Tag Archives: Italian language

When Stockings aren’t Sexy!

On our return flight from Italy last weekend, the Italian, again, booked me in for wheelchair assistance.

It was once we had passed controls and had been taken through all the secret passage ways of the airport to reach the gate that the Italian asked me “Amore, hav’a you got ur’a stockings on?”.

The assistant shot us a glance. I had forgotten to put on my DVT (Deep Vein Thrombosis) tights under my leggings which was one of my GPs conditions of flying so late into the pregnancy. I nodded a no.

Once the wheelchair was settled in pride of place at the front of the queue, the Italian parked Bambina in her pram next to me. He then started shuffling in the bag and pulled out one rolled up pair of DVTs.

“No!” I whispered to him “I can’t put them on now, I can’t reach my knees let alone my feet! AND I haven’t shaved my legs for about two weeks!”.

As fast as I could blink the Italian had whipped my shoe off and had the right leg of my legging rolled up. Now, anyone who’s ever worn DVTs will know that they are massively restricting and not that easy to get on.

As the Italian struggled to get the first stocking over my toes, I noticed that the two ladies sitting in priority boarding opposite us were breaking out into fits of giggles. Obviously this made me laugh and the Italian struggled even more.

Once the tight stocking was forced over the toes, the Italian went into combat with the swollen ankle! Once passed that, he took in a deep gasp of air and forced the rest of the stocking up my leg before pulling down my legging and replacing the shoe. He let out a gasp.

At this point the two ladies were in hysterics and I could hardly see for the tears streaming down my face. Bambina was joining in with the comedy by providing her I don’t know what you’re laughing at but ill provide a fake one just to join in! type of laugh.

As the Italian lifted the left leg of my leggings, with the second DVT stocking in his hand, he turned to the two ladies and said “I can’a see’a the headlines’a now: DVTs save heavily pregnant woman from clots while husband dies of a heart attack from putting them on!!”.

As I squirmed my second swollen ankle into the stocking, the Italian gave a final heave-ho and it was done! Battle won. Game over.

Have you had any embarrassing flight tales? Do share.


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Posted by on November 3, 2012 in London


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Bambina Mia


We have just returned from a rushed weekend to Italy to bring my mother in law home from hospital.

At 30 weeks pregnant I had to get a medical certificate to fly but thankfully everything was ok. I had contemplated not going at all but how could I not, under the circumstances?

Anyway, enough of the dreary tone.

The Italian booked me wheelchair assistance as our flight out was at 6.30am. What a genius idea! It worked a treat and is actually a service provided by Ryanair. We were taken straight through controls and escorted all the way to the aeroplane steps. Brilliant!

Having woken Bambina from her slumber at 4am I half expected her to have a tired tantrum or two. No. She was a delight. She sat in her pram just watching the early morning world go by. She didn’t utter a word or a groan.

As we were boarding the plane, Bambina got excited and squealed at the sight of having her own seat belt and pull down tray. I was so proud of her, so well behaved.

She sat on the Italian’s knee for take off, all buckled up and holding on tight. As the engine roared and the plane took flight, her little green eyes looked at me to confirm everything was ok. I smiled a reassuring glance and she happily nestled her head of curls into daddies chest, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

She woke up when the captain announced our decent. The lady that was sat behind the Italian tapped him on the shoulder to tell him what a wonderfully behaved baby we have. She was amazed at how Bambina hadn’t created one ounce of fuss. The Italian beamed and rewarded his good girl with a big kiss on the forehead.

It’s a lovely feeling when strangers pass comment on how wonderful your child is. It makes me/us feel like we’re not doing that bad a job of raising a good little person. I couldn’t have been happier that my little Bambina Mia had taken the early bird flight in her stride and as always adjusted to her surroundings. She’s just amazing!

Grazie Bambina for being absolutely adorable… Mamma loves you!

What things do your little ones do that just melt your heart? Do share.



Posted by on October 28, 2012 in London


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The Italian: A Horses Head in my Bed #2

It had been days that I had been able to keep up the facade. I ignored the Italian’s calls and purposefully didn’t return them. I deleted his texts. I gathered his belongings and packed them into a bag.

“What are’a you’a doin’a? You’a been’a stupid’a girl’a now eh?!” he said “answer your’a bloody’a phone’a!!”

After about a week, I took the cowards option again and text him to tell him to come to the flat and collect his things. Five minutes, in and out. Job done.

Having never dated a foreigner before, I was in for a shock.

He was persistent. He arrived, as usual, on time. I could tell he had made an extra effort with his appearance; nice shirt, his best jeans, aftershave.

“Now’a sit’a down’a ere’a an’ tell me’a what the hell’a you’a doin'” he said as he patted the sofa with his Mediterranean tanned, perfectly manicured yet masculine hand.

The “chat” began. He basically lectured me into understanding that if I had a problem with space, I should have told him. If I had a problem with him, I should have told him. If I had a problem being in a relationship, I should have told him. “How’a can’a we jump’a over buildings’a if’a we don’ta talk it?”.

Hurdles. You mean jump over hurdles. Talk about it, not talk it.

I listened. I argued. I explained. This was all going way too fast for me. Only a few months previous I had been free and single and actually loving it. I wasn’t ready for this. The staying over was one thing but staying over permanently was another.

To my surprise, the Italian was, as ever, accommodating. This laid back Mediterranean attitude was new to me. An Englishman would have long stormed out. The Italian, however, was strategically fighting his corner. I couldn’t help but be a tiny bit impressed.

“Guarda” (Look), he said. “You’a like’a me, I’a think’a you’re a not’a that bad’a, you either’a go’a out’a with me’a, or’a you don’t a”. I couldn’t help, again, but be impressed with his candid frankness. “But’a I’a tell’a you this a’now, I’a not puttin’a up with this rabbish, you’a not’a twelve’a eh?!”.

That told me. He wasn’t finished.

“I’a think’a that we ‘av’a good thing ‘ere’a. Now, dont’a you’a look’a ‘orse in Its’a mouth’a to count’a all Its’a teeth’a! Ok?!”.

Don’t look a horse in its mouth to count all it’s teeth?? After an enormous fit if giggles at how stupid he sounded I realised he was telling me that as we had a good thing, I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and just accept things as they were.

I did accept things and I stayed with him. I gave it a shot and with a bit more communication and a lot of patience, we both settled into our new circumstances.

It wasn’t before long that the very thing I had been running from happened.

The Italian moved in officially and that was that. I had committed to having his horse’s head on the pillow next to me forever more but promised never to look in his mouth to count his teeth!


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Posted by on July 20, 2012 in London


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The Italian: A Horses Head in my Bed #1

When I had returned from traveling, my flat was rented to tenants so I had to wait for their contract to end before I could move back in.

In the meantime, I was renting a room in a house, where I met the Italian who was visiting someone, that belonged to a friend. After a series of ‘you can’t do that’ and ‘you can’t do this’ arguments with the “managers” of the house, I decided to leave.

I moved into a shirt let studio flat about three months after starting my thing with the Italian and finally, adored what was going to be my own space. Wrong.

Obviously having our freedom at last was a great thing fit me and the Italian but after about a week, I realised that he hadn’t been home. Piles of his clothes had started to congregate in corners and he had accumulated more toiletries in the bathroom than me! I started to get cold feet.

Only a few months previous I had been downing cocktails in posh Sydney bars, kayaking in Laos and eating BBQ’d crickets in Cambodia. Now, here I was cohabiting with an Italian man, living in a bedsit and thinking ‘wooah, this isn’t what I signed up for!”.

The Italian did all the right things; called when he said would, always turned up on time, cooked me amazing dinners. It just wasn’t working for me.

I tried to approach the subject but I took the cowards way out and just started either being nasty to him or just ignoring him altogether. That’s what guys do, right? Turn on the Marty do that you get annoyed and end up calling it off.

One day, I woke up to the Italians main laying on the pillow next to me and everything started to close in. Breathe, breathe I told myself. Take one deep breathe, get up, get washed and leave.

I went to work that day with the decision made: OVER.  It was over.



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Posted by on July 18, 2012 in London


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England v. Italy

Our house is England v. Italy every day.  I like tea, he likes coffee.  I like mash, he likes pasta.  I’m a good driver *honestly*. He’s a crazy Italian driver.  The list of our differences is endless.  The biggest difference, obviously, is the allegiance to one’s country.

As we led up to the England v. Italy match this week, so many people have asked me “so, who will you be supporting on Sunday?”.  This comment, every time, was met with a squinty eyed, creased forehead scowl.  Which country will I be supporting? Are you serious? I’m “married” to an Italian.  I’m not Italian.  I’m ENGLISH.  So, I reckon I’ll be supporting ENGLAND.  More to the point, not only I am English, I am Liverpudlian! Football is in my soul.  I was brought up to live, eat and breathe You’ll Never Walk Alone until I was eighteen years old.  Yes, that does make me “a red”, not “a blue” and in that also, my allegiance is never-failing.

Tonight, as my second home plays my real home, there is no question in my mind where my loyalty lies – and on this occasion only, my loyalty is not with my husband! Forget matrimony – tonight, I’m Steven Gerard, I’m married to my team!

As much as I love Italy; the food, the beaches, the fashion, I’m afraid to say that their national team is absolutely unfortunate looking, facially.  I mean, I might have been drip fed LFC as a child but I am female after all and if I’m honest, I know more about mens legs than I do about the off-side rule.  The Italian team is so unfortunate looking.  Therefore, they lose on two counts: England are going to win, fact.  England are better looking, fact.  Controversial but true.

So, as Bambina lays asleep in her cot after me having eased her out of a 38 temperature, the Italian has sworn his allegiance to his country by going to a friend’s house to wave his hands repeatedly and shout obscenities at my men at every given chance.  I’m glad he’s out.

Oops, half time. Must go make myself a nice cup of Early Grey.  Long live the Queen.  It’s good to be British.

C’mon England!!!





Posted by on June 24, 2012 in Uncategorized


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The Italian Job


Italians only work for nine months of the year. Discuss.

I often have to endure relentless whining and moaning from the Italian about how cold and wet it is in England and how hot and dry it is in Italy.

My response every time is “go back to Italy if you don’t like it here!”.

Obviously we have spoken about a potential, permanent move to il bel Paese (The Beautiful Country) as Italians like to call their homeland. However, there are no jobs. This whole business about the state of Italy’s economy and it’s involvement in the collapse of the euro zone only proves that jobs are scarce and general living, as in most European countries, is hard and expensive.

Yet, when I read an article in The Telegraph recently, my head spun and I suddenly pictured myself with my little famiglia, on the beach, for three months of the year. How so you may ponder?

Well, according to a junior economy minster, Gianfranco Polillo, the average Italian only works for nine months of the year while pretty much the whole of Italy religiously takes off the month of August. This is as well as, for the luckier and richer Italians, “Una Settimana Bianca” (White Week) when they down tools to go skiing. Meanwhile, we Brits have to make do with a few measly rainy grey bank holidays! Where’s the justice?

I must mention though that this study was carried out amongst factory workers only. Not that I’m knocking it because these days a job is a job no matter where you live but if I worked in a factory I would want three months off too! Not least, if I worked in a factory and lived in a country full of gorgeous golden beaches, bright blue sea, amazing food and constant summer sunshine without a hint of grey, I would absolutely want three months off! Why the heck not.

While the economic climate, like most of us, has forced Italians to spend less and not travel abroad, the incentive to work more just isn’t there. Polillo claims that the nation has “become accustomed to leisure” and suggests that if the nation gives up just one week of holiday per year, GDP could be boosted by one percent.

I can see the factory workers all rushing to hand over their sun loungers now!

In the region of Friuli Giuliani Venezia, where the Italian is from, factories are plentiful. Yes its near Venice, yes there are vineyards and mountains and all things pretty but there is another side. Rows and rows of industrial , streets show casing its factory made wares. There is Electrolux that makes AEG, Zanussi and Indesit fridges, washing machines and tumble driers. There is Ideal Standard that make toilet systens and basins and there is Jacuzzi that make, well, jacuzzi’s.

Could you stand making washing machines or toilet parts for nine months of the year if it meant you could relax and sunbathe for the other three months? I’m actually not that sure that I could. Would I be totally brain-dead from boredom? Having worked at Electrolux himself in his younger days, the Italian tells me that the factory jobs are quite well paid and he isn’t surprised that people can afford to take so much time off but I just don’t see us assembling the latest 8kg machine drum for a living.

Perhaps I have to wait for Signore Polillo to carry out a study on more professional jobs that will allow me three months on the beach and a week of skiing! Then, and only then, will the Italian consider moving to Il Bel Paese.


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Posted by on June 20, 2012 in London


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Bambina’s Battles

Bambina had her first cat fight.

What actually happened was that she was attacked, right before my eyes.

We arrived at our local library just in time for nursery rhymes and found ourselves a comfortable spot close to the singer. I was sat on the floor with my legs crossed, Bambina perched in the well as though sat on her throne.

She was wearing a Hello Kitty! clip in her hair and it was this that I think attracted the attention of Lara.

Lara, an eighteen month old, was there with her twenty-something ‘im-more-interested-in-applying-a-billionth-stroke-of-mascara-to-my-fake-lashes’ mother. Lara was working her way through the baby crowd whilst her mummy titillated her face, paying no attention to her.

As Lara approached us I said hello as she stretched out a hand to stroke Bambina’s face. Yet, with one fell swoop, she hooked a finger in Bambina’s mouth and yanked her top lip! Bambina let out an almighty scream which startled Lara’s mummy into looking up from her compact mirror to see what the commotion was.

Lara, feeling the glare of her mummy’s eyes through the buckets of Rimmel weighing them down, turned to see what, if any, would be the consequence of her actions. None.

I was astounded! Before I had chance to beckon the mother to come constrain her child, Lara slapped Bambina across the face!!

With that, the Liverpudlian in me kicked in, the veins filled with venom and through gritted teeth and squinted eyes, I yelled at Lara’s mother from the across the room “I think you should put your make up bag down and come remove your unruly child!”.

Bambina, still screaming, clung on to my neck for dear life. Lara’s mother came over to view the damage and instead of apologising merely asked Lara in her mousiest voice possible “why did you do that baby?”.

I was half livid that someone, another baby, treat my daughter like that, and half aware of not to show myself up as a screaming fishwife in front of the other mummies who sat looking on in bewilderment at what had just happened.

The whole thing took about twenty seconds and then was over. I still don’t know if I was more astonished at Lara’s outburst or at her mothers refusal to acknowledge it.

Later as I was recounting the tale to the Italian, he told me “you’a jus’a wait till’a she’s start’a school’a!”.

That’s it. I’m going to have to enrol her in a martial arts class ASAP so that she can karate chop her way out of lip pulling and face slapping by the time she’s two!

That’s the moral of the story isn’t it – it will, without a doubt, happen again.

Has this happened to any of your children? How did you approach the culprits parent without looking and sounding like wailing banshee? How do you encourage your child to stick up for themselves without teaching them aggression?

I would love to hear your stories, drop me a line!


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Posted by on June 12, 2012 in London


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