Z is for zero (Part 2)

So how does it end?

I would love to be able to tie everything together neatly, give you a happy ever after. But I don't know.

I agree with E M Forster that Italy is a metaphor for fate. It makes you feel as though, even if something doesn't happen, it could. Does that mean alive?

I have been happy and lonely, sad and excited, old and young at heart, frustrated and capable, well and ill.

We take the longest time getting to know the person closest to us; ourselves. Be at one with yourself and only then can you feel truly grounded, centred and alive. Dolores and I are continuing to fuse together, teach one another and grow from the experience.

This above all: to thine own self be true.

What has this experience taught me? To listen to Dolores more. I am not indestructible. No man is an island.

So it's back to where we came from. Set the counter back to zero.

Having survived holidaying with Dolores once, I suspect I may chance it again. However, we need to dip our toes back in the UK before deciding what to do next. Dolores fancies some sun, and for once I agree with her.

For now though, we're packing our bags for Venice. My favourite city in the whole world.

Katy

(I know it doesn't begin with 'Z' but there was only one choice for the final song.
Non, Je ne regrette rien - Edith Piaf).

Z is for zero (Part 1)

I get 2 "Bella ragazza" shouted after me whilst out this morning. This makes me feel good (a) because I am still being called a girl, and (b) because my hair obviously looks better than I thought it did.

I need to shop for a backless bra in order to be able to wear a dress I have with me. The department store has nothing but sends me to a smaller shop with the promise that "she has everything". "She" turns out to be three men serving ageing signora's support knickers. Obviously it's the twenty something who serves me; and despite the fact that he's very helpful I can't help thinking that part of his smile is due to the fact that he's imagining me wearing what he's just sold me.

I stop on Piazza della Signoria for a coffee. I know I'll be charged a tariff for a table on the square and in the sun, but I don't care as it's my last day. A cafe latte and some strawberries set me back 17.50E - about £12.00.

As I'm savouring the world's most expensive snack, a woman of opera-singer proportions comes and takes a seat to my left. Face framed with a mass of long dark curls, she's dressed in a black tent topped with a bright red coat. She has matching red lips and red nails decorate the ends of pudgy fingers. Red glasses which seem to be a cross between welding goggles and 3D glasses are perched on the end of her nose. She huffs and puffs and orders gin. The drink arrives with bowls full of crisps and olives. Rather than move the glass bowls closer to her, she grabs handfuls of crisps and places them onto the table nearer to her, to ease the transition between bowl and mouth.

Expensive strawberries, but great entertainment.

Katy

Y is for yawn

I wake up shattered having hardly slept at all.

Having injected some caffeine to stop me yawning, I wander to Piazza Republica to enjoy the warm sunshine. Just beyond the square I find a fantastic old fashioned toy shop. All of the toys are carved out of wood. A full size wooden motorbike glazed honey colour with varnish dominates the window. Wooden toys are stocked floor to ceiling; Pinocchio's of all sizes and all telling lies, cuckoo clocks, childrens names, animals and an assortment of wooden weapons. An adopted niece of mine has been hankering after a sword (ever the tom boy) and I am delighted to find a wooden one for her. No doubt she'll think it's rubbish because it's not a real one.

I walk back via the bakery and buy a lasagne for lunch - freshly baked and nothing like the microwaveable plastic back home.

On the way back to the apartment I pass groups of locals out for a Sunday stroll and note, not for the first time, how stylish a nation Italy is. The notion of an Italian 'chav' simply doesn't exist. Vicky Pollard could certainly learn a thing or two out here.

Katy

(Y is for You get what you give - New Radicals)

X is for xenophobic

I wake up with Dolores poking me in the back and decide (with a good pang of Catholic guilt) not to go to church.

I go to Z.. for a cappucino. I still can't decide whether the girl who works there dislikes me, dislikes strangers/foreigners, isn't good in the morning or simply doesn't derive an awful lot of satisfaction from her job. I wonder whether face like a spanked bottom translates into Italian?

I wander through the Sunday crowds back home via a gelato stop. I have decided that as I am nearly at the end of my stay I should sample as many flavours as possible. A large scoop of rum and raisin for lunch.....sometimes it's fun being a grown up.

Katy

(X is for X - The Spirals)

W is for wish

Find a genie in a bottle, wish upon a star, ask your fairy godmother; I don't care, but WHAT would you wish for?

I used to think that I should be a certain way, have achieved certain things by now. 2.4 children and such stereotypes (what does 0.4 of a child look like by the way?) Dolores has made me realise that it's the outside world that makes you feel this way. A list of life must-haves compiled to weigh on your shoulders. Mine got so heavy my back began to ache. That's my diagnosis - I have an Atlas complex. The weight of the world on my shoulders. Where's Heracles when you need him?

What's really important?

A brother's Christmas card I carry with me.

The ability of a friend to make me laugh out loud with the first two words of an e-mail.

Knowing that my parents would take Dolores away if they could.

A letter from my Grandma.

And a cuddly toy.

I'm grateful to Dolores for teaching me. I have always been a good student; never in trouble at school. But the lesson has gone on for such a long time now and I know I will always keep learning. I just wish she would let me do it on my own now.

Katy

(W is for What World - Damien J Carter)

V is for Vicious Circle

I hate her I HATE her I HATE HER.

I wake up with the morbid tiredness that can precede a migraine. Why can’t she just leave me alone? I have little enough time to spend with the P’s but she wants to take even that away from me. I apologise and crawl back to bed after breakfast. Thankfully Mum goes out to explore - I would have felt dreadful if the bitch kept both me and Mum indoors.

I feel better for a days sleep and Mum and I make it out for an evening drink. (Mum champagne, me hot chocolate). I can’t help smiling at how rock and roll I have become - wrapped in a blanket sipping hot chocolate before retiring home into pyjamas on a Saturday evening. I have most definitely gone Pete Tong.

We shop locally because Dolores doesn’t want to eat out, again. Salad, roasted aubergines, sun dried tomatoes, stuffed pepperoni, ciabbatta and spaghetti with pesto. Not exactly the kind of feast stocked by the average British corner shop.

I congratulate Dolores on another victory.

Katy

(V is for Velveteen - Transvision Vamp)

U is for Unspoken

Dolores can be an awkward companion for people to be around. Should they acknowledge her? The result is lots of people treading on proverbial eggshells - me worrying that I am spoiling other peoples fun whilst they in turn worry about me. She’s wicked, always causing mischief.

I meet the P’s for lunch. An unassuming Osteria with a migraine-inducing colour scheme; royal blue and red walls and staff uniforms of purple and yellow. Peeling paint, rickety chairs, chipped tables and the most fabulous food. Wonderful Chianti and perfectly cooked risotto - none of the rice pudding slop I have attempted in the past.

Despite the fact that Dolores won’t let me out come evening, Mum and I are content. Sitting end to end on the sofa wearing our pyjamas she tells me family history stories. I love this stuff. It’s so important to remember, to hand down. Part of me.

Katy

(U is for Unidos para la Musica - Roger Sanchez)

T is for time

My parents have arrived for a couple of days to check that I am surviving in a foreign country on my own.

We spend a pleasant morning at the Uffizi, which is mercifully quiet.

I had booked a restaurant for this evening. Dolores doesn't want me to go though. She doesn't see why we should have to go out when we never go out in the evening. She starts whingeing in the afternoon and by early evening has worked herself up into a full blown tantrum. I am furious. Miserable. Tearful. This type of occasion is when she gets to me most. Going out in the evening has virtually become a thing of the past and she makes me feel so old. Such an invalid.

Of course for added effect it's Valentines night.

Tempus fugit. Time flies.
Are you scared? Yes, terrified.

Katy

(T is for Teardrops - Womack and Womack)

S is for sleepless

She won't let me sleep despite feeling ill. She wants me to appreciate how I feel, unconsciousness would be a luxury.

What went wrong?
It was all going so well.
I'm a shadow of my former self
and the shrunken hollow shell
wonders if I curl up tight enough
will I disappear from this painfull hell?

Katy

(S is for Sympathique - Pink Martini)

R is for reflective

It's a grey miserable day - ideal for a spot more culture and I decide on the Basilica di San Lorenzo. I can't believe I haven't noticed it before, but I love the fact that I am still discovering Florence after several weeks. I have been careful not to visit all the tourist sights simply to put a tick in a box and 'do Florence' - the last thing I want to get is blase about priceless works of Renaissance art.

On the way home I stumble across an art gallery where I bought a picture on my first visit to Florence, in another lifetime. I am melancholy. The sight of the girl with sad eyes reflected in the glass takes me by surprise.

The emotional beating is exhausting. Combined with the morning's walk, I am physically and mentally worn out and Dolores swiftly threatens a migraine.

I quickly consume food and drugs and head to bed with that stalwart comfort Radio 4.

Katy

(R is for Relax, Take it Easy - Mika)

Q is for question

I head back to the Cathedral this Sunday.

The gospel preaches that if you are rich in this life, you will be poor in the next; if you laugh in this life you will be miserable in the next and on..

I can't help questioning, if this law of opposites applies, does this mean I will be financially comfortable, pain free and rather happy if I make it past the pearly gates?

Katy

(Q is for Quiereme Otra Vez - F3R Delgado & Rafa Gas)

P is for pacing

There is a young lady called Kate
whose body is troubled by aches
but try as she might
she can't put it right
despite all the pills that she takes

Katy

(P is for Pina - Metro Area)

O is for ordinary

I wake up and immediately I am in a beat-myself up kind of mood.

I head out to the local for a shot of caffeine. The portly, bearded and thoroughly jolly bartender writes 'ciao bella' in chocolate in the froth of my cappuccino and cracks a smile on my serious face.

It's amazing how such a small gesture can make you feel better, can make your day better. Smile at a stranger. One a day. Doctor's orders.

Katy

(O is for Only this moment - Royksopp)

N is for numb

The sun is back and it's a beautiful clear morning. I ask for my dreadful coffee to be delivered early this morning so that I can go out and get some shots.

Sadly clear weather and decent shots can mean only one thing... I'm going to have to climb the bell tower. Doors don't open until 10am so I take a last look at the cathedral whilst listening to the Kyrie of Mozart's Requiem to properly put the fear of God into me.

No more putting it off, I have to face up to the cold, numbing fear that height envelops me in. The tower is SO narrow that all bags, including my camera bag, have to be left behind in lockers. As I begin to climb I grimly note the panic buttons interspersed along the walls. The climb is extremely narrow, only wide enough for one person save a squeeze past in the stairwells as the stairs wind forever upward. The ceiling is also narrow and I have to duck in places. The only way I can overcome my fear of heights is to put my head down, focus on each step and walk quickly. I have used this method on several bell towers previously. In fact, if speed climbing bell towers were an Olympic sport, I think I would be getting the call for 2012. However, two years of doing no exercise is beginning to tell, and I have to stop a couple of times panting for breath and feeling slightly nauseous. The tower finally opens out at the enormous bell and I think that I must have made it but it keeps on ascending via what can only be described as a wooden ladder. Part of my fear of this type of height is that (despite the fact that it has been standing for several hundred years) today is the particular day the structure will come tumbling down and me with it. The rational part of me can reason with my fear to a point, and the wooden staircase was rationale and a staircase too far. I manage one set of wooden stairs, no stone around me I can clearly see the ground hundreds of feet below. Legs shaking and feeling dizzy I stand on the next platform to see another staircase twisting away above me. I take some pictures before my shaking hands make it impossible and decide that enough is enough... I have seen the view from, not the top, but a very,very long way up - and that's enough for me.

Back in Florence and by afternoon Dolores is kicking me in the back and plucking at the nerves which trigger my gag reflex. A hot bath (luxury!) calms her slightly but by evening she's back. I manage to bolt some food down before I feel too sick and then reach for one (and sometimes two) of every one of my painkillers and head for bed.

I sleep with the aid of Radio 4 and Prince Valium.

Katy

(N is for Never Forget - Take That. Remember - you're not invincible).

M is for moved

Although the prospect of breakfast served in my room is rather luxurious, it turns out to be the worst cup of coffee I've had in Italy. The situation is not improved when I try and order a cup in Nannini - the waitress obviously doesn't hear me say "cafe", just "latte" and I end up with a glass of warm milk.

I head up to the stadium where the Lonely Planet informs me there is a Wednesday market, but it's just an enormous collection of nasty cheap clothes and general tat.

The day is dark and rainy, the first rain since I arrived, but it makes it slightly miserable and damp to wander around sightseeing.

I head to the Duomo to try and get some pictures, but sulk away after seeing any chance of getting a decent shot is destroyed by the hoards of oriental tourists all obediently following upheld umbrellas.

It's too misty to climb the bell tower (thank heaven) so I decide on the shrine of Santa Caterina. Although one of Italy's favourite saints it's clearly not with the tourists today and I have the place to myself.

As I enter the chapel I am stopped dead in my tracks and my eyes brim with the kind of tears that absolute beauty brings. I am moved to my core and I stand open mouthed gazing at my surroundings. It's a small chapel covered with beautiful frescoes and artwork. My brains first impression is of colour; gold and blue. I have an overwhelming feeling of goodness, serenity and grace. I get on my knees in front of the altar, it seems the only thing to do. I leave with not so much an image, but a feeling. Reassured? Protected? The cynic in me notes the gift shop on the way out.

I continue up the hill to San Domenico - Santa Caterina's church. Although the body of Caterina is in Rome, in line with the practice of preserving relics of the dead, her head is in a tabernacle above the altar. Not much thanks for flogging yourself.

I spend an age looking for one of the restaurant's recommended in LP, but it's like trying to find Platform nine and three quarters and I settle on somewhere nearer to my B&B. Although I order my first glass of Chianti I'm paranoid I can hear Dolores laughing that it will trigger a migraine and I leave it after a couple of sips.

I finally make it into the Cathedral in the afternoon. It truly is the most amazing piece of architecture I have ever seen. It overwhelms the senses once inside and it's impossible to take in every detail. It's built from black and white striped marble - a huge stick of godly rock. Every available surface is used - mosaics on the floors, pictures on the walls and ceilings, gold leaf, cherubs, angels, gargoyles, lions, saints, bishops, Christ, Mary and an amazing Gothic pulpit which towers over the congregation. It's a building to be experienced. I feel so small and insignificant. It's an amazing piece of human achievement.

By now it's after five o'clock and Dolores is whinging that it's been a long day. She doesn't want to go out again, especially as it's now dark as well as cold. I am frustrated to the point of tears that we have failed to eat out on our mini-break, but all the same I do as she asks and we are back in our room eating pizza by seven.

Katy

(M is for Multiply - Jamie Liddel, here's to going under with a smile)

L is for leaving

...Florence for Sienna that is.

We called in the door staff first thing this morning to close down last night's pity party and it's off to Sienna.

This time I manage to get not only the right bus, but going in the correct direction and arrive safely at my B&B in a 'restored' palazzo. Restored it may be, but a few renovation works would not have gone amiss. However, the peeling plaster on the vaulted ceiling has a certain charm about it and all is forgiven when I open balcony doors looking out over red rooftops.

I unpack and wander out to orientate myself. I have coffee and gooey chocolate cake at Nannini and find a bookshop which stocks English books and newspapers on the walk back. What else can I buy but Room with a View, which I sit reading on my balcony whilst eating lunch.

I had planned to go and photograph the Duomo and have an evening meal out, but Dolores disagrees. I venture out to stock up on water, grab a slice of pizza and an ice cream and slink back to my room to put on pyjamas.

Although I'm tired, just as I'm falling asleep the couple in the adjoining room return and the bed creaks punctuated by grunts raises my consciousness. As if that's not bad enough, he falls into a deep post coital slumber evidenced by loud snoring, leaving me wide awake for the rest of the night.

Katy

(L is for La Ritournelle - Sebastien Tellier)

K is for knowledge

I feel old.

I look terrible.

I thought that by changing my surroundings I would feel different, start to mend. But it’s me that needs to change, not my surroundings. My surroundings are highlighting my weaknesses and I am frustrated at how much I cannot do. It’s such a cliché, but I never thought this would happen to me. Sometimes I feel such a failure. I never thought I would be unable to work, unable to get out of bed some days.

And I don’t want to wallow in self pity. It’s just that sometimes I get scared.

Everything is a question.
Why me?
Why did it start?
What caused it?
Why don’t they know?
Why won’t it stop?
Will it ever stop?
Will I always be like this?
What does it feel like not to be in pain?

It has been suggested that I ditch Dolores. It’s a wonderful idea, she has definitely outstayed her welcome. But that leads to another question.

How?

Katy

(K is for Koko - Goldfrapp)

J is for Jesus

Once again the ringing bells activate the Catholic guilt, but I decide to try a different venue this Sunday.

The local church in San Nicolo is breathtaking and dates back to the 13th century. I had checked the mass times the day before and arrived at 11.25 for the 11.30 mass. The church was completely deserted and I realised with dismay that I must have made a mistake translating the Italian. I started to head home but on the way passed several groups of smartly dressed people who looked as though they were in their Sunday best. I turned back to the church just to make absolutely sure. It turns out that Italians are just as relaxed about their time keeping with God as they are with one another. Even the priest was a fashionable 15 minutes late in making his entrance. One wonders how long an Italian bride keeps her groom waiting for if she has to factor in the congregation and the priest being late.

In order to make up for his late entrance the priest, who was approximately a hundred and fifty years old, proceeded to gallop through the service, barely pausing for breath until the end of the sermon. After this he seemed to slow a little, and on a couple of occasions I wondered whether he was kissing the altar, or resting his forehead for a short nap.

As Sunday is the day of rest, that’s exactly what I did for it’s remainder.

Katy

(J is for Just can’t get enough - Depeche Mode)

I is for ice cream

As always, I feel better for leaving the house and once again, it’s a bright sunny day.

I start the morning with a dose of culture to cleanse my spirit via the Museo Opera di Santa Maria del Fiore. Amongst the treasures are the Gates of Paradise, the finger of John the Baptist and Michelangelo’s Pieta. The last amazingly created when the artist was 80 years old and beginning to contemplate meeting his Maker. Dissatisfied with the flawed marble he took a hammer to the sculpture in the first recorded instance of an artist vandalising his own work.

I spend the afternoon calming my soul with another favourite past time, designer window shopping. An eyeful of Gucci, Prada and Hermes leaves me feeling positively sprightly.

Being woefully over my luggage weight allowance on the way out meant that I had to leave several books behind and so I treat my self to Vogue to read whilst soaking in the bath later on. I also decide that I need to reintroduce some calories after a couple of days on water and what better way than gelato? At £5 a scoop it better be worth it … but it’s a huge scoop, oh, and it’s SO worth it.

Katy

(I is for I can’t decide - Scissor Sisters (dedicated to Dolores))

H is for headache

My confidence has taken a knock and I wonder what I am doing here. Dolores has a sickening grip on my head as well as my back at present. I crawl out of bed with stiff limbs, hip joints aching from supporting my little body and dry, dark smudges under my eyes. I’m badly dehydrated. My first shower after being confined to bed for a couple of days is bliss.
I walk to the shop to restock on water - it’s a beautiful sunny day outside but I don’t have the energy to do any more than return to lie on the sofa.
I’m feeling sorry for myself and thank god for Radio 4 via the internet.
Doctor’s advice is not to let pain rule you because of the link between one’s state of mind and pain. But how can you not? If I do less during the day than I would have done when I was well, to try to limit the pain, then she has won by limiting me. If I push myself to do more, I end up in pain, so she’s still won. It’s a lose lose situation, and it’s so hard not to let it grind you down.

Sometimes I don’t recognise myself any more.

Katy
(H is for Highways of my Life - Isley Brothers)

G is for greyness

I woke up shattered and got back into bed after breakfast. I resurfaced at midday but recognised that she was taking over. So back to bed and wait for the inevitable. First morbid tiredness. She was clever and waited until night to make a proper appearence. Knew it would be more unsettling in the dark and away from home. Then she's inside my head, screaming and rattling, poking at my eyes and making it difficult to bear the weight of my head on the pillow. Then nausea and vomiting. Finally the greyness of dawn and she allows me a fitful sleep.

Katy

(G is for Galvanise - Chemical Brothers)

F is for fabulous find

I was thoroughly excited to read in the local paper that a vintage fair at a venue approximately the size of a small aircraft hangar began today. A vintage fiend such as myself loves nothing more than whiling away a couple of hours sifting through second hand, sorry, vintage, booty. I wasn't disappointed. Row upon row of clothes, bags, shoes, scarves, jewellery and hats were laid out to be trawled through. And this being Italy, vintage does not mean last months Primark as it can elsewhere. Vintage Gucci, Chanel and Hermes all present and correct to be haggled over. Having already told myself that there was nothing else I actually needed (like that ever makes a difference) this season, I was happy wryly noting the superiority of even second hand Italian style over the rest of Europe.

As I turned to complete my final section (yes, yes I know - organised as ever), a rather fabulous dress caught my eye. Granted, a cobalt blue floor length ball gown is not essential to my wardrobe - especially as Dolores doesn't like me to go out that often. However, there are some things that a girl just can't walk by. And having bartered the seller to 70 euros (that's about £45) I was extremely smug.

Dolores was starting to whinge so I asked at the Tourist Information office which bus I needed to get home. 40 minutes later I was still on the bus and starting to think that the Tourist Info chap was taking the proverbial, as I journeyed through what appeared to be Florences industrial outskirts. The answer became patently clear when the bus pulled up back outside the station, having been nowehere near my destination. Yes, I had got on the bus going in the wrong direction. Told you my sense of direction was crap.

Katy

(F is for Freeway - (Crazy P Mix) Soulway)

E is for espresso

I decide to try out the coffee bar at the bottom of my street this morning. I am learning that the trick is to order without appearing to be talking to the person concerned. All morning orders are delivered like this; with the utmost nonchalance. The bartender is usually having more than one conversation at once, and given that my Italian is far from fluent, it's often difficult to know whether he is talking to me, or one of the other 3 individuals at the bar. Clearly the haunt of the cooler 30something male, all present are engaging in the time honoured practice of discussing the state of the world with accompanying expansive hand gestures.

There are 2 different prices in a bar; one for standing at the bar and one for sitting at a table. I prefer to pay the extra euro and sit, which gives me a birds eye view of the proceedings. Breakfast is the only time of day when Italians seem motivated to move beyond a slow amble; which means a high turnover of characters.

Flicking through the TV channels last night I am amused to find that Big Brother, or rather Grande Fratello - has made it to these shores. No mixed race contestants means no Shilpa controversy here, although there are the usual shower of social mismatches. One of the males who clearly fancies himself as a bit of a ladies man is striding round the house wearing a pair of white Y fronts teamed with a pair of flip flops. I would love to see how long he would last with Jackay.

The weather was breath-in-front-of-your-nose freezing this morning, with a fog surrounding the Ponte Vecchio and creeping up the river banks. However, this lifts giving way to a hazy but beautifully sunny day. The haze over the bridges never seems to lift completely, and I am left wondering whether Michelangelo et al invented sffumato, or whether they were just painting what they saw

Katy

(E is for Emotion 98.4 Mylo)