fare fichi fichi
/fareh fiki fiki/
Verb phrase (slang) - English - 'to have sex'
*There are many ways to say 'to have sex' in Italian (like in English, I suppose) but fare fichi fichi is the one I've heard and it sounded the funniest. Not too sure why it's funny, maybe because the literal translation is like, to do figs figs (fichi is plural of fico which is a fig.. but then fica is a fanny.. haha so it could mean something else).
I've also seen it written like fiki fiki but I think fichi might be more correct.
So yeah, if someone asks you if you want to fare fichi fichi, they're not asking you if you want to grow some figs....
Thursday, 18 April 2013
Tuesday, 9 April 2013
Excited!
Eeeeeee I'm well excited! Heheh.
You know why?
My main man is coming tomorroooooowwww. Yeah budddyyyy!
For a whole week. Yesss.
It's like, exactly 36 hours away... maybe even less... Yayayay!
You know why?
My main man is coming tomorroooooowwww. Yeah budddyyyy!
For a whole week. Yesss.
It's like, exactly 36 hours away... maybe even less... Yayayay!
Monday, 8 April 2013
Italian Boys
Italian boys are by far a different breed. They're polite, yet bloody hell are they persistent. Oh ma gawwwhddd.
I was at Light Bar on saturday night, just chillin' with Mirko, his girlfriend and some Italian girls (literally, it was freeezing) and kind of awkwardly as my Italian isn't exactly fantastic and they're English is even worse. There was a group of Italian men by the bar and suddenly the bartender came over to me and Silvia and said to me,
"The boys by the bar, there, are talking. They think you are very beautiful."
"Oh, gee, thanks."
Kind of awkward. They're like thirty...
"You interested in them?" she said. I struggled not to make a disgusted face and shook my head.
"No, noooooo."
"Sono schifo..." Silvia said, in my defense. I agreed.
Eurgh the hauntings of creepy Roman italian men were creeping back up on me.
At the end of the night - which was pretty much a disaster; Discoteca Life was practically empty, there was barely anyone I knew (a handful of people I'd met the first time, but not many). Mirko's girlfriend had brought a friend with her who appeared not to know anyone from the rest of the group, and then got incredibly drunk and quickly became a limp spewing puppet who we had to look after.
Mirko explained to me that I was going to get a lift home with his friend Elvis (yes, seriously, this kid's name is Elvis), because he lives in Montu' (other people live in Montu'?!). Fair play, it is pretty far out from Broni.
While I was back outside the doors of Life with Martina and her friend, we somehow attracted a fog of italian boys around us. It was ridicuous. The first guy tried to offer me a lift home, and I politely declined, telling him I already had a lift with Elvis.
"Elvis? e' chi Elvis?"
"Elvis, l'amico di Mirko."
"Mirko?"
I was starting to feel like I'd been given a duff deal here, I mean, Elvis? Is this guy for real and actually called Elvis or what? But this other dude didn't know Mirko - he clearly did as we'd all been at Light Bar earlier, but anyway. I knew exactly why he wanted to give me a lift home, and I'd rather not.
Then there were like another four boys around us, asking me if I had a 'machine' (macchina = machine and car) and then offering me a lift home. To which, I politely declined again.
And then bloody another kid! Ah my days, it was crazy. It didn't matter how good-looking they were (they really weren't.. sorry guys), I was not going to accept a lift home with them! Sheesh, what part of no didn't they understand.
Finally, and thankfully, Mirko appeared and we left. I think he was a bit surprised to see me so pleased to see him, but I was just so thankful to get out of that pesting circle of Italian boys..
I did get home eventually, with Mirko and Elvis. Who is really called Elvis. Mad.
I was at Light Bar on saturday night, just chillin' with Mirko, his girlfriend and some Italian girls (literally, it was freeezing) and kind of awkwardly as my Italian isn't exactly fantastic and they're English is even worse. There was a group of Italian men by the bar and suddenly the bartender came over to me and Silvia and said to me,
"The boys by the bar, there, are talking. They think you are very beautiful."
"Oh, gee, thanks."
Kind of awkward. They're like thirty...
"You interested in them?" she said. I struggled not to make a disgusted face and shook my head.
"No, noooooo."
"Sono schifo..." Silvia said, in my defense. I agreed.
Eurgh the hauntings of creepy Roman italian men were creeping back up on me.
At the end of the night - which was pretty much a disaster; Discoteca Life was practically empty, there was barely anyone I knew (a handful of people I'd met the first time, but not many). Mirko's girlfriend had brought a friend with her who appeared not to know anyone from the rest of the group, and then got incredibly drunk and quickly became a limp spewing puppet who we had to look after.
Mirko explained to me that I was going to get a lift home with his friend Elvis (yes, seriously, this kid's name is Elvis), because he lives in Montu' (other people live in Montu'?!). Fair play, it is pretty far out from Broni.
While I was back outside the doors of Life with Martina and her friend, we somehow attracted a fog of italian boys around us. It was ridicuous. The first guy tried to offer me a lift home, and I politely declined, telling him I already had a lift with Elvis.
"Elvis? e' chi Elvis?"
"Elvis, l'amico di Mirko."
"Mirko?"
I was starting to feel like I'd been given a duff deal here, I mean, Elvis? Is this guy for real and actually called Elvis or what? But this other dude didn't know Mirko - he clearly did as we'd all been at Light Bar earlier, but anyway. I knew exactly why he wanted to give me a lift home, and I'd rather not.
Then there were like another four boys around us, asking me if I had a 'machine' (macchina = machine and car) and then offering me a lift home. To which, I politely declined again.
And then bloody another kid! Ah my days, it was crazy. It didn't matter how good-looking they were (they really weren't.. sorry guys), I was not going to accept a lift home with them! Sheesh, what part of no didn't they understand.
Finally, and thankfully, Mirko appeared and we left. I think he was a bit surprised to see me so pleased to see him, but I was just so thankful to get out of that pesting circle of Italian boys..
I did get home eventually, with Mirko and Elvis. Who is really called Elvis. Mad.
Sunday, 7 April 2013
Bit Of A Rant
I had a bit of a re-read over my last few posts and I noticed that they seem to be getting a little moany. I've just been having a bad week or two recently, I guess.
Okay, not a bad week really.
Although, the week when Clarissa had chicken pox was practically unbearable. She didn't go to school so she was at home all day every day - and that meant I practically had to work all day every day. And to top it off, it was cold and rainy every day of the week except Easter sunday, so for 7 days straight I did not leave the house. I didn't even step outside until sunday afternoon, and that was only onto the porch to wave goodbye to Giorgio's sister. I think that may have been one of the reasons I was feeling so poo.
Cooped up, tired of babysitting 24/7 and lacking fresh air and vitamin D. Ahaha who would have thought springtime Italy would be so abundant with rain?
I've been thinking, and I think I've put my finger on the problem. The trouble is, a lot of the time when Clarissa and I play together it's fine, and I do actually enjoy it. I mean, we make things, we go outside etc etc. But there are the times, or the 'episodes' where she is so frustratingly impossible to deal with and she winds me up a treat. It's these episodes that I dread and I fear it may be putting me off from going out of my way to spend time with her without being told to because I dread her going off on one.
It's got to the point where the other day I'm in my room and I hear Dominga and her get home from school downstairs. I know I should go down and be with her, but I just think to myself; give it five more minutes, that's five minutes less you'll have to be with her.
That sounds quite bad doesn't it. You're probably thinking why am I in this job if I can't stand to spend time with the child I'm supposed to be babysitting. It's not that I don't like Clarissa, most days I do. It's just there are quite a lot of days where she drives me potty and I just can't stand her.
Does that make me a bad person? I don't dislike children, they're cool and all that. I'm just not sure if I like never being able to get away from one. And maybe it's just Clarissa. Maybe it's because she's an only child, so she get's away with more than she should, and she's quite spoilt (I've never seen someone get so many toys when it's not their birthday!!). Or maybe it's just because she's Italian, and Italian parents bring up their children differently, and she's been influenced by Giorgio that I'm English and I'm different, in not necessarily a positive way.
Either way, the weather seems to be picking up now and even a sunny day full of gremlin-sitting can be a good day.
Okay, not a bad week really.
Although, the week when Clarissa had chicken pox was practically unbearable. She didn't go to school so she was at home all day every day - and that meant I practically had to work all day every day. And to top it off, it was cold and rainy every day of the week except Easter sunday, so for 7 days straight I did not leave the house. I didn't even step outside until sunday afternoon, and that was only onto the porch to wave goodbye to Giorgio's sister. I think that may have been one of the reasons I was feeling so poo.
Cooped up, tired of babysitting 24/7 and lacking fresh air and vitamin D. Ahaha who would have thought springtime Italy would be so abundant with rain?
I've been thinking, and I think I've put my finger on the problem. The trouble is, a lot of the time when Clarissa and I play together it's fine, and I do actually enjoy it. I mean, we make things, we go outside etc etc. But there are the times, or the 'episodes' where she is so frustratingly impossible to deal with and she winds me up a treat. It's these episodes that I dread and I fear it may be putting me off from going out of my way to spend time with her without being told to because I dread her going off on one.
It's got to the point where the other day I'm in my room and I hear Dominga and her get home from school downstairs. I know I should go down and be with her, but I just think to myself; give it five more minutes, that's five minutes less you'll have to be with her.
That sounds quite bad doesn't it. You're probably thinking why am I in this job if I can't stand to spend time with the child I'm supposed to be babysitting. It's not that I don't like Clarissa, most days I do. It's just there are quite a lot of days where she drives me potty and I just can't stand her.
Does that make me a bad person? I don't dislike children, they're cool and all that. I'm just not sure if I like never being able to get away from one. And maybe it's just Clarissa. Maybe it's because she's an only child, so she get's away with more than she should, and she's quite spoilt (I've never seen someone get so many toys when it's not their birthday!!). Or maybe it's just because she's Italian, and Italian parents bring up their children differently, and she's been influenced by Giorgio that I'm English and I'm different, in not necessarily a positive way.
Either way, the weather seems to be picking up now and even a sunny day full of gremlin-sitting can be a good day.
Saturday, 6 April 2013
(not so) Delizioso Desserts: Le Chiacchiere
le chiacchiere
/leh kiakiereh/
Noun - masc. plural - *Lit. 'the small talk'
When I first arrived in Italy, it was at the end of February which was near to the date of italian Carnevale, and around this time a lot of shops and cafes (and even supermarkets) start to sell desserts and cakes which are only really typically eaten around carnevale.
'Le Chiacchiere' are strips of like a crunchy hollow cracker-like cake, which is supposedly sweet but only really tastes of bugger all. The one I tried was drizzled with dark chocolate which didn't really make the experience any nicer, and was dry as a bone.
The literal translation means small talk, but I have no idea why.. and I think a more accurate translation should probably be cardboard because that's more like what it resembled eating.
Yeah, okay it wasn't unpleasant exactly, but it wasn't exactly very tasty. Mmm tasteless strips of 'sweet' flavourless cracker... yummm.
*When I was googling for a picture of this dessert (it wasn't exactly nice enough to take a picture of at the time...) I came across an unanswered wiki question: "Why do Italians eat chiacchiere?". Answer is, well, nobody knoooowwss.*
/leh kiakiereh/
Noun - masc. plural - *Lit. 'the small talk'
 |
| (courtesy of wikipedia for this appetising image...) |
When I first arrived in Italy, it was at the end of February which was near to the date of italian Carnevale, and around this time a lot of shops and cafes (and even supermarkets) start to sell desserts and cakes which are only really typically eaten around carnevale.
'Le Chiacchiere' are strips of like a crunchy hollow cracker-like cake, which is supposedly sweet but only really tastes of bugger all. The one I tried was drizzled with dark chocolate which didn't really make the experience any nicer, and was dry as a bone.
The literal translation means small talk, but I have no idea why.. and I think a more accurate translation should probably be cardboard because that's more like what it resembled eating.
Yeah, okay it wasn't unpleasant exactly, but it wasn't exactly very tasty. Mmm tasteless strips of 'sweet' flavourless cracker... yummm.
*When I was googling for a picture of this dessert (it wasn't exactly nice enough to take a picture of at the time...) I came across an unanswered wiki question: "Why do Italians eat chiacchiere?". Answer is, well, nobody knoooowwss.*
You're English
There's nothing wrong with being an English person staying in an Italian family. And it's not like the family isn't nice - they are, extremely. The only problem is, Giorgio makes it very evident how different English people are to Italians, and he states so.
To me, these differences aren't bad things and Giorgio doesn't exactly say that they're negative things, but he doesn't say that they're not, and he certainly doesn't say that they're a positive thing.
One in particular, is that English people speak quietly.
I mean, as far as I know, English people in general are not quietly spoken. At least that's what I think as an English person. But comparable to an Italian, yes, we are quieter, simply because Italians practically shout every word. (Even in close proximity I've noticed they still use outside voices). They're just generally louder I guess.
I don't personally think I'm softly spoken. I mean, I might be, maybe, I don't really know. I know I'm never the loudest person in the room, and sometimes I do speak quietly. But I don't whisper for christ sake.
Now, the problem isn't the fact that I'm softer spoken that the Casanova's. It's the fact that Giorgio broadcasts the fact 'English people speak quiet' so regularly and it's got into Clari's head.
You see, the other day Clari and I were making some paper windmills and paper hats and colouring them in etc. We were in a room on our own, with no background noise - no fairytale tape playing, no Giorgio and Dominga talking - and I asked her to do something.
She just ignored me, and then pretended she didn't hear because 'I spoke too quietly'.
Bullshite.
It really winds me up because I don't speak quietly to her, as she hears perfectly when she wants to. And she can even be looking at me full in the face when I'm speaking and just point blank ignore me, despite blatently hearing what I said - and even if she didn't - watching my lips move and knowing I'm talking to her.
Only she doesn't tell me she didn't hear, or ask me to repeat what I said, it's easier to just ignore me.
And it's all just thanks to Giorgio and his adamancy to state our differences.
To me, these differences aren't bad things and Giorgio doesn't exactly say that they're negative things, but he doesn't say that they're not, and he certainly doesn't say that they're a positive thing.
One in particular, is that English people speak quietly.
I mean, as far as I know, English people in general are not quietly spoken. At least that's what I think as an English person. But comparable to an Italian, yes, we are quieter, simply because Italians practically shout every word. (Even in close proximity I've noticed they still use outside voices). They're just generally louder I guess.
I don't personally think I'm softly spoken. I mean, I might be, maybe, I don't really know. I know I'm never the loudest person in the room, and sometimes I do speak quietly. But I don't whisper for christ sake.
Now, the problem isn't the fact that I'm softer spoken that the Casanova's. It's the fact that Giorgio broadcasts the fact 'English people speak quiet' so regularly and it's got into Clari's head.
You see, the other day Clari and I were making some paper windmills and paper hats and colouring them in etc. We were in a room on our own, with no background noise - no fairytale tape playing, no Giorgio and Dominga talking - and I asked her to do something.
She just ignored me, and then pretended she didn't hear because 'I spoke too quietly'.
Bullshite.
It really winds me up because I don't speak quietly to her, as she hears perfectly when she wants to. And she can even be looking at me full in the face when I'm speaking and just point blank ignore me, despite blatently hearing what I said - and even if she didn't - watching my lips move and knowing I'm talking to her.
Only she doesn't tell me she didn't hear, or ask me to repeat what I said, it's easier to just ignore me.
And it's all just thanks to Giorgio and his adamancy to state our differences.
"I Would Like To Marry A Girl"
We were having lunch the other day, and having a typical conversation over our pasta; today it happened to be the legalisation of gay marriage. (Deep conversations are pretty much the norm with Giorgio as anything else appears to be below him).
I explained that gay marriage was now legal in the UK, but only since very very recently. Clari asked me if girls could marry girls in the UK, to which I said yes.
"I would like that," she said.
"You would like to marry a girl?" Giorgio asked.
"Yes, I would like it to marry a girl."
Ah, the funny things children come out with.
I explained that gay marriage was now legal in the UK, but only since very very recently. Clari asked me if girls could marry girls in the UK, to which I said yes.
"I would like that," she said.
"You would like to marry a girl?" Giorgio asked.
"Yes, I would like it to marry a girl."
Ah, the funny things children come out with.
Wicked Word of the Week! - Meno Male
meno male
/menoh-maleh/
Expression - English - 'thank god, thank goodness'
*Literally, 'meno male' (sometimes written 'menomale') means 'less bad', which doesn't make any sense in this context. However, thank goodness? That doesn't really make sense in English so you can't literally translate them from either language.
"Mamma, ho trovato la mia scarpa." - "Oh meno male!"
"Mum, I've found my shoe." - "Oh thank goodness!"
/menoh-maleh/
Expression - English - 'thank god, thank goodness'
*Literally, 'meno male' (sometimes written 'menomale') means 'less bad', which doesn't make any sense in this context. However, thank goodness? That doesn't really make sense in English so you can't literally translate them from either language.
"Mamma, ho trovato la mia scarpa." - "Oh meno male!"
"Mum, I've found my shoe." - "Oh thank goodness!"
Wednesday, 3 April 2013
Lost In Translation
Most of the time, Clari and I get on. But there are times when she really can be so impossible I feel like pulling my hair out.
These 'episodes' usually revolve around her impatience and the fact I can't understand her when she's wailing.
Don't get me wrong, she's very good at English for someone her age - even someone a lot older than her I'd say - but she's no where near perfect, and even when she's talking normally it can be hard to understand what she's trying to say. So when she's bawling her head off and trying to shout at me in English, it is impossible to understand.
Take the other day for example (Giorgio and Dominga were out again), she was annoyed that I asked her to do something and I heard her muttering under her breath, most likely something not nice, so I asked her what she said.
"It's a secret."
"What did you say Clari?"
"I'm not going to say to you because it's a secret."
"Was it something not nice?"
"I will only say to you if you tell me one of your secrets."
"But I don't really have any secrets."
"Everyone has secrets. You must have some."
"Ok, well, I guess I have some, but I don't really know."
"Say me one of your secrets and I'll say to you what I was saying."
"But I don't really have any secrets, Clari."
"YOU JUST SAID YOU DID. YOU LIED!"
And this was just the beginning. The argument continued on her part for another five minutes and I generally don't know what it was about, because I just couldn't understand what she was saying. She was getting more and more angry, and getting louder and louder (as if bawling at a higher pitch would suddenly make me understand better). I was getting more and more to the end of my tether because she just was not listening to anything I was saying.
After 10 minutes, I went downstairs to cool off and lay the table for lunch. I invited Clari to help me but she is lazy and she couldn't be bothered. After a glass of water and five minutes of reflection, I went back upstairs. Dominga had sent me a text saying they weren't going to be back for lunch so we should go right ahead and eat anyway.
Clari was in bed, and I told her we had to go and grab some lunch as her mum and dad weren't going to be back in time. She got out of bed, visibly still fuming a little and then started to cry because she told me she was cold. She still had her pyjamas on so I told her if she got dressed she would warm up.
But then she started to get angry about getting dressed. And about putting on slippers to warm up her feet. And then at her wardrobe because I took out a jumper that was apparently 'too hot'. Literally, there was no winning.
At this point I no longer have a clue what she's angry about. She's angry because she doesn't get dressed from her wardrobe, her clothes are downstairs (although she decided not to tell until a good ten minutes into the bawling). She's then angry because she didn't choose the pile of clothes on the arm of the sofa. Then she's angry because she did choose them. She's then angry when I speak to her, and she's angry when I don't speak to her.
Eventually, after another five minutes of me just not responding to what she's saying (I can't understand her anyway, it just comes out like: BAHHS-MNCHSGA-YOOOOODJAD-BLUUURR!! she calms down and we go to get some lunch.
"This is the time of the four you letted me get angry. I'm going to tell my dad you have letted me get angry four times."
It's hard not to smile at. Especially the things she gets angry about. I mean, let's face it, she got angry at me this time because she was cold. Gosh, me and my temperature controlling talents eh.
It feels like she's exploded lots more times than that. But I reckon four times in five weeks is pretty good really. Seeing as though she's a lazy impatient spoilt stubborn six year old and I'm, well, I'm English.
These 'episodes' usually revolve around her impatience and the fact I can't understand her when she's wailing.
Don't get me wrong, she's very good at English for someone her age - even someone a lot older than her I'd say - but she's no where near perfect, and even when she's talking normally it can be hard to understand what she's trying to say. So when she's bawling her head off and trying to shout at me in English, it is impossible to understand.
Take the other day for example (Giorgio and Dominga were out again), she was annoyed that I asked her to do something and I heard her muttering under her breath, most likely something not nice, so I asked her what she said.
"It's a secret."
"What did you say Clari?"
"I'm not going to say to you because it's a secret."
"Was it something not nice?"
"I will only say to you if you tell me one of your secrets."
"But I don't really have any secrets."
"Everyone has secrets. You must have some."
"Ok, well, I guess I have some, but I don't really know."
"Say me one of your secrets and I'll say to you what I was saying."
"But I don't really have any secrets, Clari."
"YOU JUST SAID YOU DID. YOU LIED!"
And this was just the beginning. The argument continued on her part for another five minutes and I generally don't know what it was about, because I just couldn't understand what she was saying. She was getting more and more angry, and getting louder and louder (as if bawling at a higher pitch would suddenly make me understand better). I was getting more and more to the end of my tether because she just was not listening to anything I was saying.
After 10 minutes, I went downstairs to cool off and lay the table for lunch. I invited Clari to help me but she is lazy and she couldn't be bothered. After a glass of water and five minutes of reflection, I went back upstairs. Dominga had sent me a text saying they weren't going to be back for lunch so we should go right ahead and eat anyway.
Clari was in bed, and I told her we had to go and grab some lunch as her mum and dad weren't going to be back in time. She got out of bed, visibly still fuming a little and then started to cry because she told me she was cold. She still had her pyjamas on so I told her if she got dressed she would warm up.
But then she started to get angry about getting dressed. And about putting on slippers to warm up her feet. And then at her wardrobe because I took out a jumper that was apparently 'too hot'. Literally, there was no winning.
At this point I no longer have a clue what she's angry about. She's angry because she doesn't get dressed from her wardrobe, her clothes are downstairs (although she decided not to tell until a good ten minutes into the bawling). She's then angry because she didn't choose the pile of clothes on the arm of the sofa. Then she's angry because she did choose them. She's then angry when I speak to her, and she's angry when I don't speak to her.
Eventually, after another five minutes of me just not responding to what she's saying (I can't understand her anyway, it just comes out like: BAHHS-MNCHSGA-YOOOOODJAD-BLUUURR!! she calms down and we go to get some lunch.
"This is the time of the four you letted me get angry. I'm going to tell my dad you have letted me get angry four times."
It's hard not to smile at. Especially the things she gets angry about. I mean, let's face it, she got angry at me this time because she was cold. Gosh, me and my temperature controlling talents eh.
It feels like she's exploded lots more times than that. But I reckon four times in five weeks is pretty good really. Seeing as though she's a lazy impatient spoilt stubborn six year old and I'm, well, I'm English.
Monday, 1 April 2013
The Bidet Horror
bidet
/bidei/
Noun - m. singular (french of origin I believe)
For those who do not know, a bidet kind of looks like a toilet crossed with a basin, and sits on the floor of your bathroom. It looks like it's just a mini bath for babies.
I've got a feeling, although people have them in England (i've seen them every now and again) I've never really known anyone to use it, and I'm pretty sure we only have them to fill up empty bathroom space. I've never had one in the bathroom of a house I've lived in. In the rest of Europe, however, there seems to be a bidet in practically every bathroom.
I roughly know what they're used for, but i've never ever used one myself. They look more convenient for washing your feet in...
The morning started off well; Clari and I were playing lego in her room. Giorgio and Dominga had gone to the supermarket in the morning (although it somehow took them 5 hours....) so it was just me and Clari in the house.
Suddenly she stands up and says to me:
"I need to do something."
"Okay," I said, "What is it?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
"Okay... Well go on then."
"You have to come."
"What is it?"
"I don't going to tell you. It starts with P."
I paused, trying to think of what she could be on about. She does this all the time and for all I knew it could be an italian word beginning with P and I'd have no idea at all.
"Come," she said, pulling on my sleeve. I stood up.
"Close your eyes." Slightly odd, but not unusual Clari behaviour.
Peeking through my eyelids I watched as she led me into the bathroom.
"Close them!"
I then heard her shut the door and drag the wicker washing basket in front of it to block me from getting out.
This was quite weird.
I opened my eyes as she ran over to the toilet and taking her trousers off entirely, she sat on it.
Now this wasn't really unusual for her (okay, the barring me in was slightly unnerving..) but she usually wants me to stay in the bathroom when she went to the toilet because she's scared of being in the bathroom and going on her own. I heard a plop plop plop. Well, this is awks....
"Come here."
I was stood on the otherside of the bathroom and I was pretty comfortable where I was.
"Why?"
"Come here." She got off the toilet and flushed it. Then just stood there. "You need to wash me."
I stood still. I stared at the toilet roll that was sitting on the window sill next to the toilet, untouched.
"What?" I asked. She went over to the small basin/bath thing - the bidet - and hovered there.
"I'm sorry Clari but I have no idea what you're on about. What do you want me to do?"
"You make the water come, then wait for cold to hot. I sit here and you wash me with your hand. Turn off water and then you go wash your hands."
Oh heeeeelll no. I froze, visions of my hands covered in runny six year old poo. Eurgh. My brain desperately grabbing at straws: what can I do what can I do must find a way out of this...
I pointed to the toilet roll behind her.
"So what do you use that for?" I asked hopefully. She shrugged.
"I don't know.. things."
Oh gahd. There seemed no way out.
I edged over to the bidet and turned on the tap. I waited. The warm water didn't come.
"The warm water's not coming," I told her.
"That's okay," she said sitting over the bowl, " You can use cold."
Like an idiot, I use my hand to channel the water and splash it onto her, taking serious care there was no hand-pooeybottom contact. I'm not squeamish, but there's just something about this six year old that makes me grimace. Finally, I hear the long-awaited words:
"I'm clean."
Ahhhhh thank the lord. I feared more rigorous cleaning might have to be in order, but I got away with a lucky escape. She got up and dried her bum with a towel, inspecting it before she put it back.
I don't think I've got out of a bathroom quicker.
* * * *
For those of you in doubt or just plain immature like me (heheh), here is a video 'How To Use A Bidet' - or rather, how to use a b'day.
/bidei/
Noun - m. singular (french of origin I believe)
For those who do not know, a bidet kind of looks like a toilet crossed with a basin, and sits on the floor of your bathroom. It looks like it's just a mini bath for babies.
I've got a feeling, although people have them in England (i've seen them every now and again) I've never really known anyone to use it, and I'm pretty sure we only have them to fill up empty bathroom space. I've never had one in the bathroom of a house I've lived in. In the rest of Europe, however, there seems to be a bidet in practically every bathroom.
I roughly know what they're used for, but i've never ever used one myself. They look more convenient for washing your feet in...
The morning started off well; Clari and I were playing lego in her room. Giorgio and Dominga had gone to the supermarket in the morning (although it somehow took them 5 hours....) so it was just me and Clari in the house.
Suddenly she stands up and says to me:
"I need to do something."
"Okay," I said, "What is it?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
"Okay... Well go on then."
"You have to come."
"What is it?"
"I don't going to tell you. It starts with P."
I paused, trying to think of what she could be on about. She does this all the time and for all I knew it could be an italian word beginning with P and I'd have no idea at all.
"Come," she said, pulling on my sleeve. I stood up.
"Close your eyes." Slightly odd, but not unusual Clari behaviour.
Peeking through my eyelids I watched as she led me into the bathroom.
"Close them!"
I then heard her shut the door and drag the wicker washing basket in front of it to block me from getting out.
This was quite weird.
I opened my eyes as she ran over to the toilet and taking her trousers off entirely, she sat on it.
Now this wasn't really unusual for her (okay, the barring me in was slightly unnerving..) but she usually wants me to stay in the bathroom when she went to the toilet because she's scared of being in the bathroom and going on her own. I heard a plop plop plop. Well, this is awks....
"Come here."
I was stood on the otherside of the bathroom and I was pretty comfortable where I was.
"Why?"
"Come here." She got off the toilet and flushed it. Then just stood there. "You need to wash me."
I stood still. I stared at the toilet roll that was sitting on the window sill next to the toilet, untouched.
"What?" I asked. She went over to the small basin/bath thing - the bidet - and hovered there.
"I'm sorry Clari but I have no idea what you're on about. What do you want me to do?"
"You make the water come, then wait for cold to hot. I sit here and you wash me with your hand. Turn off water and then you go wash your hands."
Oh heeeeelll no. I froze, visions of my hands covered in runny six year old poo. Eurgh. My brain desperately grabbing at straws: what can I do what can I do must find a way out of this...
I pointed to the toilet roll behind her.
"So what do you use that for?" I asked hopefully. She shrugged.
"I don't know.. things."
Oh gahd. There seemed no way out.
I edged over to the bidet and turned on the tap. I waited. The warm water didn't come.
"The warm water's not coming," I told her.
"That's okay," she said sitting over the bowl, " You can use cold."
Like an idiot, I use my hand to channel the water and splash it onto her, taking serious care there was no hand-pooeybottom contact. I'm not squeamish, but there's just something about this six year old that makes me grimace. Finally, I hear the long-awaited words:
"I'm clean."
Ahhhhh thank the lord. I feared more rigorous cleaning might have to be in order, but I got away with a lucky escape. She got up and dried her bum with a towel, inspecting it before she put it back.
I don't think I've got out of a bathroom quicker.
* * * *
For those of you in doubt or just plain immature like me (heheh), here is a video 'How To Use A Bidet' - or rather, how to use a b'day.
Delizioso Desserts: Cannoli
cannoli
/can'noli/
Noun - m. plural. Singular. 'cannolo'
Cannoli are tube-shaped shells of fried pastry dough, filled with a sweet creamy filling made with ricotta whipped with icing sugar until it's sweet and smooth. The pastry tastes a little bit like the cornetto icecream cones (the thick squared ones) and the one I tried had a milk chocolate coating on the inside.
They are loooovely, albeit quite filling and it feels weird knowing you're eating ricotta cheese but it just tastes like sweetened cake cream...
They originally come from Sicily, where they are sometimes called cannolu, which means 'little tube'. They can also range in size; from a cannulicchi which is no bigger than a finger, to the fist-sized portions typically found south of Palermo (and also the one I had.. heheh).
They're also often garnished with something, like some candied orange peel, a glacee cherry or some chocolate chips. Mmm mmm...
/can'noli/
Noun - m. plural. Singular. 'cannolo'
 |
| (image courtesy of wikipedia, because I ate it before I could take a photo again...) |
Cannoli are tube-shaped shells of fried pastry dough, filled with a sweet creamy filling made with ricotta whipped with icing sugar until it's sweet and smooth. The pastry tastes a little bit like the cornetto icecream cones (the thick squared ones) and the one I tried had a milk chocolate coating on the inside.
They are loooovely, albeit quite filling and it feels weird knowing you're eating ricotta cheese but it just tastes like sweetened cake cream...
They originally come from Sicily, where they are sometimes called cannolu, which means 'little tube'. They can also range in size; from a cannulicchi which is no bigger than a finger, to the fist-sized portions typically found south of Palermo (and also the one I had.. heheh).
They're also often garnished with something, like some candied orange peel, a glacee cherry or some chocolate chips. Mmm mmm...
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