It's the thought that counts

This past week started off favourably, and not just because I took my new shoes and jacket out for a couple of airings. Whilst no one stopped me in the street to exclaim in wonder at such sartorial elegance at least it pre-empted Stephen complaining that I never wear my nice things but leave them in the wardrobe awaiting a special occasion. I shall, instead, wear them all the time and make every day a special day.

As for the weather, we should have known better than to be lulled into a false sense of security by the morning’s blue skies as, midway through the afternoon while I was sitting with Marzia and Diego in their conservatory, for the third Monday in a row the wind started whipping up again. By the time I got back to LCDDB it was of some force and Stephen was doing the ironing in a self-imposed twilight, having closed all the shutters of the west wing though not the ones to the snug on the other side. These, we foolishly believed, were sheltered from the full force of the gales by the return in the terrazzo.

If anything, the latest winds were stronger than ever and we slept somewhat fitfully that night as the side of the house rattled in their onslaught and various roof tiles seemed to be sending Morse code messages. The next morning was grey and a bit more than blustery (sources online quoted speeds of up to 100km per hour) but fortunately the tiles had remained in tact. What hadn’t, however, was one of the snug shutters, which was hanging drunkenly askew on its bottom, twisted hinge, the pin of the top one having been sheared through by the strength of the overnight winds.

Fortunately, it should be relatively easy to repair the damage as a couple of persuasive blows should straighten up the bottom hinge and a quick recce of the junk room downstairs resulted in Stephen finding a replacement pin for the upper hinge from the shutters that were removed when we replaced all the west wing windows. Sometimes it does pay to hold on to stuff. Also fortunately, this time the weather returned to its senses by Wednesday morning rather than making a three-day jamboree of it like the previous week and by Thursday it was back to clear skies, calms days and freezing temperatures overnight.

While the winds were dancing round LCDDB Stephen was caught in a mini-maelstrom of his own as he pursued the mystery of the missing water bills. A couple of weeks ago, as you will recall if you’ve been paying attention, we had the demand with menaces to settle an outstanding amount from our water supplier. On Tuesday, Stephen took some time out of his busy schedule to wade through all the bills and payment slips that we have, going back to when we first took up residency. You would have thought that this should have been a relatively simple exercise of sequencing the bills and seeing if there are any gaps. Remember, though, that this is Italy where nothing is quite that simple and his task was made somewhat confusing by the random issuing of bills.

Let me give you an example.

When you have a bill for the period, say, of May 2016 to November 2016, you would expect the next to be November 2016 to May 2017 and so on. Don’t be silly. What you actually have is a bill for November 2016 to January 2017 then another for November 2016 to March 2017 and then a third for November 2016 to May 2017. What Stephen found was that in a six-month period there may be one bill or two or three, the varying number making it impossible to know if any were missing.

To try to get some sort of handle on all of this, Stephen took the paperwork to the factory on Wednesday as Marina, the lady that runs the office, had said she would look at it and get in touch with the water company on our behalf. She didn’t actually do the latter as she was similarly confused by what was going on and said the best thing would be for her to take it all to a woman she knows in the town who works for the company. It was a small consolation when Marina reported back on Thursday that even she couldn’t understand what was going on, but had kept all the papers to take with her to the office so she could check that we were up-to-date with our payments. Both she and Marian did express some concern that some of the bills seemed rather high, especially compared with other ones, but we assured Marina that they were for the periods when the pipe had broken and, out of the goodness of our hearts, we were watering Mario and Luigi’s wheat field and were, therefore, an accurate of our and the general vegetation’s consumption.

Meanwhile Wednesday was a red letter day as it was the day we had our own inaugurazione of the new McIntosh pub. We went for dinner with Marco and Maddalena, and we are happy to say that yes, we were able to have tortellini alla boscaiola and that it was very good if just missing that magic Zeppa touch. On first sight it didn’t look like much had actually changed, but there were small but significant differences. Apart from obviously undergoing a deep clean, there were fewer things on the walls, the shelves behind the bar were less crowded, the darts machines were both in the main body of the pub while the raised area at the back had been cleared of the seating that was somewhat past its use by date and a pool table installed instead.

What else was new was the young man behind the bar and, most shocking of all, bowls of nibbles all along it. Actually, that wasn’t the most shocking; rather that honour went to being asked if you wanted ice with your drink and being given it when it wasn’t August and 35 degrees. The menus were now trifold plastic-coated leaflets, with one for food and one for drinks, and the food had been extended to include pizze, a range of burgers and even fish and chips. Stephen was very much taken with the guest beer which went by the intriguing name of Elvis Juice, and which, the barman explained, tasted of grapefruit. He gave us a sample and indeed it did have a distinctive citrus edge, and whilst I thought that maybe it would be better suited to drinking outside on a balmy summer evening, Stephen threw caution to with wind, changing the habit of a lifetime, and had a glass of it with his pasta rather than wine (because he was driving…).

The buzz created by the renovation has obviously paid off as I can’t remember seeing the pub so busy and with a variety of customers, so let’s hope they go back. We certainly will, especially as we all agreed that we’re keen to try the burgers. Others who were back were Zeppa and Teresa, who appeared partway through our meal and looked glowing with health now the late nights and the general responsibility of running the place are a thing of the past. They seemed very pleased with the new McIntosh, which was the same but yet not the same, and commented on how many people had turned up to the official inaugurazione on Sunday – though Zeppa remarked that all those people who turned up from Rapagnano for the free beer he had never seen before in his life. Just goes to prove Stephen was right and we were wise to avoid the melee.

Apart from deciding which beer to drink and what to do about the water bills, something else cropped up late on Thursday evening that demanded Stephen’s attention. With Micam looming it was a given that something would go wrong with his arrangements. This time, however, it wasn’t to do with accommodation, which was a little surprising as with Linea Pelle following hot on the heels of Micam this time (and I do mean hot, with the one finishing at lunchtime next Wednesday and the other starting the same afternoon), places to stay are at a premium, especially for the changeover period. Stephen, being an organised sort of chap, had his apartment booked well in advance and was even able to offer Shoe Marco a roof for the first three nights, the period he will be at the fair. He is even going to keep Stephen company on the journey as they have arranged to travel up together.

That plan took a bit of a hit, though, when on Thursday night Stephen received a message from Trenitalia to say that the train from Civitanova to Milan would stop at Bologna and go no further. This, he assumed, was due to work on the line following the derailment of the Freccia Rossa the week before at Livraga, some 45 kms southeast of Milan. They did say, helpfully, that if he presented himself to the necessary officials on his arrival at the station, they would do their best to sort out his onward journey. Imagining the scene of pandemonium that was likely to ensue with a trainload of Italians all shouting and waving their arms and wilfully misunderstanding anything that was explained or offered to them, he thought the best course of action was to take control of his own (and Marco’s) destiny.

Thus it was that Friday morning he hit the Internet while I was out with the dogs prior to our usual shopping trip and managed to book himself and his mucca onto a train to Milan from Ancona (which, presumably, must take a different route). This meant an hour or so hanging around on Ancona station but was preferable to being caught in the chaos at Bologna with no real certainty as to what would happen there. In the event, they arrived in Milan safe and sound, only a little late, and without any problems with accommodation – and with a feeling of smug satisfaction, especially given the looks of absolute shock and horror on the faces of his fellow passengers who boarded the truncated train at Civitanova when it was announced that it would terminate at Bologna.

My weekend without Stephen has been quiet though before that Friday was, of course, Valentine’s Day. We didn’t go out to celebrate – why would we want to forgo our Friday night g&t, TV and pizza? – but we did exchange presents, and ones that give an interesting insight into how we feel about each other after twenty-five years together. I gave Stephen a pair of briefs by ES Collection*, designed and made in Barcelona, from their national flag range (in green, red and white, of course, being the Italian colours now that we no longer identify as British - well, English) while he gave me a lamb’s wool duster and two tea towels. Admittedly, these latter did have a romantic design to them - no doubt so I know while I am doing the dishes how much he really loves me.

* In case you were wondering, and to avoid any confusion, the model in the picture is not Stephen but whoever he is he obviously knows where to put his hands on a bumper pack of depilatory cream.