Monkey business

As befits Christmas week at LCDDB, we have celebrated the festive season in our now traditional low-key, anti-social way by raising the drawbridge and hunkering down for the duration. That is not to say we have been entirely bereft of human contact, as the beginning and the end of the week saw us, as Jacob Marley stipulated, walking abroad among our fellow-men.

This began on Monday morning when we hit Sigma a day early, thus avoiding not so much the Christmas rush as the Christmas amble as the good burghers of MSP shop for their Vigilia dinner. We managed to breakfast at Bar del Borgo, get our Christmas provisions and check the post (like there was going to be anything in the box in the square) and be home before 10 a.m. Not as much fun as scrimmaging in Tesco or Marks and Spencer, but much better for your health and sanity.

In the afternoon I had what I thought was going to be my last lesson of the year (more on that later) with Marzia and Diego over in Montegranaro. I was a little surprised when I remarked a couple of weeks ago that they wouldn’t want a lesson on the 23rd, but I will take it as a compliment that they looked somewhat nonplussed and said that indeed they did. What they did look uncertain about was when I asked them what they wanted for Christmas, the response being a general shaking of the head and mild shrugging of shoulders, suggesting they hadn’t given it much thought and it wasn’t that important a thing. The lack of hysteria found in the supermarkets is also found when it comes to present giving, which is conducted on a much more sensible level and achievable without recourse to asking for an increase in your credit limit.

Elsewhere, the mystery of the MacIntosh deepened even further when Stephen returned later in the afternoon from the flower shop which is next to the pub (bearing with him a mini Christmas tree for use as a table decoration) to say that there was a large white notice on the door. As best as he could make out, it was informing customers that it was closed for work to be carried out, but of what this work was or when it would be open again there was no indication. Nor was Marco able to shed any further light on the situation, when a little while afterwards we popped to see him and Maddalena to exchange gifts (token ones, of course) and share a bottle of something fizzy. He said he’d seen and read the notice, too, but was not clear as to its significance. Curiouser and curiouser.

Tuesday being Christmas Eve, and a cold but gloriously sunny one, we threw caution to the wind an breakfasted out again, this time in Pina with a gaggle of ladies of a certain age, some of whom were making last minute purchases from the extensive – and idiosyncratic – range the bar offers. It was just as well we had shopped the previous day as this meant we had even longer to wait than usual, first to be served and then to pay, but that is why we love it so much.

After this, we made a quick stop at the Marie Theresa pasta shop having decided, heretically, to make tortellini in brodo our Vigilia meal rather than piles of seafood with a baccalà chaser, as is the traditional dinner. When the man on the tractor, whom we spotted due to the distant buzz and the beam of headlights in the field across the river, made it to his family’s get-together we’re not sure, or maybe he chose to spread manure in the dark on Christmas Eve as his way to avoid it and make his feelings known.

One thing that was in keeping with tradition, though maybe not an Italian one, was the bread sauce I made as an accompaniment to our Christmas dinner the following day. It went very well with the pork loin cooked with apples and fennel that we opted for, though Computer Luca was somewhat shocked by the idea when Stephen told him what we were eating, it being considered an outlandish combination to Le Marche ears. When told that it came from the Sigma magazine he dismissed it (and you could sense the curling of the lips, even on WhatsApp) as being something from ‘the North’. Wherever it originated, it was very tasty indeed and will be tucked away in our repertoire of Italian dishes.

The rest of the day was filled (and I use the term loosely) with opening presents, lounging around and watching a bit of television, interspersed with taking Bella and Harry for there obligatory walks, so just the usual stuff of a British-style Christmas, and Boxing Day pretty much followed suit. One slight variation, though, was when Stephen returned from taking the bin up ready for Friday’s collection and handed me an official looking envelope which, despite being franked with a Royal Mail label, contained a document completely in Italian – testament to the will of the Department of Transport when they are on the hunt for €90.37 due to non-payment of the Dart Charge.

At the outset, I will hold up my hands and freely admit that, back in October when I had my unplanned return to the UK due to Mum’s admittance to hospital, I did indeed travel under the Thames by means of the Dartford Tunnel without paying, and whilst ignorance is no defence it was not done with any malice aforethought. I was all prepared to pay the £2.50 toll with the exact change handy in the well of the central console, as Stephen had advised more than once before I set off from home. Later, when he asked if I had paid, I said that I hadn’t as there had not been anything asking for payment nor any way to pay, in my ignorance (see above), I had just assumed that I didn’t need to. What I had failed to take into account, as someone still living in the 1960s when human interaction was king, is that rather than toss sweaty coins into a basket or hand them to a friendly booth operator, payment is now taken online.

After the initial shock of finding I had committed an infringement when I thought I led such a blameless life, I was becoming somewhat fatalistic about having to fork out almost €100 when, on reading more carefully, I spotted that the fine is halved if you pay within 14 days of the issue date. Well, this was a little more palatable, but thanks to the holiday period and the Italian postal system the fourteen days expired in about four hours’ time. Without delay, I powered up the laptop, accessed the payment site and entered the references as requested only to be somewhat puzzled when asked to pay £2.50. Further recourse to the document and wading through officialese Italian with the help of Google Translate it transpired that if it is the first offence for that particular registration number than the fine may be waived.

The moral of all this, of course, is that when you’re planning a journey, check everything at least twice and don’t assume that things will be as you imagine they should be. Life in a computerised age is designed, after all, to be more convenient – the question, though, is more convenient for whom. As for me, the only question I was left with was what I could spend the €85 I’d saved on.

The rest of the week mostly passed with little of note. The weather continued cold but with lots of blue sky and sunshine, and an incredibly crystal clear view across to the mountains. On Friday morning we booked for New Year at Pina again, though as Stephen didn’t see Amalia write it down anywhere he wasn’t convinced that our table for six (us, Marco and Maddalena, and Chiara and Daniele, as last year) was a firm booking. He was reassured, however, when we returned the next morning to increase the number to 9 as Marco’s friend, Samuele, and his wife, Sara, and daughter were added to our party and he saw Amalia open the booking register, cross out 6 under his name and change it to 9. He also noted that the running total was 118, which with three days to go will surely increase, given the Italian credo that two days is more than ample notice.

We also, on Friday afternoon, bobbed out for a spot of shopping. As we had invited Marco and Maddalena a couple of weeks ago to dinner this evening, Stephen thought it would be a good idea to buy a game or two for postprandial entertainment. In this we were successful, not only coming back with Torre Matta, the budget version of Jenga, but also Attento alle Scimmie! where little monkeys topple down the inside of a hollow plastic palm tree, depending on which plastic straw you remove from the trunk. Of course, Marco, being both male and Italian, took charge of assembling and running the games, so it came as more than a slight blow to his ego that he lost two out three rounds, though overall our after dinner entertainment proved a success.

It was almost as much of a success as the cottage pie that had been our main course offering. I had promised Marco and Maddalena something traditionally British to eat, and cottage pie seemed a wholesome, winter-warming choice for a post Christmas dinner. I would say it is unlike anything that you get in Italy, but Maddalena rationalised it by saying it was like lasagne, which you can sort of see if you accept that it only has two layers and one of them is mashed potato, but she obviously liked it as she, as well as Marco, had second helpings; something that is virtually unheard of for her - but not, of course, for him.

And now to settle the mystery of why the lesson with the Montegranaro two was not the last of the year. This is because just before 11 this morning I received a WhatsApp message from a certain young man of MSP, called Roberto, who said he’d been given my name by Alice, of Helen Doron fame, and he was in need of some conversation as he wanted to brush up his English for an upcoming interview. This was obviously of some urgency for after an exchange of messages it was fixed for him to come for a chat this afternoon, where it emerged that Roberto is a graduate in Naval Engineering and is due early in January for a Skype interview in English with a Norwegian company based in London. He is, therefore, going to come three times next week, and fortunately his English is of a good standard so I think it is more a matter of confidence building than teaching him the language. This is just as well, for despite what a vast swathe of locals seem to think based on my legendary reputation in the town, I am, having misplaced my magic wand, just an ordinary, everyday teacher of English.