The Story of Us: Ten Year Anniversary Post

Wednesday, 17^th June, 2015. 10 years, 11 months and 364 days post courtiship commencement.

I’m taxiing out of JFK as I write this to return to London after a beautiful New York wedding and a precious few days spent re-exploring and adoring the wonderful city that I was once, for two years, so lucky to call my home. My eyes always dart around expectantly the various paths leading from gate to runway because I am so accustomed to this being the place I depart from, not just to return to London, the town I call my home, but to return to Mat, my now husband, but always lover and friend, who is my home.

Cutting the cake on the happiest day of my life

Again and again, by habit, I look out of the window as once I did aged seven on my first ever flight. “Will this be the turn that takes us from ground to the sky?” “Surely we’re travelling too slowly? How will we ever get off the ground?” “Surely we’ve been taxiing for hours. When will we take off, when?” “Is it time to take to the sky now? It must be, it must.” “Are we nearly there?” At every turn or surge of the engine from the plane my heart beat quickens, my breathing shortens. I am, with each slow turn of those three small aircraft wheels one step closer in my mind, always, from here, to being back ‘home’: back to my beloved.

Goodbye JFK and NYC. See you soon!

Tonight it is different: here we are together sitting side by side on the aeroplane. I’m not finishing up wiping my eyes and ordering Thai food from Enthaice to help create a carbohydrate food coma and lull me to sleep as he flies off. He’s not sleeping already as I excitedly board the plane and wait for every tiny movement forward towards being at home with him once more. We are travelling, hand in hand, to the place we have made our home, but which is, in reality, wherever we are together in all of the world, as long as together we are.

Here's a little more about my husband, whom you know less well than me. Mat has just jeopardised any chance of sleeping soon by delightfully extracting a stray eyebrow hair (very discretely, of course) with a spry finger and thumb, and now sits with eyes watering and nose recoiled beside me. I’m changed into my flight gear, i.e. comfy jungle pants and sweatshirt, wiggling my toes in sadly non-couture red and navy striped furry flight socks. We are – as ever – carrying on the life that we have built with one another day by day since we first met more than ten years ago, and since we started “going out together properly”, as I put it, ten years ago this day.

In The Smith, having brunch. Note Mat's inability to smile naturally 

for the camera. I love it when Facebook friends comment that

 he's looking as if he would rather be anywhere else. <3

I have planned to write a post to celebrate our ten years together for at least the last two months. “Mat,” I said (although we call each other by different, special, just-for-us names which I will refrain from citing here, since something of our private life must, I believe, be preserved just for us) “would you mind if I wrote in my blog the story of how me met and started going out as a celebration post for our tenth anniversary? I would so love to tell it because it makes me happy every time I think of it.”

“No,” he replied, neutrally, “that’s fine sweetheart. That sounds like a lovely idea.”

He is so giving. One of the shyest people I know, and he consented to my whimsical fancy of describing the miraculous wonder of our two separate souls coming together as one. Thank you, my love, for giving me this anniversary gift. The fact that you have shared it is yet another display of your acceptance that I am the way that I am and that we are especially suited to one another in spite of our differences.

Friday, 19^th June, 2015, 10 years, 1 day post courtship commencement.

So, how did it all begin? Like many of the great romances, it began by being a total non-starter. I had just left Oxford after my final exams and a great friend and tutor had recently passed away, which had left me spinning in grief and devoid of my usual structured direction; A kind mutual friend of my late friend helped me to continue to live my dream of being in London despite the additional complexities that grief brings to moving away from one, safe, known life to a sprawling metropolitan new one, by arranging a short term position from me at the Institute of Education, working for the (then named) London Leadership Centre. It was an admin position paying a basic starting salary for such a city-based public sector post, and we were to be based in Tavistock Square. After leaving all my designs on a Brideshead Revisited life in Oxford, here was the entrance to another such dream-like existence, among the Bloomsbury set and within one of those talled terraced houses with their Juliet balconies and French doors, from where I continuously expected Mrs. Dalloway, or one of her descendants, to emerge.

Such was (is?) the lack of any kind of disability accessibility support in those buildings that it was to the third floor (i.e. up three tall flights of stairs) that I must climb each day to my new administrative post. Our office rooms were tiny and housed at most two desks at a time. Dorian* was my office mate, a thirty-something officianado of the place who not only knew everyone who was anyone (or wasn’t) but could also tell me how to swing two council flats out of the London borough of Hackney, plus apply Touche Eclat and eyeliner to perfection before our (many) outings for lunch and dinner in the area. 

(*not his real name)

Bloomsbury, where romances begin...

Dorian was a gossip specialist, and with an extremely practised and rarely convincing air of disinterest, politely asked me for my background: university education, origins, love life etc. At which point he declared when I confirmed that I was without a boyfriend currently, that he had the perfect match for me, a Cambridge-educated Philosophy graduate with a PhD who was to be found somewhere in the basement of the building, and apparently was also single and potentially slightly melancholy and quiet. Dear reader, I confess these qualities did not present themselves to me as recommending traits for a future suitor. Added to which, the thought of being matched on a blind date I found abhorrent in the extreme: think: if you are matched up with someone by a friend, if you find yourself going out with someone who is markedly less a) intelligent, b) funny, c) good looking (okay, clearly ‘c’ was ‘a’ but I didn’t want you to have ultimate confirmation of my propensity (especially in my early twenties) to be shallow).

No, oh please no, not the multi-coloured jeans and shell suit combo!!!

As it turned out, the mysterious basement man was as reluctant as I to proceed with the proposed blind date, and so it was called off. It was not until four or five months later that I finally came face to face with him, in the basement, which also happened to be the stash for stationery. In case you are not aware, allow me to enlighten you that working for an institution linked to education almost undoubtedly links you inextricably with a world where post-it notes are king. Scarcely a day goes by where the tiny sticky multi-coloured paper pages are not employed for a multitude of means. I ventured down to the basement in search of this very thing, but was almost mortified with embarrassment at the prospect of meeting someone to whom I had not been formally introduced (I really was still very much in the Oxford world) and with whom I had been suggested as a potential romantic target. Therefore I marched, face downcast, past this chap who appeared to be wrapped entirely within a navy overcoat covering all of his person except his slender neck (and it was a very cold room) and muttered a quick “Hello” before retreating once more to the safety of my tiny cubbyhole four floors up.

Not that we still have any of these. No, not at all.

For the next few months I drifted down from North London where I lived to Bloomsbury each day, enjoyed outings to the museums and bars nearby and felt quite the thing at times, especially when a good friend and I blagged our way into a London Review Bookshop event and he and I both ended up giving interviews to camera in celebration of its publication, in spite of the fact that neither of us had the faintest idea for which occasion we had crashed the party…and I ended up in the BBC2 programme about it (vague sentiments of praise are clearly useful to editors everywhere). I also dated a young French man and had a fun time visiting some swanky restaurants in my London-styled looks. That was not to last, but luckily it was my pride rather than my heart which hurt more as that liaison ended shortly after it began.

Great Shop. Great Party.

At some point I realised that I really must find something to do – some direction – and that this could not happen at the Institute. Over a lunch at Heals with the same wonderful friend who helped me to find the job there in the first place, she suggested I apply to the Teach First scheme, which apparently was ‘very up and coming’ and a good idea for a bright graduate. It appealed to me because it was a two year programme. I thought, “Well, I can probably stick it out for two years, if I get in, and it would be good to have something like that on my CV perhaps.” A tome-sized application form and an assessment centre later, I was lucky enough to gain a place. Great!

Heals: where great ideas are formed and great lunches had!

Wait, though, I don’t actually know anything about teaching. (Not so great.) So what will I do now?

During the time of this application, our Bloomsbury existence had been uprooted from its styled, decaying glamour, to a chic new location just off Tottenham Court Road, with security badges, glass and chrome and spacious open plan design. This meant a move, of course, plastic crates for the removal of our belongings I.e. the post-it notes) and a reshuffle of desk arrangements. And thus it came to pass that I was allocated a place in the ‘temporary staff’ section of the floor, opposite that same young over-coated gentleman who was my one-time blind-date to be, Dr. Matthew Carmody.

Mat (as he is known) came in once a week just for the afternoon, since he was administrator for the course “Working Together for Success” or something like that, and sat quietly at his (brand new) white desk eating a baguette sandwich and eating his Walker’s crisps, usually plain, sometimes salt and vinegar. Reader, I may have been too bashful to attempt a self-introduction when we had no reason to speak, but at the rustling of a crisp packet I could no longer resist. I. Had. To. Have. A. Crisp.

We started to make polite conversation, once a week, as I sat there pretending to work despite the fact that my programmes had largely concluded, and he sat there doing (I assume) the same. We chatted about this and that and then we went our separate ways until the next week. It was only when I received a telephone call from Teach First to accept my application that it struck me to ask Mat for assistance. I had learned from our chit chat over crisps that he was also a teacher aside from his IoE job – and I needed (I really, really needed) some advice in that respect. Mat – thank you, Mat! – accepted my invitation for an after work drink for the selfish purpose of my learning what on earth I was letting myself in for by signing up to teach a bunch of kids in Walthamstow and Chingford aged eleven to sixteen.

Now then, it is time to point out that in no way was this invitation issued as a date or anything like. I was asking for advice from a work acquaintance. End of. To illustrate this point I will introduce the following evidence: that en route to our chosen venue of The Sun pub on Tottenham Court Road, I asked Mat if he wouldn’t mind stopping off, on the way, so I could go to Boots, and then proceeded to buy a packet of feminine hygiene products which I (quite publicly) purchased in full view of Mat. This was not, therefore, I repeat, not, intended to be a romantic encounter.

A very serious Mat. A very amused me.

In The Sun, I think I remember Mat kindly got in the drinks, a large glass of red for me and a pint of London Pride for him. And we talked about teaching: what sort of lessons did he teach? What were the students like? Did he give homework? Did anyone actually do the homework (yes I know, former teachers, I never did it!)? What format did lessons take?

In the hour and a half that passed I learned two things: one, that teaching in 2005 was different than anything I had experienced or was thus far expecting from my next job; two, that Mat Carmody was definitely amusing, interesting, and someone I felt suddenly a sense of sparkle in my stomach for. I did a figurative double take. “Huh. He’s really nice. Was there a frisson?” We parted and I went on back up to north London to see a friend, to practise some singing together and catch up post Oxford. “So, how's your love life, Jessica?” he asked (or something like that. Bridget Jones eat your heart out!). And I looked at him, straight, and said, “Well, maybe, because I think I actually just had a drink with someone who is really nice.”

And so, reader, we all lived happily ever after. 

Yep.

Of course we didn’t! This is Britain. It took me long enough (and him for that matter) even to say “Hello,” let alone to acknowledge an interest beyond simple, uncomplicated, no strings friendship. What did happen was that we were very definitely friends after that night.

Truckles: Where much red wine was drunk in the London summer sunshine

We arranged drinks again, this time just for fun, in a couple of weeks, and spent a happy two hours drinking red wine in the courtyard at Truckles near the British Museum talking all things, Classics (me), Philosophy (him), music (both of us) and his dashing tales of derring-do, such as being so squiffy at a friend’s wedding that he looked out of the window and his glasses fell off his face, to be retrieved the next day in the flower patch outside, and the fact that in the car going back the combination of hangover plus student car vibrations meant he temporarily lost sensation in both arms. (I then went off to the opera, quite half (or more) cut, myself, after that. The opera I saw is a distant memory. But I’m sure it was very good and the Champagne at half time was excellent.)

No idea what was happening but it was surely very good.

We had another such drink, and by this time I knew that I was, pretty much, in love with Mat Carmody. He was so funny, interesting, kind and gentle that I had set my cap at him, but even had I not my heart had decided that he was for me. At this point he had still not asked me out, but I had invited him to attend my birthday party with other friends, a dinner in central London in a few weeks’ time. I had had a long experience of the classic Oxford ailment that is unrequited love throughout almost the entirety of my degree, and had no desire to repeat two and a half years of a similar experience. Therefore, I thought, there is only one option. You cannot wait for him to make the first move in case he never does. You must ask him out. And so I (sort of) did. And what is more, I told myself, you must hope that something happens before that, but if nothing does, then you must ask him out (properly!) yourself, and if it doesn’t work out, never see him again until your heart has 100% moved on. No more nonsense waxing and waning. Get on with it!

At our last drink before this event, knowing we were both soon to leave the IoE anyway, there was little risk of meeting Mat again should my bid (if it had to be me who made the move) so I had a plan in place which meant I could thoroughly embarrass myself at my birthday party, in the presence of all my closest friends (which, in reality, doesn’t separate this birthday from any other). Unfortunately we had relatively little time together at this drink as Mat had to go home to mark essays.

…

At this point I wasn’t exactly optimistic. I mean, what guy picks essay marking over drinks with me? Answer: someone who is clearly not interested.

Despite this, we walked together to the bus stop and I still hoped that we might at least reach that ‘awkward moment’ where, waiting from the bus, we might share a first kiss? As we walked there I said, gesturing towards Rathbone Place, “So, I’ll see you on Saturday?”

“Yes. Hang on, so when you said you were having your party at the Eagle, I assumed you meant somewhere in Clerkenwell, not the Eagle round here.”

Great. Not only is he dashing home to mark third rate philosophy essays rather than staying in town for dinner and drinks with me, he very nearly lost any chance of turning up at my party at all by heading to a place miles away from the actual venue.

And no. Transport for London did not deliver our first kiss, because, contrary to every other time, the bloody bus turned up right on time. Thanks a lot TFL. You really outdid yourself this time in your support for romance.

Thanks a lot TFL. Crushing romantic liaisons by turning up on time. How dare you?!

So how did the story end? With the help of my best friend and me drinking Champagne at 10am (as she couldn’t attend because of a very serious back injury), we had our little birthday brunch of our own with some cheesy chick flicks and brut Champagne to give me Dutch courage before we left.

Champagne, giving la courage to les braves everywhere.

And at a dinner on one of the hottest days of the year, surrounded by my friends and being grilled by all sides, my beloved Mat (who hates hot weather and was looking massively annoyed and about to expire) took the oh so subtle hint I dropped as a practised flirt with the classic, never again to be used line, “Please come and sit next to me because I want you to sit next to me,” and finally. Finally. At after dinner drinks he bought me a gin and tonic, and as we waited for it to arrive, he put his hand on my hand. And that was the start of us.

Our first date venue. Happy Memories!

Ten years later, here we are, still holding hands. A fair few challenges along the way, the path to true love never did run smooth, and there were job changes, commutes, many tough times with our health and trying to be together across London and also across continents, but here we are. We went back to our first date venue - Putney's Boathouse down by the river for a celebratory drink to toast ten years together.

Thank you Mat Carmody for sticking around with me, and for being so understanding about everything. My partner in life, love and laughter. I love you always. (And thanks for all the post-it notes. They've come in very handy over the years.) x

Take Good Care. Being Cared For and Caring for Myself.

Caring in practice. A friendly hug is a wonderful thing

(Image copyright Jessica Florence)

I’m off on my travels again, this time to New York for a wedding and then after a brief stopover at home, on to Poland. As I’ve mentioned before in this blog, much of what I am trying to apply against my type is to be able to recognise when I need care and take whatever steps are necessary to provide it.

Find out more and pledge to contribute to caring in your own neighbourhood, here

This week is Carers' Week, so I've been thinking a lot about this topic. I'd like to honour all of my carers, the mental health professionals. Without all of these people and my beloved husband, family and friends I might not be here today to write this. I'm grateful to all who have taught new things about how to recognise negative thought patterns and how to try to apply these skills to troublesome times where all my unhelpful skills at over thinking, rumination and comparisonitis come into play with a fervour which could win awards. The fact is, we can't survive unless we care for each other.

However, for this blog, I would like to focus on two people – one I value above all others: my husband, and one I value much less and should probably attempt to value more: myself.

I’ve nearly been with my husband for ten years, and plan to post more about the fantastic ten years we have spent together. As with all relationships, we do of course have the occasional argument, about whether he should really be touching the kitchen knives given his propensity to cut himself badly by scarcely grazing the blade, or whether it’s really necessary to buy another book to add to our currently building-foundations-endangering collection…(No.)

Mat and me. Just two hamsters taking care of each other. In pots.

When we began to go out many years ago it was clear to me that this was a relationship unlike any other in my previous experience. We agreed since the start of principles of sharing bills and building a partnership. We both earned a similar amount when we started to see one another and wanted to build a relationship based on equality in sharing the restaurant bills, the cinema tickets, and over time, our living space from rented accommodation to our first bought house.

True love. Except Mat didn't have to wear the hat.

Probably for the best, he would have sat on it or something.

And even in our wedding (under sufferance!) my poor love forced himself through about a billion conversations with me about how our perfect day would truly be ours. He isn’t interested in clothes or shopping of any kind so to become involved in things such as wedding planning or even buying a new pair of jeans could not be farther from his interest level. A good book (or even a mediocre one), a nice cup of tea and a lovely piece of fudge would be his preference over any shopping-related activity.

I suppose our romance was something of a whirlwind after the initial total non-start (to be explained at length in another post to celebrate our 10 years together). We moved in together after 6 months and have been firmly by one another’s side ever since.

(Don't worry, I'm the one holding the flower in case 

Mat drops it and the poor butterfly gets hurt!)

At the beginning of our relationship I had just signed up to a tough intensive teaching and leadership programme which caused me a lot of stress, fatigue and money worries, as well as all of the amazing things that I experienced while working with some of the most brilliant students and excellent teachers and leaders. After only three months of dating, I was at the GP broken with tiredness and physical as well as mental symptoms across the board, such was my extreme struggle to keep going and maintain my job, do it well, maintain my (new, London) personal life and fit in some time now and again to live my new life in London.

Mat didn’t initially seem to understand (fully, at least) that I needed to take medication to continue to be able to function, work. He said he didn’t really agree with taking medication for depression, and initially had a hard time accepting it as something that required anything more than (every depressive’s least favourite phrase) “Pulling yourself together”. It was a real struggle at the time. I myself never wanted to be on medication for my depression. I preferred to not pollute my body with medication that had no guarantee of working, was still in the process of being developed. I also hated the fact that every single one did (and still does) give me ridiculous side effects that mean I take more pills to cope with them just to be able to keep taking the depression medicine. Ridiculous!

All that, and the fact that we were in the first stages of being together, where we hadn’t known with the wisdom of hindsight, but only in the first flush of true love – that he wouldn’t leave me realising that I was a difficult case…someone with difficult, heavy, unwieldy emotional baggage connected to (at times) acute mental illness. I think it would be fair to say that Mat didn’t understand depression the way that I did, because he had never experienced it to such a long degree, with so many bursts of down periods and my inability to get myself out of bed, take an interest in seeing museums or going on walks. I am so lucky that neither of us gave up on one another. I (as insecure as I was) knew how much I loved him and wanted to keep him at all costs; but the other part of me wanted to be honest In our relationship, and I knew that It was ever going to work out between us than I needed to be honest about an illness which I expected (and have been proved right) never really goes away forever, at least not in the last two decades.

Here we are, ten years (just a few days short) and counting. My lovely Mat has now had nearly ten years of experience living with me in my highs my lows, my delights and despairs, and my sloughs of despond. Many, many, sloughs of despond. (Which you would think would be attractive and interesting given the onomatopoeia of this phrase. It’s not. At all.) Because he understands depression and anxiety – at least from my point of view – he accepts that depression is a multi-faceted and complex illness; it doesn’t mean I can't get through a full week of work, see friends, run, walk, socialise (a bit, only at the moment but still…). He can make me laugh seconds after I’ve been in tears, and I can go and have a perfectly nice afternoon only to come home and need to retire because the whole social activity or the very act of going out has left me feeling totally defeated and exhausted.

So how does it work for us? I cannot express here in a single post how much Mat does for me. He makes every effort, in every area of our lives, to try to make my (at times) unbearable life worth carrying on. He loves doing things for me, and – I guess – that when he doesn’t love doing them, when he is actually wishing I could just be better or that this whole, boring and difficult stage of our lives could be over and I could be content, reading, writing, painting…shopping even…But he does carry on. He tells me here’s there and always will be.

Well all right then. I think I can make that work.

He emails me, tweets me, messages me pretty much every day while we’re both working, or if I’m at hospital appointments, to ask how I’m doing and send me things that cheers me up. When I can’t get out of bed he comes to see me, to kiss me and hug me and tell me, as I rest in bed shutting the rest of the world out, that there will be a better day to come and that I should accept that there are bad days, but they are not all bad.

In my darkest periods over my last few months I’ve stayed in bed many, many times all day. I’ve got up, showered, dressed and eaten, but just barely, from bed. I’ve cried after he has come home because I’ve been lonely and sick of myself. I’ve cried during social functions and we’ve had to beat a retreat or try to let Mat hold my hand and help me get through it. He notices. He holds my hand and looks at me without talking. He has told me again and again that he loves me and even though I find it hard to believe myself to be worthy of love quite often he persists. He seems to think I’m work it. And I am so grateful for this love which seems boundless.

I still quite believe it but I work on telling myself what he tells me, and get a little bit closer to believing in it, and recognising how amazing our life together is – despite the challenges I bring with my depression. He cooks, cleans the kitchen when I can’t, brings me flowers, buys me glasses of Prosecco and mini burgers or hot dogs because I adore them. HE truly is the most wonderful person in the word, and the fact that I spend every single day unsure of how I will feel is a massive burden on him to cope with all my mood changes, free-flowing tears without warning. (Especially in restaurants lately. Yes, I've become a restaurant crier.) And repetition of how bloody hopeless the whole thing is, and how I can’t go on (or don’t want to) and more.

Beware friends. I now do this ALL THE TIME. 

Don't say I didn't warn you when I start blubbing over the bruschetta.

Now in return I do things for Mat – because we are still very much a partnership. I’ll buy takeaway for us and take us out regularly to say thank you to him; I’ll paint and write him little cards, give him the sugary treats I know he loves (M&S ginger men and any kind of hand-made fudge are particular favourites), And I tell him that I love him but I would understand if he would leave. And he stays. It’s a miracle to me that he does.

The second topic I wanted to cover here is caring for myself (or self-care as we in the mental health area often call it). When it comes to this my ability to provide appropriate self-care for myself, for someone who has unrelenting high standards I’d say I perform pretty awfully in this respect. The fact is, that we are all responsible (as far as we can) for looking after ourselves and making sure that we can exist and survive adequately, and – if we’re lucky – happily.  

"Who me? I need to care about myself too? I totally forgot about that."

The fundamentals of what I should be doing for my self-care are to keep myself fed, clothed, clean and get enough sleep to function. Largely I manage to do these things, simple as they may appear. On terrible days I will often (now, as I become more self-accepting) call an achievement something like getting up, showering, washing and drying my hair. Those small acts on terrible days where I am drained, tearful, and devoid of hope might exhaust me, so the right thing to do for myself at that point might go to bed and rest some more – distract myself from my wretched thoughts with sleep, reading, watching Netflix box sets (particular ones…probably another post to come about what I can and can’t watch at these times).

Eat and sleep as well as you can. 

I find drinking fresh juices helps to reduce my anxieties.

If I can do it I care for myself by creating a nice space to be in – fresh bedclothes, fresh air, walks, cleaning the house (which is good exercise and good for the process of seeing things become clean and tidy when I long for order from my disordered, hectic and unrelenting mind.

There are other more complicated steps I know I have to keep practising (in both senses of the word) to take care of myself. I’ve learned (and continued to learn) to be more honest about my health on a day to day basis both with my husband, whose care and love I cherish above all else, with my work colleagues, with my mental health support professionals, and to a degree (using the assertiveness techniques I’ve learned) with everyone I meet.

For me, working towards self-care is not trying to make everyone like me (which I usually do). Not trying to make it my role to be the heart and soul of the party, exhausting myself (and probably everyone else) in the process so that everyone ‘has a good time) and I’ve clearly made an effort to be a good party attendee. It’s also about not telling myself off every second, well, second about something I’ve done that’s not been right in the past – like the time I shouted at Mat when I shouldn’t have, or the time I drank too much wine and fell asleep on the sofa at a guest’s house, drunk. If an elephant never forgets then I sure hope that particular species of pachyderm doesn’t have a propensity for depression, because my memory is never as razor sharp in its accuracy when I’m remember and flagellating myself for past wrongs. If there were awards for self-loathing and self-reproach, I feel sure I’d be a contender for the top spot.

Every day I just care for myself as best as I can, and some days I’m better at it than others. Mat helps me – every day - and I am so lucky to have him in my life in the first place, on top of which he is the most loving and giving soul to this mixed up, messy woman. And I want to care for myself because I’m working towards feeling like I deserve it – because I know I would always tell a friend or loved one that they were. You are worth caring about. You are worth caring for. You are special and even if it’s hard to see it, you have a place in this world. I will try to read this post again so I can remind myself that what I would tell others probably applies to me to. Till next time, please all take CARE. x

La Dolce Vita...When in Rome, Let's Roam...

La Dolce Vita...

When you’re all grown up in your thirties, and I say that with a profound sense of irony, for anyone out there who might miss it (i.e. who doesn't know that I’m a sarky mare) it can be hard to get together with beloved friends from one’s younger and more vulnerable years. My particular group of great friends, the ones you meet in your first term but do not wish to give up in the second, but in fact are the ones that you keep for life, see each other with bittersweet rarity these days, with all of us living either in different parts of the country or – at various times – abroad.

Centurion on his cell...

There is some sense of rightness, then, that in order to reunite we would need to do so on foreign soil, where all of our ‘otherness’ lives, our different jobs and partners and paths are momentarily put on pause while we hold our beautiful reunion together in a place unknown to all of us which sets us, once more, on terra firma of our long lost university days, when everything was before us.

And so to Rome, which wasn't built in a day, but where our marble and stone friendships survived in all of their original glory and rose to their former obelisks and mighty friezes as if we had never started to lay foundations elsewhere, as if this, the original project of our friendship, was all that there was.

Roma Roof Terrace

At university we had wanted beauty and love and learning, so there was really no better place (especially considering half of our party were Classicists anyhow), and there was also tennis and the promise of a Matisse exhibition as well as the eternal gelati and food in general to lure us. We stayed in the leafy and peaceful Parioli neighbourhood at a magnificent place found on airbnb which catered for 5 people, perhaps an unusual number for most, but perfect for our purposes. Here we looked out from a great height onto the unused gardens of the Polish embassy and ate slices of prosciutto di Parma on the roof terrace each morning (and possibly afternoon and evening, such is my obsession with that particular food stuff…)

Gelatissimi

I had packed with some ridiculousness, nodding at the style I so wanted to exude in line with the holy grail of fashion streets – la via Condotti – six pairs of shoes and four pairs of sunglasses, one per day. I planned my outfits to allow me to - comfortably (my feet (no I’m afraid I must mention my feet and my back, even though their decrepitude does not suit the style of a blog about Rome…) – explore the known and the unknown piazzi of the city and its treasures whilst styled in my most beautiful dresses and outfits.

Gardens of the Villa Borghese...Can you picture the nymphs at play?

We had a few shared quests: to eat ice cream every day, to eat well every day, to see Caravaggios and Berninis between this eating, and wander through the squares and streets together absorbing the sound of church bells and bicycles and melodious Italian voices (broken only by the equally eternal street salesman with their “Selfie!” shtick).

Security after the Selfie-Stick-Sellers

I joined the party post tennis, post sunburn from the tennis when there was no shade of any kind, but pre-Matisse Arabesques exhibition and a visit to the fundamentals of Rome: the Colosseum and forum area. With only four days I knew there would be some effort needed physically to attain more flavours of the city than simply a couple of (large) scoops of gelati, but nonetheless, barring my near decision to nix the whole trip in favour of a few hours more of precious sleep at 4am last Thursday when my alarm went off, I was delighted and determined to do.

Panzanella on the terrace. Perfect lunch.

I arrived in time for lunch on the terrace of our apartment, which was in a modern-ish building (comparatively; I think Augustus probably would have loved to have built marble elevators but even he couldn't make that work…) but with views of other mansion blocks (and I really do mean ‘blocks’) in the area. Jasmine and massive Amaryllises, as well as an actual Roman vine gently sat in stately fashion beside us and above us as we indulged in panzanella, prosciutto (of course) and pink wine.

Ah beautiful (not cruel) amaryllis

(I should say that I’m not planning to write much about my friends here, except to say that they are wonderful, because that part of my life is not just private (and of course they are not blogging so I respect their right to privacy) but even though I've made some attempt to tell you about our friendship I don’t think I could convey here how it works with all of our differences and ever make you understand how magical and potent a mixture of all the right aspects of a delightful long-standing bond ours is. Plus you’d never get all the private jokes, though some of those may make it into here, and if you’re not laughing, well, then, I was right, wasn't I?)

Dinner of steak and rocket...and parmesan savings. Delicious!

Fresh food is found aplenty in the UK of course, but just as you cannot, really, get croissants that actually taste as if they've been bought straight from the boulangerie, in London, you also find it hard to find prosciutto di Parma that has the remarkable dual features of being ultra-thin but extra-fatty and flavoursome. I’m a complete prosciutto addict at the best of times, but this stuff. It was something else. Worth the plane fare on its own. I had prepared for the trip carefully by packing loose clothing that would accommodate my ever expanding belly during the food fest, and I was glad even after that first lunch to have done so. I even indulged myself with a nap in the afternoon, choosing being awake and dinner with friends over the Galleria Borghese, because I still need to make these choices to ensure that I stay healthy and can last through a holiday.

Tonnarelli. So, so, so good.

I chose dinner locations (not sure why I decided to assume the stress position...) on both nights we ate out together during my visit, by the coincidence of my nap on the first day and because I and my friend Kristian remained alone for the last night. As always I was concerned to choose a good enough location (hello higher standards, nice to see you came with me to Rome) and consulted a few reviews on Trip Advisor, keen to see reviews in Italiano and for the price to suit our not-too-deep-pocket requirements whilst the menu satiated our tightening waist bands.

Beef carpaccio and red radicchio...delicious

At Mamma Mia, near the Galleria Borghese, dinner service begins at 7:30pm and I managed to convey in stunted Italian a request for table for four at 8pm to the charming waitress who decided – though it was clear that to make this request comprised the sum total of my Italian – to be polite and answer me in Italian (grazie mille!). We ate amazing first courses of delicate crepes with tomato sauce, zucchini and other vegetable tempura, presented in tiny ‘chip pan’ like mesh container, and thick, juicy mortadella adorned with balsamic dressing to add the sourness to the meat’s sweet flavour.

Crepes at Mamma Mia...and all I can say is, well, how can I resist you?

The next point is trickier to navigate: are we hungry enough for primi (pasta) AND secondi (meat) or should we divide and conquer? We chose the latter option (and I would recommend that less is more because they really do give you ‘more’) and therefore had the chance to taste some of both: ravioli with bacon and red wine (you had me at ‘bacon’) and tonnarelli with cacia e pepe – cheese and pepper – the Roman thing to eat and rich and fabulous, even though it sounds on paper like I’m describing the Roman equivalent of mac and cheese. Black truffled risotto had me drooling when the menus arrived and did not disappoint and nor did a tiny sliver of the enoteca and lardo salumi (I think that’s how you spell it…apologies if not) which is a moist and tender steak fillet with a very thin slice of fat stretched over the top, giving delectably fatty flavour. Yum.

Spanish steps...a panoramic tourist vista

The next day we ate pizza, Roman style, for lunch, ordering a selection of slices – we nearly didn't manage it all but forced it down like true British school children taught to finish what’s on our plate – and – of course – gelati. Photographs of food can never convey the flavour but, yum, again, and thrice yum.

Pizza Romana...So good I sacrificed my size to it

On the final night we wandered our way to Trastevere, across the Tiber, for a different vibe and type of square – not the massive stately piazzi with their grand churches and anonymous stone palaces but poky, tiny squares where there are bursts of bright flowers, old and new cars crushed into the non-existent parking options, and where you’re more likely to see someone’s washing hanging out of the window than be harassed to take a selfie or buy a wilting rose.

Trastevere - the Brooklyn of Roma?

We ate at Meridionale, another Trip Advisor find, after an almost unsuccessful email exchange where I tried to book dinner for 7 using email and misunderstood the reply – it was a ‘yes’ but we thought it was a ‘no’!

Prosecco chasers. Salute!

When prosecco chasers sent over, we already knew we were onto a winner, but here were our menu choices in this delightful, hidden gem: beef carpaccio with red radicchio and hazlenuts was delectable and huge, salmon carpaccio with tangerines and salad less impressive but juicy; spaghetti de l’nduja (spicy sausage) was spicy indeed and we were grateful for the rich but soothing familiar flavours of tonnarelli con cacia e pepe again…ahhh. No dessert here – far too full – but I can recommend the Poggiomaestro Toscana we drank with our meal, which was rich but not overbearing. A delight.

Andouille sausage pasta...spicy but nice

There must always be more to write about Rome, and there is, but with a full belly and happy heart I will leave it there for now and save the shopping and more for another post. A prossima! X