Ubaldo dove sei?*

Heigh ho, another week and more fruitless dealings with the wonderful Italian telephone infrastructure - and yes, that is written with heavy, if not amusing, irony. So let us mix metaphors and deal with this particular elephant in the vale of tears that is the world according to TIM.

We started the week with tempered hopes, following Stephen’s call on Saturday morning, that Monday, or at the latest Tuesday, would bring about some resolution to our telephonic dilemma. Indeed, we were bolstered in this belief when we not only received a telephone call from an engineer on Monday evening apologising for the delay but also a follow up text. The engineer was very apologetic and assured us that he would be out to see to the problem when he had an oppo to assist him. We should have known better than to fall for their ruses as, by Wednesday evening, there had been no change to our situation other than another set of shattered hopes.

As luck would have it, Computer Luca was with us for dinner that evening, so we again called on his services to find out about the latest situation. He was informed, when he called, that someone had been out the previous evening at 6.40: ‘to check the box.’ Our hears sank on hearing this, as that coincided with the half hour when I’d gone with Stephen to have a look at a set of shoes (which were fabulous) at the factory that were ready for shipping, thinking it was too late for anyone from TIM to arrive. All this time, we thought, we’d been chained to the house and the one occasion we both go out someone comes. But then we realised that they hadn’t actually been to the house; by ‘box’ they meant the junction box in the town. They had obviously ignored the fact that the man last Wednesday had told his associates the line needed replacing and just come out to have a quick shufty in the box.

We were left with a promise by the call centre operative that he would send a message to the engineers. What this message was is anybody’s guess, but it can’t have had anything to do with our phone line because still no one arrived. By Friday we thought we’d better try a different line of attack and called in Maddalena. She had to go through the whole rigmarole again of explaining what had happened (or, rather, what hadn’t) and was told that someone would be out the next day, Saturday. Right, like that was really going to happen, someone turning up on a Saturday when they had abjectly failed to materialise during the working week.

Still, the human heart is a fickle being and there was a part of us that held onto the hope that we would be proved wrong. Of course, we weren’t. Maddalena, for whom it had now become personal, called again in the afternoon, only to be told that the original case was closed because someone or other had said the problem was sorted. What balderdash (and that is being much more polite than I really feel). Anyway, someone, said the operative, will definitely be coming on Monday. Yep, and Boris Johnson is a fine Foreign Secretary.

Elsewhere things have been, thankfully, fairly run of the mill. Monday evening, though, we did have visitors even if the TIM man was conspicuous by his absence. A week or so previously a former co-worker of Stephen’s had followed us into the Post Office and taken one of my business cards (aren’t I grand) as he knew a couple of recent graduates looking for English lessons. He duly appeared with the charming sisters, Erica and Mara. A pleasant conversation was had and details discussed with the upshot that they are going to be starting lessons on next Friday morning.

Speaking of October, now we are into the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness – though the weather has been particularly fine recently – Stephen got his organising head on and set about yesterday and today in swapping our summer wardrobe for our autumn and winter one. Whilst it could have seemed a little sad to be packing away shorts and t-shirts, there was something comforting in the reappearance of old friends in the shape of comfy jumpers and snug fleeces and the promise of cosy evenings in watching TV (if we ever get our Internet, and consequently Netflix, back).

Not that we have entirely given up our summer wanderings as this afternoon we investigated Porto Sant’Elpidio’s lungamare and were still able to do so in shirtsleeves. There were, though, signs that it may be the last time we’ll be able to do so for, whilst there was enough sun breaking though the high clouds to give my forehead a becomingly rosy tint, the brisk breeze from the sea held a definite promise of autumn - a dichotomy reflected in our fellow walkers. Some were still holding onto the last vestiges lighter clothing but others had decided that it was time to crack out scarves and padded jackets – but there again, being Italian, they’d probably been wearing them since the middle of August.

* The name by which 'Where's Wally?" is known in Italy.