Tag Archives: Relationship

A Band of Gold

When the Italian and I started to look at wedding rings he knew instantly that he wanted something Italian, traditional and durable. For him the choice was easy: a plain yellow gold band.

I on the other hand initially started out looking for all the flashy diamond bands: half bands, full bands, bands with filigree detail. I think I was so overcome at the absence of an engagement ring that I was trying to make up for it in the wedding band. How silly.

After walking inches off the Italians legs through Hatton Garden in London, I discovered that all the flashy bands didn’t suit me. And so plain Jane struck again, a simple gold band it was to be for me to.

However, on one of our wedding arranging trips to Italy, I was introduced to a jeweler in the Italian’s home town. He told me about Damiani. I fell in love. Their designs are so classic and understated yet elegant and pretty. Not at all plain.

Damiani are most famously known for being the wedding ring designer of choice for Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. Brad and Jen designed their own rings but Damiani controversially used the design without their permission (allegedly).

Although the rings didn’t hold much luck for Brad and Jen’s life time commitment, I wasn’t put off. I chose a simple gold band, squared at the edges, with one simple solitaire diamond embedded into the middle.

Here are a few pics I took of the latest Damiani collections on my last trip to Italy. You can also find them on my Pinterest board, La Mia Bella Matrimonio.

LOVE LOVE LOVE the Damiani bands!

And, if you’re going to have a diamond necklace, have a Damiani heart full of them!

Anyone for tennis….bracelet? Si Si SI!

Love diamonds, love Damiani!

Is your band of gold plain and simple?

*All fotos are mine



Posted by on September 13, 2012 in Italia


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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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Dates Gone Bad: Meeting The Italian

This is the final episode of Dates Gone Bad although this really wasn’t a date, more of a chance meeting that led to a date, that led to a proposal, that led to a lovely lovely wedding.

I’m kind of sad that my dating era is over because although I’ve had some great ones, most of them have been pretty shoddy and therefore highly amusing!

Anyway, I thought I would try to end this little series on a high note by telling you how I met my husband. I’m kind of setting the scene for the intro to the English/Italian mix that we’ve got going on.

I had been travelling with friends for over a year and when I had exhausted every last available penny, it was time to come home. As it was a last-minute decision, I had to give notice to the tenants that lived in my stamp sized apartment.

In the meantime I went to stay at a friend’s house whilst she was still in deepest darkest Peru.

One day, after trudging through every job agency known to man, I opened the front door only to be blinded by a cerise pink hue shining out from the living room. I was then deafened by screams, shouts and raucous laughter. What on earth was going on?

There he was. All tanned and dark, speaking at a billion decibels and waving his hands all over the place. There were ‘Madonnas’ and ‘mamma Mias’ being thrown in at any given opportunity. That explained it, he was Italian.

I had never been to Italy. I was never interested in it. I had no intention of going until I was at least a pensioner. There were far too many exotic countries to go to first and Italy was way down my list of priority visits.

He must be gay, I thought. Italian and gay. Loud, Italian and gay! Great, as if my day hadn’t been hectic enough. Only a gay, Italian gay man, would command that amount of attention in an empty room! I couldn’t be bothered with it.

I failed miserably to ignore the din coming from downstairs so went to introduce myself. “Ciaoooo! I’ma Gian Lucaaaa” he bellowed as though I was about ten miles away from him. (His name isn’t Gian Luca by the way, but it is something that requires a bit of a hand wave when pronounced!).

Once I had reassured him that I wasnt yet ready for a hearing aid, and he turned the volume down a notch, he was actually quite a nice guy – and not gay at all. How did I come to know he wasn’t gay?

Well, he was at the house visiting a girl he knew. She was living there. She was from Rome and she was extremely fortunate in the lady bump area. Gian Luca practically had his head buried in her cavernous cleavage for the best part of an hour whilst she was gossiping about someone they knew. A gay man wouldn’t do that, right? He barely came up for air!! No, definitely straight! Cerise pink, lots of it, but definitely straight!

Eventually, the girl from Rome took her chest to bed and I stayed up until the wee hours discovering that Gian Luca was actually a really nice guy. Nice. I hadn’t opted for “nice” men before but something about him was luring me in.

Before I knew it, it was 3am and Gian Luca had to leave. As I walked him to the door, he kissed me on both cheeks, rested his massive hand on my tiny shoulder and said “so’a I pick’a you up’a at’a eight I clock’a?”.

For what? When? The look on my face must have appeared confused. “You’a not’a doin’ anthin’a Saturday night’a eh? Then’a I pick’a you up’a, be’a ready, we ‘ava nice ‘a dinner. Ciao Bella!!”.

And with that he threw on his helmet, jumped on his Vespa and sped off into the night, his cerise pink t-shirt still glowing in the distance!

Come back next week to find out how the Italian nearly strangled me and gave me frost bite on our first date! Nothing ever goes according to plan!


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Dates Gone Bad: Posh Boy

Dates Gone Bad: Camel Mike 

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Posted by on May 13, 2012 in London


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