Can you hear me, mother?

Another week passes and another week without the benefit of mass communications. Whilst this might, at times, be a bit irksome (like when we can’t get our nightly Netflix fix), it’s also a salutary reminder that life can actually carry on reasonably happily without frequent injections of social media interaction. Who knows, if this state of affairs carries on much longer we might even be forced into such drastic action as actually talking to each other, as in the good old days.

Our attempts to contact TIM and log our problem were not helped on Monday when, for the second time this month, I dropped Stephen off at Civitanova station, thus absenting our first line of attack. He was headed for Milan again, this time for Linea Pelle, the autumn incarnation of the leather and accessories trade show. He left me with instructions on how, using my mobile, to phone TIM and which buttons to press when connected with the automatic menu. After my third fruitless attempt I contacted Stephen, who manfully took the baton and managed (he claimed) to leave my number for a call back.

When no call back materialised, despite Stephen trying a second time later that day, we threw ourselves on the kindness, once again of Computer Luca, who proved what a hero he is when he forwent a trip to Sarnano, a spa town some 40 kilometres southwest of here nestling in the Sibillini mountains. He had earmarked Monday evening for a trip there to take the waters, or rather the steam thereof, to help ease his sinuses, but willingly put aside his own good for the sake of ours. At least it seemed worth his sacrifice as, within minutes of his arrival, he had navigated the complex telephone menu and managed to speak with a live person.

Mind you, he might have got there more quickly if TIM had not tried its best to divert him to other means of communicating with them. Firstly they suggested we access them online, so how was that going to happen, with no phone line and no Internet connection? Their second suggestion was to use the TIM app, which Luca had tried to download onto my phone last Thursday on our trip to Cuore Adriatico. This had proved impossible because, whilst my phone was bought in Italy and the SIM card is for an Italian company, my Apple account is registered in the UK so it won’t accept it. So much for diversity.

Anyway, to cut to the chase, the nice lady he spoke to said that someone would come and look at it the next day, which of course they didn’t. What I did happen, though, was an unexpected brush with nature when, on returning from afternoon playtime with Bella and Harry in the garden, I saw Harry at the top of the steps, head down and to one side, looking quizzical. What he was examining turned out to be the still frantically wriggling tail from one of our many geckos, which must have been shed in panic moments before. Now you may think I was being unnecessarily squeamish, but no way was I going to touch 8cm of writhing, scaly flesh; instead I flicked it with the toe of my shoe, whereupon it bounced down the steps, finishing two from the bottom, still squirming. From here it took another couple of shots to get it into the garden where, even though its twisting showed no signs of abating, it was at least hidden in the grass, allowing me the comfort of it being out of sight and therefore out of mind.

The next day brought two more visitors, both of whom, I’m pleased to say, were considerably more welcome than a bodiless appendage. The first of these was Stephen’s associate, Chris, who returned with him from Milan for an overnight stay with us before flying back to Stansted on Thursday. I collected the pair at Civitanova station, managing to squeeze in a quick caffè, and then it was back to LCDDB for a simple lunch of bread, cheese and salumi. Stephen and Chris subsequently spent a happy afternoon at the factory, discussing the sorts of things that people involved with shoes are wont to discuss.

It was while this was going on that I had my second visitor, a man from TIM – and a very charming man he was too, even trying to help me out by speaking in English during his initial call to check that someone was at home. When he arrived, he examined the phone socket and the internal junction box, waving a small electronic device at the latter, very much in the manner of Doctor Who brandishing his sonic screwdriver. Unlike an intervention by a passing Time Lord, however, the modem failed to burst into life and so Mr Engineer went off up the hill to examine the phone line.

Some time later, his white Fiat hatchback finished its slow progress down the hill, coming to a stop at the corner of the road and driveway. He leaned out of the car, looked up at the top of the pole, then got out and hailed me to join him. Pointing, he indicated the problem: the line had, indeed, broken again, but this time, in an attempt to fool us, it hadn’t snapped completely. Only half of the wire had come apart, which explained the light on the modem showing a line but its inability to make a DSL connection. Mr Engineer was very jolly about the whole thing, probably because he knew he couldn’t do anything there and then as it required two workers to fix the problem and so he would be able to get home early. I bemoaned the fact that this was the third time it had broken, something that he already knew as, he said, he’d been told so, while at the top of the road, by a man with a dog – the local news service known as Radio Luigi, no doubt.

After calling up to report the broken line, Mr Engineer said that someone would be out to fix it either the next day or the day after. In his opinion, he added, the problem was that the lines were too tight and they needed a bit of slack, the shape of which he emphasised by rubbing his hand over the slight protuberance of his stomach and flashing a cheeky smile into the bargain. Well, we already knew they were too taut because when we had the line reinstated at the start of the year, the engineer then didn’t actually have enough wire and had to stretch it to reach the house; ‘Don’t spoil the ship for a ha’penth of tar,’ may be an adage that TIM could be advised to take up. There was little left for my new friend to do but shake my hand and smile winningly once again, which somehow managed to leave me feeling indebted to him for all his time and effort, even though we were no better off. How is it that Italian men manage to exude such charm that, even when executing a nifty sidestep to avoid any responsibility, you feel sublimely grateful to them for just being there? I blame their mothers.

Thursday dawned bright and clear, and was a notable day for reasons unconnected with TIM, because, needless to say, no workmen appeared. The first reason was the delivery in the afternoon of our firewood. We’d been told that they would unload the containers and then transport them to where we wanted them (in our case, the downstairs ex-Chinese kitchen and future en-suite guest accommodation). We should have known, of course, that it wouldn’t be that simple. While they were able to offload the wood easily enough, the size of the gateway at the far side of the house was not sufficiently wide to allow their trolley cart to pass through. Still, as the weather was set fair there was no need to panic and Stephen had plenty of time over the next couple of days to ferry the logs in his wheelbarrow. I have to say here that I did offer to help, but he declined, saying that I had more important things to do, which indeed I had, once I remembered what they were.

The second reason was that Thursday was my birthday, and to celebrate Stephen took me for a night on the town. Well, maybe not quite that, having forsaken such things years. He did, though, take me into Civitanova, where we enjoyed aperitivo at La Ternana, a chic wine and cocktail bar, before dinner at Loft 112, a very un-Italian restaurant and coffee bar, which is about as alternative as downtown CM gets. We can heartily recommend their burgers (we had chicken and bacon with those chips like scopes that allow you to get plenty of ketchup on them) and the whole evening was lovely. Thank you, Stephen.

Friday came and went, still with neither hide nor hair of the promised brace of TIM engineers and so Stephen gave them another ring yesterday morning, drafting in, yet again, the assistance of Computer Luca. This in itself added an elegant variation to the proceedings as, at the time, Luca was on the train travelling to Florence for the weekend, while Stephen was using his own mobile to talk to Luca and phoning TIM on mine. It was here Stephen discovered that all the time he thought he’d been leaving a call back request he’d actually been cancelling the call. What he should have done was press the hashtag button, or, as someone shouted out unhelpfully (for, as is the nature of life in Italy, the entire train carriage was taking part in the process), ‘Look for the pound symbol’.

When Stephen managed to talk to another of the nice ladies, she confirmed that yes the problem was logged and yes they were aware of it, but the engineer wasn’t able to come to replace the wire until someone else was available to accompany him. I suppose it must have to do with health and safety, which is an interesting concept in a land where the default reaction to any rule designed to protect one’s wellbeing is to do exactly the opposite. Anyway, we can only hope that by Monday someone in TIM’s organisation who has passed his Level 2 HND in Ladder Holding will be sitting around twiddling his thumbs and be able to give our potential engineer a leg up.

Talking of a leg up, Stephen’s housing of our firewood in the downstairs back room was obviously of help to our elusive visitor, the one responsible for chewing holes in our refuse bags, as I came face to face with it this morning. Harry was having a good sniff at the logs, which were in an orderly pile against the right hand wall. They’d obviously provided our resident field mouse with a convenient staircase to access the shelf running the length of the back wall, where it was scurrying along through a selection of old tools and jam jars waiting for their reincarnation. So blasé was it, that it obligingly posed while I took its photo with my iPad. I daresay that there will be some of you wondering why on earth I would treat it like a minor celebrity rather than shooting out and buying the first available mouse trap. Well, if being small and cute and furry is not enough to get you a stay of execution, throw in the fact that it only has one eye. Bless it.

As the afternoon, unlike last Sunday, was clear and warm, we took the chance of a bit of exploring and headed south. Our first stop was Torre de Palme, an old mediaeval town perched to overlook Porto San Giorgio. There is not an awful lot to see in the town but what there is is remarkably enchanting, and throw in the panoramic views of the coast and the surrounding countryside afforded from its various vantage points then it is well worth a visit. However, any ideas we had of enjoying its centuries’ old peace were quickly shattered as we happened to coincide, with that knack we have for these things, with a treasure hunt that involved careering packs of children and, for some reason unknown to us, strategically placed yellow balloons and bananas.

From here we made our way back to the coast and to the town of Pedaso. After several exclamations from Stephen of, “Oh, I should have turned down there,” we eventually parked in the station car park, just before the town gave out completely. We were still able, nonetheless, to find a convenient tunnel under the railway line to take us onto the lungamare bordering the beach. Despite nearly all the chalets and cafés being closed after the summer season, the balmy afternoon meant there were still plenty of people taking a stroll in the afternoon sunshine. Having reached the end of the walkway, we cut inland in search of ice cream, which we found in at the elegant Bar Concetti Gelateria, still rich in 50s charm and polished wood, situated by the square by the town’s main church.

As we sat on the bench outside, a band in the square across the road, having finished warming up, set off at the head of a procession of people from the church that had fallen in behind them. Again, for some reason unknown to us (what’s new there) they were parading the icon of the Blessed Virgin Mary, resplendent in sky blue robes and proceeded by a cross, carried by a priest, through the town. We watched as the procession made its way down the street and then, ice creams finished, we walked back along the main street to the station car park.

It was as we cut through a side street that we heard the band becoming increasingly louder, then saw, as we crossed the square in front of the railway building, the cavalcade heading our way down another side street. We got into our car and made it to the exit just as the procession circled the square, which was our only way back to the road. There was nothing we could do but wait while prayers were said and obeisance made, broadcast to the faithful by way of a mobile sound system, the speakers of which, like the crucifix, were held aloft by one of the priests. If nothing else, I suppose, it did give a whole new meaning to stations of the cross…