Not in Italy, Annie...

After the unmitigated excitement of Ferragosto, things have calmed down a little on the holiday front though there has been some significant progress with the house.

Yesterday saw work begin on joining up the wooden stakes, that Loris had hammered into the ground, to make a fence around three sides of the house. This is being carried out by Franco, to whom, I believe, you have not been introduced but who is fast turning into a DIY treasure. He is the partner of Anna, who works in the Stefoni household helping with the general cleaning and with Maria Luisa. Flavia suggested we consider him as, though most days he plies a trade with his mobile fruit and veg van, he is in fact a builder. We were a little wary of being obliged to hire someone with a family connection but after an initial chat with him at his house, which supplied copious evidence of his DIY capabilities, Stephen was convinced. What also suits is that because of his grocery commitments he is happy to fit in the various odd jobs we need doing on an ad hoc basis.

Monday was also the day we made a second trip to the Fisherman’s chalet at Lido di Fermo, one that we had been tricked into. Last week Samuel had asked if we wanted to join him and a few other people for dinner on Monday evening. We should have stopped to consider this carefully, but working on misguided assumptions and thinking it would be a relatively small affair, maybe at his house and maybe featuring tagliatelle, we said yes. What it turned out to be was another sixty plus gathering to eat seafood in its different guises.

This time there was even less I could eat, just bread, salad and some monkfish tails – to which I called a halt after three, even though various Stefonis kept appearing with them, worried that I would be going home hungry. It was a very pleasant evening, though, as twilight turned to night and people donned fleeces (well, it is the second half of August and the evening temperature fell to a chilly 21C) and we were able for once to sneak in before Romolo and actually cough up for our and the household’s meals. This is no mean feat; Italians are fiercely generous and Remo and Romolo particularly take it as an outrageous personal insult if someone else pays.

We ended the evening with a stroll though the street market that stretches along the extensive Lido di Fermo promenade, resisting the temptation to buy, knowing that the glamour of a warm night, crowded streets and incandescent lighting can make the most gaudy of goods seem irresistible.

Today gave us confirmation, if it were needed, of the still unreconstructed Italian male – which does not have anything to do with age. Whilst it is true that the older the man the less he has had to bother with anything domestic (Iron a shirt? Are you having a laugh? Take the rubbish out? Where’s the bin?) even the young males are still cosseted. Take Leaping Luca’s twin sons, Marco and Ricardo, 20 year old and both university students: while Flavia is happy to let Stephen and me wash the dishes, clear the table and sweep the floor after a meal, if either of the boys gives the slightest indication of helping, she immediately sends them out to sit on the patio and await a cup of coffee – and don’t even try to eat a meatball if they are present as she will chop your hand off.

So what of today’s evidence?

As Franco needed more support struts for the fencing we went to the general hardware and tools supply store in Rapagnano, which was like visiting Arkwright’s shop in ‘Open All Hours’ only without the stammer. The man who obviously ran the place, a mere youth of 70, was dealing with a customer, 80 if he was a day, who was holding court on the only chair in the place. He was not a happy man, as whatever the stripling tried to do to satisfy him that the replacement pickaxe head was a good fit the customer was having none of it – whether he was truly dissatisfied or just having too much fun giving the other man the run around and enjoying the craic, I’ll let you decide. I would add that if I am still able to wield a pick axe in my early 80s I’ll be a contented man, but seeing as it is not part of my current skill set, that is highly unlikely to happen.

The other incident occurred after dinner, when filled with holiday bonhomie, Remo, Romolo and Pierot decided to help clear away. This sounds like a good thing and progress for the female race, till you remember that they have no idea where anything goes or what to do. Still, it was a scene worthy of Laurel and Hardy watching Remo and Pierot trying to fold up the tablecloth, though in their defence it must be some four metres long (the kitchen table can seat 12 comfortably should the need arise) and Remo is vertically challenged even by Italian standards. They may have fared better had they managed to synchronise the direction of their folds and matched up the edges of the cloth. They did, at least, do better then Romolo, who on occasions will shake the cloth out over the veranda wall but then just dumps it on the table. Maybe in another twenty years he’ll learn how to fold it.

Now where did I leave my pickaxe…