Foul Is Fair

10th August 2025

This week started off almost as the previous one finished with thunder overnight accompanied by rain but no repeat of the battery of hail. We woke to the clouds parting and the sun coming out and thought that was it, the forecast for the week showing a return to sunshine and a gradual return by the weekend to temperatures in the mid-30’s (it was right, too). Not so, a last hurrah delayed our morning walk much to Harry and Peggy’s chagrin, though this downpour was over by the time I’d tidied up after breakfast.

As for the road, needless to say, but I will anyway, that is in a pretty parlous condition. The bottom, to be fair, is not too bad relative to how it has been in the past. The top part, though, has a significant channel running down the side by Mario and Luigi’s field (where a quantity of the hard core has ended up), requiring judicious use of the steering wheel to avoid ending up on automatic pilot. On the plus side, after a couple of passes up and down by the tractor and one by a work truck from the water board who realised they were not going to be able to get all the way down to check the drainage system put in last year, it has flattened out a bit – and by bit I mean hardly, just taking off the worst.

Tuesday was freedom day for Peggy when we divested her of her body suit, and she showed her appreciation by leaping around Tigger-fashion even more than before her operation. Stephen, however, was not so much leaping around as spitting feathers. The first thing that ticked him off was his visit to the bank to see about cancelling our house insurance but there was no one there. Actually, there was someone there, the same man who had dealt with us before, the one who chatted on the phone about drinking water and tennis. After he’d finished chatting with a customer about both their holidays, he told Stephen he’d have to come back on Thursday when the nice young woman was there because he didn’t know anything about the insurance side. And yes, that does beg the question, what was he doing there then, and what does he know about.

The other thing which was irksome and, as it turned out, slightly worrying, was a problem with the Panda. The previous day a warning triangle had come up on the display next to the engine icon. Stephen took the car into the garage on his way home where Alessandro had a look and said that it had to do with the filter and not to drive over 50kph or it might blow up. There’s no worry of that between there and here, which is the only route it’s taken since – once to come home and once, on Thursday morning to take it back. The garage closes for the holidays next Tuesday, but Alessandro said that he would do his best to have a look at it before then.

Thursday it was back to Fermo for our third visit of the season. Alas, there was still no Rapagnano honey man, and finally accepting the inevitable I bought a kilo jar from a stall I’ve supported before and which does have nice honey – just not as nice. We actually, this time, came away with a decent haul, picking up Peggy’s bust from the nice crochet lady, some more soap from my new favourite organic place (and a jar of skin cream and a lip salve – got to make sure you take care of yourself), a t-shirt (organic cotton) and a clutch bag for Stephen for Sunday night from the same stall and some very toothsome biscuits from Foschi when we stopped for coffee. It all made Stephen very happy, relieved that at last I’d spent some money especially when you throw aperitivo at Loggia al 42 into the mix.

Stephen allegedly began his summer holidays on Friday, coming home mid-afternoon ready for his break, with the caveat that he has to do an hour’s work tomorrow on some urgently needed boot or other, and then it was the weekend and the countdown to our night at the opera. Yesterday, this mainly consisted of making final decisions about what we were going to wear. I had my new shirt (the sexy Italian look, remember) with a singlet underneath because, despite Roxy’s encouragement, I’m not that sort of guy. What had to be decided were the trousers and the shoes.

Taking the latter first, Stephen had delved into the boxes in the lumber room and resurfaced with two pairs of, now vintage, Louis Vuitton, one pointy-toed classic brown slip-on with buckle, the other square-toed pony skin in a small check of brown and cream – back, as my resident stylist assured me, in fashion big time. These latter went well with the blue trousers, which had been the preferred choice, but then Stephen said to try the white ones. My worry that the look might be a bit Mykonos was brushed aside and they ended up the chosen ones, and whilst the pointy shoes looked good, the pony skin (an old favourite, due for a resurgence, sort of the Demi Moore of the shoe world) hit just the right note.

As for Stephen, his was both less and more complicated. Less because his shirt and trousers had been decided in more than good time; more because he couldn’t find the shoes he had in mind no matter how much or where he looked. I thought his alternative choice of white deck shoes (very moda, apparently) looked more than acceptable.

Anyway, for those of you who are still with me, our evening at the opera was wonderful. With temperatures still in the high 20s when it started there was no need of a blanket or a sweatshirt as one of my students advised, and a very acceptable apericena beforehand in the nearby square set us up for what turned out to be a surprisingly jolly three hours. OK, the plot might have been a bit on the dark side, but the interpretive dance sequences and the frequent appearance of quite jaunty music meant you left the auditorium not so much cathartically cleansed as whistling a happy tune and with a good time having been had by all - except Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Duncan, Banquo, Lady Macduff, all her children…