It's history

The evening before she had said we’d meet to see what could be resolved, whereas I was meeting with her to say so long and thanks for the fish (though things piscatorial were noticeable by their absence during my time there). To make sure there was no misunderstanding, one of the teachers, fluent in English and Italian, sat in to translate for us and as the conversation progressed it was more than clear that the goalposts were still wandering all over the pitch. Nothing was said that changed my mind, though there were a couple of things that confirmed my decision.

Apart from the nebulous references to things being sorted in October, it was also said that, in contrast to what I was told at the outset (and being introduced to both classes on my initial visit), I was only going to teach Year 3 and not Years 2 and 3. Presumably, when my hours increased that would mean three hours incarceration without hope of parole would extend to all day. And how would I fill all that time teaching English? Easy, because I wouldn’t. When, the headmistress explained, the teachers got together to decide what they would teach (I suppose this is what she meant by schemes of work) I might opt to do some History. It was at this point I had my own road to Damascus: all this time I had been labouring under the misapprehension that the school was in need of a madre lingua speaker to support the work of the English teacher and to develop the pupils’ speaking skills when really what they wanted was a general class teacher whose native tongue was English.

There seemed little point in prolonging the discussion. I said thank you very much and I was sorry but I was not right for the school and the school was not right for me. I wished them all well, we shook hands (the headmistress being very fluid where anti-Covid controls are concerned, but at least she wore her mask this time – and I hit the hand sanitizer when I get back to the car) and parted on good terms, with her remarking that maybe they can contact me again when the pupils get to senior level. I’m not holding my breath on that one. From now on, I am taking back control of my own destiny (pandemics allowing) and it’s private students only.

It was these private students that took up most of my focus over the next few days, which were generally notable for the lack of anything of interest whatsoever for these pages. Vanna messaged me on Tuesday and it was arranged that I would do a lesson with her son and the daughter of a friend, both aged 10, on Thursdays at 4.45, which then became those two and her own daughter, aged 7 on a test basis to see if the age difference works, and then the time switched to 5.30. Shifting sand again, maybe, but not in the same way as it was more like ironing out ahead of time. Wednesday saw the restart of lessons with Rocco and Antonella (all well masked and distanced) and then Giacomo contacted me on Thursday saying he wanted to continue once a week on Fridays.

This latter meant that when Friday rolled around it was quite a busy day, starting with the usual haircut and shopping pincer movement, though with an elegant variation as Conad was our preferred victualler for this weekend as we had an €8 off coupon if we spent over €40. This we managed with the help of the odd bottle of wine. I was a little surprised when I went in as the shop seemed very quiet, with only the odd customer, but I had obviously just timed it right, judging from the queue that managed to form whilst I was buying bread, salumi and formaggi at the delicatessen counter. Why would you have two people serving when, by having one, you can provide your clientele with an opportunity for socially distanced conversation?

Actually, Friday shopping proved a bit of a warm up act as Saturday turned into something of a wine day. This started in the morning when Luigi, stopping to check with Stephen that it was all right to take the tractor with the caterpillar tracks over our driveway (something, apparently, he is not meant to do), asked if we liked wine and if so, did we prefer red or white. As the answer to both of these was yes, he reappeared shortly before lunch with a two-litre bottle of their home brewed white wine – and very acceptable it is too. In the evening, Stephen took me to Pomo d’Oro for a belated birthday meal and Marco and Maddalena joined us where Marco introduced us to a sparkling rosé alternative to Prosecco followed by our go to red when we eat there, Granarijs, a Rosso Piceno produced over the way in Montegranaro, so it has the added benefit of being virtually zero kilometres. Then, after dinner, Marco and Maddalena insisted we stop by their house, partly so Marco had an excuse to open up a bottle of white, of which we partook abstemiously, but also so they could give me my birthday present: a three-bottle gift pack of, yes, wine.

You will be reassured to know that none of the bottles has as yet been opened, today being another day of odds and ends and chores. These included Stephen stowing away the terrazzo chairs and tables as well as the bistro set from the front of the house in a definite sign that although the weather is again warm, sunny and dry, autumn is hovering in the wings. That can also only mean the great wardrobe changeover is imminent, but for now whilst we may have abandoned shorts for lightweight trousers and t-shirts might have given way to polo shirts, the time has not yet come for padded jackets, even if some of our weaker Italian brethren have already succumbed. There are some benefits from being toughened up by the British weather.