Life in the slow lane

8th September 2024

After all the recent excitement and gallivanting, with Stephen back at work properly this past week has returned to whatever passes as normal everyday life, though one of our not infrequent impressive storms on Monday afternoon added a touch of drama.

We were forecast a spot of rain early in the week, but when the usual overture of high winds and gathering dark clouds signalled that it might be coming earlier and more fiercely than predicted the main show didn’t disappoint. At least I had time to close all the shutters against the buffeting downpour, but Harry was still far from happy. While it didn’t blow itself out completely in the twenty minutes or so that it lasted, the rest of the day was just drizzly and dull. Fortunately, the road held up well, but the storm did deposit a generous amount of natural debris on the terrazzo.

I have learnt from past experience not to be too precipitous in making with the sweeping brush, having to keep an eye on the weather app to make sure what I tidy up doesn’t come swirling back a day later. The portents looked favourable by the end of the week so everything is again spick and span… for now.   

It’s just as well I left the sweeping till yesterday otherwise the excitement might have peaked too early.  Admittedly, the men laying new pipes had made it onto Mario and Luigi’s field by Friday (where they are coming from and where they are going and what they are connecting is anybody’s guess) which caused a small frisson of interest. That couldn’t compete though with Bar del Borgo running out of plates and cups when we breakfasted there in the morning. Not only did we have our cappuccini in glasses more used to scoops of ice cream but we had to go old school and hold our pastries in a piece of paper, designed for such eventualities, from the countertop dispenser.

That yesterday morning saw Stephen making his fourth visit to the ecocentro might suggest he just can’t keep away, but there were legitimate reasons other than fending off withdrawal symptoms. Partly it was to take a pile of paper and cardboard that he had accumulated, and partly it was to take the plastic that warranted another nowty note left on the bag by the collection man the other morning. It wasn’t the bag itself this time, but what Stephen had put in it; he was trying to sneak, bit by bit, some old protective flooring in with the day-to-day waste but no chance. He did have the grace to look sheepish and accept that this time he was definitely in the wrong so no trip to the Comune to complain followed.

After its summer break the pub reopened for business at the end of August, a perfect opportunity, we thought, yesterday evening, to have burger and chips and try Harry with another trip out.  It all seemed to be going well and Harry had settled down nicely on the floor, watching the comings and goings from the kitchen, when he suddenly started barking in his own inimitable way. A woman had come in with another dog (at least I think it was, it might have been a large rodent from the look of it, which would have explained Harry’s terrier instinct kicking in) and was standing talking at the bar. She, and those with her, were eating outside, but Harry being Harry and terriers being terriers, even when they disappeared from view and we had bundled him up onto the corner of the banquet he was still grumbling and trying to get back down. Fortunately, the food arrived shortly afterwards, which distracted him – and us.

With Stephen being away next weekend, today was definitely the last beach walk of the season – and while there were more than a smattering of people enjoying the very pleasant sunshine, walking and playing with their children, on the sand and in the sea, the various chalets along the shore were virtually deserted.

We were more than relieved when we got back to the car and it started without any problem - superstition making us a little nervous – and getting back home on time meant we could keep to our afternoon schedule of dismantling one of the wardrobes in the “dressing toom”. Stephen, with his organising head on, has been forward planning for when our Ikea order arrives. At least this time the doors came off on purpose, rather than falling on our heads.

As if Harry’s vocal performance wasn’t enough, there was a more alarming moment at the pub last night when Stephen noticed that one of his wedding rings was missing. One, because if you recall, he lost his ring a few years ago and I bought him a replacement for his birthday. The prodigal ring then turned up well over a year later in a pair of shoes – in a suitcase in the lumber room, of course. Since then he has worn both, the newer one under the older one, and has made them secure with a ring size adjuster. He took this out the other week, though, as his fingers were (a) getting fatter or (b) swelling up in the summer heat, depending on your viewpoint. Not a good move as he discovered when he looked at his hand and saw only one.

Needless to say he was really upset, particularly as it was the original ring that was awol again. We really thought there was no hope of it turning up this time, convinced that it was in a container at the ecocentro having come off while he was sorting the card and the plastic. But no, he found it later this afternoon, in the washing machine. Smiles all round, and on this occasion he and the ring were parted for less than 24 hours. We do need to find a way to make sure it doesn’t happen a third time, however - any suggestions, short of welding it to his finger, gratefully received.