Fresh air and fun

Those of you who have been with me since the outset may recall that one of the stipulations we made ourselves when starting the hunt for a house here in MSP was to find one on a proper road. No more bouncing over potholes for us after living with them for all those years in Ramsbottom, we said. And what happened? We managed to find an even worse road, one that was not only subject to shifting hardcore and the vagaries of heavy downpours, but which was so steep that even the stouthearted quivered at the prospect of making an ascent.

A constant stream of vans and lorries last year while working on the house had done something to batter the surface into a resemblance of a decent track. Heavy rain and water deluging from the fields earlier this year, however, had left it in a rocky state. It being too much to hope that the Comune would take responsibility for sorting things out, we turned instead to our current hero, Loris, who, after his mercy dash last week to deal with the troublesome water pipe, reappeared on Tuesday with various machines to try to lick the road back into some sort of shape.

A great success he made of it too. He scraped away the uneven top layer, shifting some of it to make a channel down the side of the road and some to form a small rise to our driveway. With luck, this will encourage future rainfall past the drive rather then down it. He then unloaded a truckload of new hardcore and spread it over the road and driveway to make an even surface, devoid of cracks, dips, and bumps. As a result we can now drive up the road without being thrown all over the place like some deviant ride at Alton Towers.

That was about as exciting as the start of the week got, but things really hotted up when Thursday turned into an all action day. It started in the morning when, with July just a day away, we returned to Montegranaro to see the remarkably efficient lady at the insurance brokers. We had to wait till she dealt with the previous customer but when it was our turn out came a folder with all the necessary paperwork already sorted and waiting for action, without having to even ask our names. As RuPaul would say on his Drag Race: she is one fierce queen.

She dealt first with the car insurance, and we discovered that our Fiat Panda Cross was currently valued at the same price as we paid for it a year ago. We knew that it was not the most glamorous of cars when we bought it but that what it lacked in panache it more than made up for in reliability (Pandas are renowned and much sought after in Italy as cars that can go anywhere) but we never expected it to hold its value quite so staggeringly. This information softened the blow a little as our bill gradually increased, first of all when our annual medical insurance was added and then when the efficient lady asked if we had paid our road tax, as she could do that for us as well.

Road tax? Well, no. In true innocents abroad fashion and being used to the British system, it had never occurred to us that we had to do anything about it though we should really have known better. Here is another area where Italian bureaucracy lags behind the UK. The car was not only untaxed when we bought it but no one at Autopompei mentioned the fact. Imagine a British dealership allowing, or being allowed to allow, you to drive away on the Queen’s highway in an untaxed vehicle. Well, why had we not received any official communications about it? Ah, that is because, said the lady, they don’t bother to chase you until three years are up and then when they do they slap a hefty fine of 30% on you. Sounds like a jolly wheeze to squeeze out extra revenue to me. Anyway, thanks to our fabulous lady, we only had to pay a €5 fine for last year, so she added that together with two years’ tax to our running total.

Somewhat lighter in pocket, in the afternoon we took a ride over to Monte Vidon Corrado to see Terrenzio, the man who is making the new railings for the terrazzo. He’d called the previous evening to ask why we hadn’t been to check on how he was getting on. Because, Stephen explained, we trusted him and knew he would do a good job and that if there were a problem he would contact us. This, I’m afraid, wasn’t good enough. Italians, it seems, like to stick their oar in at every conceivable opportunity and our apparent lack of interest was tantamount to an insult. So off we went, where we found that indeed he was doing a very good job and that everything looked fabulous.

I’d hoped we would be able to pop in and pop out again but I had not factored in that Terrenzio would have lots of questions to ask about the gates, which he was about to start, a topic I would find far from riveting in English let alone when concentrating on trying to understand it in Italian. But this again seemed to irk Terrenzio, who detected disinterest on my part. He kept prompting Stephen to tell me all about the work and to ask me if I liked it. I repeatedly affirmed that I did, but not effusively enough to satisfy Terrenzio. Can I help it if my natural habitat is more akin to somewhere serving coffee and cake than a foundry? Eventually, after an hour or so and many assurances on our part, we were able to make our escape – let’s just hope he is now mollified and we can just leave him to get on with it.

When we got back, Stephen set about a bit of construction of his own when he erected his hammock in the newly hewed garden. He has been exercising himself about how best to soak up the rays and decided that a hammock was the answer as a sunbed would take up too much room on the terrazzo and maybe look out of place with the other furniture. Anyway, whilst I was preparing for my evening lesson with Irene, he slung the hammock onto its tubular frame and then decided to try it out, which is why, as I was just about set off to pick her up, I heard a vague, pathetic whimpering. On going round the back of the house and past the well to where Stephen had sited his new toy, I found him swaddled in the hammock, unable to get out. I’m sure I didn’t tut or raise my eyes to heaven, but rather gave some calm advice and, as I turned to leave, he was resting on the edge with feet securely on the ground. I took a couple of steps then looked back, only to see him topple backwards, arse over tit as they say, and end up sprawled on the floor. Maybe he needs to find a YouTube video with step-by-step instructions on how to use a hammock before he does himself or the garden serious damage.

There was a happy ending to the evening, however, as after my lesson we scooted down the autostrada to spend time in Civitanova with Computer Luca and further investigate the trendy area where he lives. After piadine (Italian flatbreads) we made a passeggiata along the main thoroughfare, stopping for ice cream, and then along the sea front looking for a place to have coffee and a little something. We drew a blank there, not spotting anywhere that appealed, and ended up at the bar in the square behind Luca’s apartment. This, as it turned out, was obviously the place to see and be seen for not only did we have a chat with my students, Rocco and Vittorio, who sauntered by at one point, but also after I checked in on Facebook my phone rang.

It was Laura, another student, whose partner Sergio had spotted my post. ‘Can you see us?’ she asked. ‘We’re the balcony with the flashing light. Elena’s here too.’ And indeed, when I turned round and looked up there was a flashing light and people waving enthusiastically. Well, what a small world it is, which was further proved when we drove home. Stephen was convinced he was being tailed by an unmarked police car but when he eventually stopped, in response to its flashing headlights, it turned out to be Maddalena. She’d been out for an end of term dinner and when she saw the green Panda knew it must be us. Besides, she said, only someone British would bother to indicate at that time of night.

The al fresco theme continued over the weekend when we christened our terrazzo furniture, first on Friday when Marco and Maddalena came for coffee and amaro after dinner and then this evening when they came officially, along with Maddalena’s sister, for dinner. Sandwiched between these two, last night we unleashed our inner machismo and went to Bar Chupito to watch Italy play Germany in their Euro 2016 match. Yes, I know, as someone who has no interest in and even less knowledge about football, this sounds like peculiar behaviour. It was not so much, however, the allure of the match itself but experiencing first hand the excitement of the average Italian male football fan watching a crucial international match – well, that and promised the barbecued sausage sandwiches.

In the event, it proved a disappointingly tame affair with the assembled pride of MSP manhood behaving in a very calm and measured way. During the whole of the first half there was barely the odd dismissive flick of the hand and a distinct lack of the fiery passion I’d always been led to believe manifested itself on these occasions. I blame the teams for this, for even I, a complete football ignoramus, could tell it was a dull game. We made our getaway at half time (well, the sausages had run out) and headed home for a spot of RuPaul’s Drag Race on Netflix – swapping one set of primped and primed prima donnas for another, but at least these ones were entertaining.

Mind you, while the Italy-Germany match might have been a damp squib, Saturday was a day of great celebration in the Firth-Webster household for an entirely different and wholly more important reason. Stephen finished first piece of upcycled shabby-chic furniture for our dressing room, which we brought up immediately and put into service. Now what is it they say on these occasions. Oh yes, that's right: get in!