It's not what you know...

17th January 2021

They say that confession is good for the soul, and this past week I should have been walking a little lighter and with my head a little higher after unburdening the guilt of my (or is that Stephen’s?) speeding fine. Should have because, if I am being honest, we have not been keeping strictly to that path that is known as straight and narrow.

The start of the week saw things returning to something approaching normality, and not just because Stephen finally finished his books on Monday and sent them with a gladsome heart to his accountant. As we were again in a yellow zone it meant a return to Pina on Tuesday morning before shopping at Conad, and it was there that we not only flirted with the dark side once again but also tried to entangle innocent bystanders into our nefarious ways. Let me set the scene.

I have for some time now been assiduously sticking onto our leaflet the promotional stamps we have received when paying for our shopping (one for every €15 spent, which seems a tad mean as Sigma/Coal gives you one for every €10 when they have an offer). Our aim was to amass 45 stamps so we could trade them in with an additional payment in ready money for a set of five Tupperware freezer containers, which, as the tag lines says, “Congelare diventa un gioco da ragazzi” (or “makes freezing child’s play” to you and me). Our problem is that as we only shop there once a week, and as we are not buying in for an extended family, we have only managed to scrape together 43 stamps, two short of our target.

All hope is not lost, however, as when this week’s purchases had gone through the till Stephen put on his best Oliver Twist expression and explained our dilemma to the nice lady behind the conveyor belt. Her response was a little deflating considering we had screwed our courage to the sticking point in order to defraud a multi-million euro business out of two promotional stamps: “That’s ok,” she said, “only we don’t have any in stock so they’ll have to be ordered.” Talk about an anti-climax – and we’ll have to go through it all again next week though I think I might have to review the situation as my nerves just won’t stand it; I don’t think I was cut out for a life of crime. And if that wasn’t enough, when we had stopped at the meat counter, the butcher had slipped Stephen an extra bit of sausage after he’d weighed our requested four as, he said, it was only a little bit of a one. Where will the degeneracy end?

The next couple of days were fairly quiet, though I did have a new conversation partner on Wednesday morning, Marco, ex of Rome and now decamped to a small town which, from what he said, sounds like an Umbrian version of MSP, and who was very jolly indeed. Friday saw another slight change as my lessons with the Montegranaro two went back online due to Diego’s brush with a positive person (and I’m not referring to his sunny outlook on life).

Which brings to yesterday and this year’s hunt for a health card.

Regular visitors to these pages will know that every year we renew our tessera sanitaria to access state health provision, or at least the first rung of it. This is usually a protracted process needing the best part of a week for visits to the spotello in Fermo hospital and the Post Office. This year, however, has been different thanks to Manual, Stephen’s bff, international jet set business man and our now go to Red Adair of the Italian bureaucracy. Not only was he able to locate and contact a very helpful lady in the offices at Fermo general who was able to access the relevant information and, thanks to Mr M’s honeyed tongue, went out of her way to be of assistance.

Not only did she know the amount we had to pay for this year, she also filled out the forms for us and emailed them to Mr M. These were then printed off, meaning all Stephen had to do was go early doors to the post office yesterday morning to beat the rush and pay the charge and have them officially. He then returned to see his bff who scanned and sent them back to the helpful and surprisingly well-informed lady. If that was not enough, to add further joy, we have requested to be registered with the new lady doctor at Francavilla whose praises everyone seems to be singing - not least because she actually operates under an appointment system. So, hopefully, no more dealing with the truculent doctor that went out of his way to be unaccommodating over my certificate of good health nor having to turf up at the surgery (a word I use very lightly) and wait your turn with all the other hopefuls.

And that was about that, though yesterday I did speak with my second new conversation contact of the week and the third of the month (what makes you think it’s January, the time of new starts and resolutions). He is called Giovanni (please don’t pronounce the ‘i’), lives in Rome and, if I understood his Italian correctly, has something to do with filming television programmes for RAI. This now brings my current stable of Conversation Exchange partners to six; more than enough I think as any more will turn a pleasure into a chore - though after a brief flirtation with yellow, a return to being an orange zone next week along with the areas of Italy that are not red, maybe I might find I have more time on my hands than I know what to do with.