Boxing clever

Monday, being Epifania, may have been a holiday for some but as we thought we might be a tad too old to watch Befana arrive via the clock tower and certainly too old to get a present from her, unlike the local school children gathered in Sala Europa, the town’s cineteatro, we did what any red-blooded male would do instead: go shopping.

This was good news for me, as I was cashing in my Christmas voucher from Stephen for a pair of jeans in the sales. That is one of the benefits of living with your own personal shopper, as he knows what you are in need of even when you do not, for until he pointed out this shocking lack in my wardrobe I had been blissfully unaware that the three pairs I already possessed were not fit to be seen wearing in public. In the event, I was not only showered with a pair of Fabi jeans but also a very becoming patterned polo neck sweater and, following a detour on the way home to Il Castagno Brand Village, a classically tasteful black leather Prada belt too. My cup runnethed over. Nor did Stephen miss out, treating himself to a new pair of shoes from Officine Creative. I’m beginning to suspect that he has come up on the pools without telling me.

With the visit of Befana signalling the official end of the holiday period, Tuesday was ostensibly back to work time which started for me at 8 a.m. when, after an almost eight month hiatus, my lessons with Mr Mancini started up again. He is anxious to get his English wheels oiled and running smoothly, not least because there are two key engagements coming up at the end of February, one in New York and the other in Washington. Other than that, however, it would actually have been a quiet day if Roberto had not messaged in the afternoon asking if I was available for an hour or so ahead of his interview the next morning. He duly arrived and I listened to the various responses he’d prepared for the skills areas outlined in the job description and added my tuppence worth of advice. He promised to let me know how he had got on, and when he left a voice message on WhatsApp the next morning (these young people, so at ease with modern technology) he was distinctly upbeat. It is now just a matter of waiting.

Tuesday also saw the end of an era (if knocking on for four years can count as such) when we returned the key for the postal box in the square to Paolo. We had made the decision not to renew our lease on the box, given that our mail comes to the house anyway so the service we pay not an insubstantial fee for was not, for the most of the past year, actually being delivered. Paolo seemed less than surprised when we handed it back and when we said why he shook his head like a man weighed down by unjustly having to shoulder public belligerence about something outside of his control. “Un casino,” he muttered, and we could only but agree that indeed it was a mess.

What, I hear you ask with some concern, are you going to do? The answer is that we have invested in a brand new, super-duper postbox, thanks to our Christmas money from my mum and dad, which Stephen, with the help of his talented and handsome assistant, erected in place of the old decrepit one on Wednesday afternoon. This, as is the case with everything at LCDDB, was not a straightforward operation, given that the box and its fixtures were designed to be attached to the wall of a house and not a post stuck in the ground. Firstly, a trip to the Ferramenta was required, where, with Giordano’s blessing, Stephen purchased a plastic chopping board cut to the appropriate size as it would not warp as a piece of wood might. He also learned in the process that if you touch the molten edges of the said board following the use of a circular saw to cut it, you will burn your finger.

Stephen spent the latter part of Wednesday morning affixing the postbox to the front and two metal bands to the back of the board. Then, after lunch, I went with him to the top of the road to fix the box by way of the bands round the posts (yes there are two, one for the washed out no entry sign to Mario and Luigi’s house and a concrete one by its side). This was accomplished in a surprisingly short time, or would have been if Stephen had not tried level out the box, at which point the bands came away from the board. Back to the drawing board and plan B.

We returned home, where Stephen instead of screwing the bands to the board cut holes in it instead to thread the bands through – which was originally one of his ideas but when asked which I thought was the better option I said screwing. This should really have been enough for him to follow the other route, and more fool him for firstly asking and then following the opinion of someone who has as much to do with DIY as Arthur Mullard has with ballet dancing.

Anyway, you will be relieved to know that the adjustments were made fairly rapidly and on the second attempt the box as securely set in place and is awaiting its maiden delivery.

It may not be for some time, though, for when we went into the Post Office the next day to collect the payment forms for this year’s tessera sanitaria (yes, it is that time again), Paolo handed us a wad of correspondence, including two Christmas cards and a post card sent from Stratford-upon-Avon on November 26th. We made no comment, nor did Paolo, for what is there left to say?

This was not the worst thing to happen that day, as Stephen was to find out when he left me at home to eat alone while he went off to Civitanova for a luncheon appointment with Shoe Marco, who wanted to discuss a matter with him and to ask his advice. Unfortunately, Stephen never made it as the Freeclimber, after towing the line for a few months, decided, just off the roundabout the other side of La Chiesa di Buoncuore, to break down. It appeared to be the clutch that was at fault, indicated by the fact that everything seemed to be working other than the ability to put the car into gear, and the acrid smell of burning. As I was otherwise engaged polishing off my portion for one of cannelloni, made fresh that morning at Sigma, Stephen called on his bff Manuel, who went to pick him up and bring him home.

After lunch, I dropped Stephen off at the garage five minutes away, near the pizzeria, on my way to my afternoon lesson with Rocco the barber, and left him explaining what had happened to Ivano, the owner. The pair then headed off to the roundabout, where the traffic was having to skirt round the seemingly abandoned vehicle, and it was agreed that Ivano would arrange to have the car towed back to his garage and to take a look at it. When Stephen popped in on his way for our Friday night pizza, the car was in situ, showing no signs of remorse, but obviously it was too late then for anything to be done. We now need to wait until Monday to see what the garage has found, what they need to do about it and to have some idea of the time frame we are working to; until then we are back to being a one car family.

With the prospect of a repair bill to cover and wanting time to catch up with things, this weekend has been spent at home with nothing whatsoever of note to report – if you discount washing, ironing, cleaning and lesson preparation. They say that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, but I’ve always felt that dullness is underrated. There are times when routine is comforting, especially when the alternative is sitting in a smoking car in the middle of the countryside.