship, but it certainly adds anoter ingredient to an already tasty broth. The correct word is: torture.

So in a nutshell, given the amount of stuff going on in my life, I decided I need a secretary. Didn't someone just loose his job? Anyone? Was thinking something along the lines of Maggie in The Secretary...

Finding space

I think I can officially confirm it. The Hub has taken over my life. Not just some significant portion of it. Not just MOST of it.

No.

The whole lot. No room for anything else. Despite my determination to blog, go to the gym, do all sorts of nice other things that make us interesting, complex people, all I managed to achieve is a 16 hour working day, 7 days a week.

BUT the result is that I think we're almost there. I found the perfect space and with a little bribing and a little arm-twisting, I might have just persuaded the owners to give it to me. Here it is:


You see it like this, clean lines and all, a picture of perfection. Over the last few years, it has been dressed up and down for these kinds of events:



Very Milhan-darrrrling. Very fashion. Very happening. Yah.

And now here WE come, and we have to recreate the spirit of THIS:




And eventually end up with THIS:


I met someone the other day who told me that you really ARE what you wear. Very Foucault, I replied. I stared at me blankly. I think it's time for me to embrace my inner builder...