Sew and sew

For those of you who have been on tenterhooks since my last blog wondering about the state of my brother’s health, let me put your minds to rest straightaway by saying that Douglas made a speedy recovery and was fit and well to travel home on Tuesday morning, apparently none the worse for wear.

I’m not sure that I can say quite the same for Susan, who spent an anxious couple of days – worrying not about her husband’s wellbeing but about whether or not she would have to drive their hire car to the airport if he was still indisposed. So it was that on Monday morning, in preparation for such an event, she took a test drive around Monte San Pietrangeli with Stephen as a surrogate instructor. By all accounts she managed fine on her three circumnavigations of the town, even stopping twice: once at the ferramenta (and we know from past evidence that is not something to be scoffed at) and the Carelli’s factory. She didn’t, though, quite have the confidence to come down our road, and made Stephen swap places with her at the top.

In the event, her contingency plans were pre-empted by a remarkable recovery by Douglas, who, after a morning in bed, was able to join us for lunch before later tucking in with gusto to dinner, both aperitivi on the terrazzo and pork chops and salad at the dining table. Susan took this as a sign that he was well enough to once more assume command of the mother ship and stood down as chief navigator and pilot.

While it was matters domestic which were the focus of attention at LCDDB, the buzz up in MSP was of a somewhat more universal nature with the opening of Bar del Borgo in its new home in the Sigma supermarket building. This is quite a transformation as previously it was a small, if not cramped, bar off the bottom road through the town, a location which caused much inconvenience at busy times when the men would park outside and hop in for a quick coffee on their way to work. Now, it is a light and airy meeting place, where you can actually sit with your cappuccino and brioche at breakfast (as we did) and exchange greetings with an assortment of locals. As for the cars, they are now safely out of harm’s way in a newly reconfigured car park, which has extra spaces and a more logical layout – not that logic has all that much to do with the Italian way of parking.

Much of the rest of the week was pretty routine, if you discount Stephen’s setting up of a one-man sweatshop in the downstairs workroom. He did have yet another dental appointment on Wednesday and returned home minus two teeth as they were beyond repair. Still, better out than in, I suppose, and at least he was in a fit enough state to enjoy a bowl of pasta at the pub in the evening where, for the first time this year, we were able to eat outside as the temperatures continued to rise.

These increasing temperatures may be partly responsible for another sighting by Stephen of our friendly (or so we have been advised) black snake. This time he spotted it curled round a terracotta pot of geraniums at the return to the side of the house by the bottom of the steps, just by the storage box. On being disturbed, it uncoiled itself and disappeared from view as it slithered through a crack in the steps– which may account for why Bella and particularly Harry were very interested in this area when in the garden the other day. If either of my devoted readers has experience of or any advice to give regarding encouraging an uninvited ophidian houseguest to sling its hook, then by all means let us know. Stephen has been heard to mutter the word poison, which seems a little unfair when it’s doing no ostensible damage, but there again we don’t really want either Bella or Harry to receive a nip on their inquisitive noses.

As intimated earlier, I didn’t see all that much of Stephen for a few days – including on Friday, yet another public holiday, this one being Republic Day - as he was busy downstairs with his scissors and sewing machine. This was because, in recognition of Mrs Carelli taking her retirement, the family had decided to hold a festa in the garden of their house, and Stephen, as is his wont, having been consulted by Mirko about stage setting had decided that the easiest way was to take responsibility for the production design upon his own shoulders. This desire of my beloved to take charge is, I have to admit, one of the reasons why we are so perfectly matched: he likes to do everything and I’m happy to let him.

So it was that after three days of intense activity he emerged this morning with yards and yards of handmade bunting as well as various other party paraphernalia that he had constructed with the help of Amazon. We then spent a couple of hours festooning La Casa Carelli with the fruits of his effort – well, when I say we, what I mean is he did while I stood around passing him things and supplying moral support. I have to say, even though I am extremely partisan in my opinion, that the boy done good. The only slight hiccup was with the balloons, which looked fine for a while but then the air inside them must have expanded in the sunshine and they started spontaneously bursting. Fortunately, we had spares which we inflated to a lesser degree and which, for the main, part survived through the party – at least until the children got their hands on them.

As for the party itself, a good time was had by all – well, eventually. What you must know by now is that, in Italy, you have to add two hours to whatever the official starting time is. So, although people had been invited for 4pm, it was some time later that most people began to filter through the front gates (having had time to sort themselves after a day at the beach). This was a bit tough on the hardy few who had actually turned up at the given time but no one seemed to mind. Stephen had been given the task of official photographer, which accounts for why we were amongst the first there so he could snap people signing a white worker’s apron, a memento of the occasion, as they arrived.

As expected where Italians are concerned, the food was as plentiful as it was delicious - not that the guests needed much persuading to polish off the fried delicacies, assorted freshly made pizze and porchetta panini provided. Unlike in the UK, where abstemiousness when faced with a buffet is held to be a virtue, here everyone tucks in with gusto, regardless of age, gender or dietary limitations. As a rule of thumb, should you ever be in the position of hosting an event for Italians, never worry that you may have over-catered.

This dismissive attitude towards the mores of polite consumption is also reflected in the choice of party wear. While there were some ladies of a certain age who had taken the “let’s look restrained and elegant” route, there were just as many who had either never heard the phrase “age appropriate” or thought it the most ridiculous fashion advice anyone could give. Just because you will never see the other side of 60 again, doesn’t mean you can’t teeter around in heels or a tight little black number, or go post-hippy with a mass of tousled ash blonde hair and washed out ripped jeans. It is, after all, this devil-may-care attitude that makes any large gathering of family and friends in Italy raucous, chaotic and a whole lot of fun.