A tale of provincial life

I don’t know who it was that first coined the phrase flaming June – well, actually, I do; it was the Victorian artist, Frederic Leighton for his painting of a woman in a flowing burnt orange dress curled up on a banquette, but as that has nothing to do with weather we will conveniently forget about it – but it wasn’t someone who has spent the past fortnight in the province of Fermo. While this time last year we were basking in unremitting sunshine and temperatures in the high 20s, this year we have struggled to get through a day without charcoal clouds looming up from San Rustico and sudden, torrential downpours. This has had the expected effect on the road, which is finding it hard to dry out between soakings and consequently developing some new and interesting undulations and crevices. It all makes for an interesting ride anytime we leave or return to LCDDB, especially given the overgrown vegetation at either side that has not, as yet, received its summer short back and sides from the Comune. Anyway, enough of scene setting; let us get on with the main narrative.

Firstly, Mum has been treated for the conditions that caused her having to be taken to hospital last week, but is still there while it is decided what the best next step is for her. It is likely that she will need extra care to that which she was receiving up to her admittance. Dad is coping well on his own, with a bit of support, but is obviously missing her.

As for us, our week has been taken up with housekeeping duties, some around the home and some further afield but not at any significant distance. I did, however, make my longest journey since pre-lockdown days when just before lunch on Monday, I received a message from Daniela, of the Montegranaro Two fame, to ask if it was possible for us to rendezvous at the garage on the way to her house so we could ‘settle up’. 8 kilometres there and 8 back might seem like small beer to some, but the freedom of bowling along in the sunshine (yes, it was before the rain arrived that day) made one feel kinship with Mr Toad, though without his impulsiveness. Toot-toot!

What I omitted to tell Stephen when I returned was that I’d collected the recycling bin from the top of the road on my way past. This is why, when he took the refuse bags up for Tuesday’s collection, he was hanging around the storm drain, wondering if the bin had been blown in there, in such a suspicious manner that the local Carabinieri stopped on their patrol to inquire why he wasn’t wearing a mask and then asked to see his documents. “But I only live down there,” he protested, and explained he had just brought up tomorrow’s recycling. They were obviously only going through the motions – or having a laugh – because they didn’t bother getting out of the car to take him any further to task, which was just as well as I have it on good authority that only one of them could remotely be called cute.

Having spent a whole day at home (excluding a brief brush with the short arm of the law), Stephen was out and about in giro on Tuesday, dropping in at the factory and visiting various suppliers with Mirco. This meant that I had again to do the shopping, though one thing that wasn’t on the list was tea bags. When we tell people that we don’t miss anything about living in Britain, that is essentially true, though if pressed we would have to say decent tea. You just can’t get a good strong brew from Italian brands, even ones with names redolent of Empire like Lord Nelson English Breakfast blend, and thanks to one thing and another with no visitors or trips back home, we were running very low on our supplies. Thank heavens, once again, for Amazon and the delivery of a supersized bag of 1,040 Yorkshire Tea bags. The price was at a bit of a premium, but what else were we to do to make sure we started the day with a nice cuppa? Harry, on the other hand, was less than impressed.

After treating ourselves to dinner out at the pub on Wednesday (cheeseburger with bacon, chips and onion rings; but in case you think we are living purely for pleasure, we only had one portion of each the latter two between us) we were both out and about on Thursday afternoon. This was prompted in the first instance by Stephen having to visit a sole factory in Corridonia after lunch and asking me when he got back from the factory late morning if I wanted to ride shotgun by way of a little excursion. A second reason arrived when the insurance man, just before lunch, called to say that the insurance documents were ready and he would call with them and collect payment.

You may recall that Stephen had, the other week, contacted him about the insurance on the Freeclimber, only to be told that there was plenty of time till the 9th June and he would be in touch a couple of days before the due date. You may also have realised that Thursday was the 10th. “Don’t worry,” he told Stephen when it was pointed out that the cover expired the day before, “you’re still ok to drive the car.” That’s as may be, but with a British sensibility we would still rather have the security of something signed, sealed and delivered.

And here we come to another slight hiccup, namely how to pay. Last year we did so by cheque (remember what one of those is?), but the chequebook not having been used since then, when we located it at the back of a drawer it was to find that all it contained were stubs. Fortunately, a quick call to Mr Insurance confirmed that we could pay with cash, but that meant adding yet again to our afternoon tour which went something like this: withdrawing ready money from the cash machine in Montegranaro; stopping to fill up with petrol at the cheap garage on the way to the autostrada; going up the autostrada to Corridonia and the sole factory; having coffee at the Lindt shop in Corridomnia followed by a visit to the Chinese store on the upper level for some black elastic, and finally rendezvousing with the Mr I at the Nero Giardini outlet so he didn’t have to brave our road after all the rain. I have to say handing over an envelope of readies while the insurance man sorts out the documents on the back seat of his people carrier may not be my preferred way of doing business, but there are times when one has to forgo one’s sensibilities.

Friday fell into the now usual routine, with this week being Stephen’s turn for a haircut while I did the shopping, though there was a slight elegant variation with a stop off at the factory on the way home, my first time through its doors in over fourteen weeks. It was then a weekend of vague frustrations, interspersed with the again, now usual Saturday afternoon cook-in (cheese and ham torta, pork cooked with prunes, olives and capers, a new Nigella recipe, and an apricot cake courtesy of a recipe the mayor’s wife posted to Facebook).

The first frustration was with the my Kindle copy of Madame Bovary (what it is to be of a literary bent), which surprised me not a little when I thought I had reached a somewhat arbitrary conclusion only to be told when I turned the e-page that it was the end of the second volume. It might have been an idea if, when I downloaded it, there had been some indication, even if it was free, that it was only two-thirds of the story. There not being a companion third volume to this particular online edition, I then checked a couple of others and, not learning from my earlier experience, I opted for the cheaper one only to find when I started Volume III that it appeared to have been run through Google Translate and made very little sense. Fortunately, I managed to get a refund from Amazon and splashed out the extra on the Oxford World’s Classics and I am pleased to report that I am now happily accompanying Emma on the downward spiral to her doom.

The second frustration was with our opera tickets for August in Macerata. You won’t be surprised that the season has been somewhat curtailed, and while Don Giovanni is going ahead, Il Trovatore is being performed concert style, and our selection, Tosca is being postponed until 2022. We are, however, entitled to a voucher for the cost of our unused tickets, which is why we spent a happy hour yesterday afternoon finding a path through the less than user-friendly process on Viva Tickets. Computer Luca had said it was simple because there was a link. What he obviously had not investigated was where the link ended up.

To me, ‘simple’ means a big flashing hyperlink shouting ‘voucher’ on the homepage that then invites you to input your transaction code and then pats you on the virtual head saying all is ok and your vouchers are on their way. What ‘simple’ isn’t is having to hop from page to page until you find the correct one, then having to input extra details to the ones used when buying the tickets, and then having to upload a picture of each e-ticket into a designated box. All I can say is thank heavens for Stephen, who on this occasion had a firmer handle on the technology required than I did, though that, with no disrespect, is not saying much.

As for the third frustration, this was when I suggested to Stephen that we could go to Girasole (another post-lockdown first) for a trip out and to use my customer loyalty voucher at L’Eboralio, (the Italian love child of Culpeper the Herbalist and The Body Shop). This had expired in mid-May, but an email had said any voucher would be honoured once the shops reopened. Except it hadn’t, well not on Sunday afternoons anyway, this particular branch being well and truly closed. At least all was not lost, as we did pop into the supermarket for a couple of box files for me where we found Oreo biscuits and Head and Shoulders on offer, which we snaffled up as well as the odd (ok, four) bottles of discounted wine – for laying down, of course. I don’t want you to think we are living purely for pleasure, especially considering what it did to poor old Emma Bovary.