Power Up

9th June 2024

With the weather this week not being able to make its mind up what it wanted to do, other than become very hot, there was little surprise when last weekend’s sunshine broke on Monday morning and heavy rain set in just as we were returning from our walk.

Nor was it surprising when the electricity went off as I made with my duster, a short interruption to normal service not being exactly unknown during a heavy downpour. What was surprising was that the power didn’t seem to want to come back on, and an hour later when I’d finished my morning chores, I thought I better text Stephen to see if he’d heard about it on the MSP grapevine (which does stretch all the way to Montegranaro), for no electricity meant no shower.

In answer to my message he said that as far as he knew, nowhere else was affected. This was a bit concerning as I had checked the fuse box, which was ok, and as far as I could see through the rain the cables were still intact. After another half an hour I messaged again, asking what he suggested, and this time he got the hint and said he would come home and see what could be done. Nothing, in fact, as he found out when he drove past the former RemRom factory and discovered that someone when working on the electrics had managed to cut through a cable, thereby shutting off the power to a select circle of factories and houses in its vicinity and they weren’t able to say when it would be restored.

Other than hoping it wouldn’t be too long, otherwise it would have to be chilled soup for lunch, we were a bit powerless (sorry, I couldn’t resist) so I took Bella and Harry a little early for their midday walk, and was happy to find on our return that we were once again cooking on gas, or electric if you prefer, and with enough time for me to leave lunch preparations in Stephen’s hands so I could sit down to eat glowing from my ablutions.

If you are wondering why I’m making such a deal out of this, it’s to try to hide the fact that it was the only thing vaguely interesting during the week. Stephen got busier as the days got hotter, meaning our evening merenda on the terrazzo instead of the back sitting room, and, with the temperature hitting 30° (yes, a bit too hot for June) on Friday, prompting the momentous decision to move into shorts for the shopping trip to Coal.

Things got a bit more serious yesterday morning when Irene of the floating house and her father returned with the geologist who came to give his assessment of the situation. Again there was much wandering around the house, both inside and outside, followed by sitting at the table and chewing over the fat before a sort of decision was reached – which was to sink two monitors, one by the house and one by the well, and use them to assess what is happening over the period of a year as it is important to see what, if any, effect the different seasons have.

The geologist was sort of upbeat about the whole thing, saying that just because the cracks were worse didn’t necessarily mean that the house or the land was moving significantly. He also thought that with the pipes being sorted that might make a difference – though he did wonder why we didn’t take advantage of all the water in the well which came free. Maybe because it’s easier to turn on the hosepipe and aim the nozzle than lug buckets of water to the orto. If only it occurred to us to install an automatic pump, which could have the knock on effect of reducing any water swilling about under the house, but there we are. As for securing the house, Irene will sort out some interim measures once she has got her wedding out of the way, and then, when we have the full information sometime next year, we can decide exactly how much work we want, or are able, to do.

What else this weekend?

After he’d taken the triumvirate back up the road, Stephen went out and picked a healthy boxful of cherries from our tree. It, like Mario and Luigi’s, was heavy with ruby ripe fruit but, unlike them, we hadn’t had to resort to misleading signs to keep them safe from passers-by, mainly because we don’t have any. There are still quite a few left should any happen to be in the vicinity, but as they can only be reached by a ladder, not the wisest method given the rake of the banking, they are probably safe. The ones he did harvest are now macerating in vodka and sugar for two months, after which we should have a couple of bottles of liqueur. The recipe says you can also eat the cherries, though on past experience as most of the flavour has seeped into the spirit, by a process of symbiosis what you actually ingest is more vodka than fruit.

Yesterday evening we went to Macerata for dinner, favouring Sugo again with our presence, and again enjoying, as part of our starters, two of their latest polpette creations – pea and ricotta, and cauliflower, potato and ginger. Gnam gnam, as they say locally.

Our Sunday morning beach walk came to a bit of hiatus when we opted to stay home instead. There were two or three reasons for this. One was that while it was still very hot (31° and rising at lunchtime), it was a dull and overcast day, not the sort of sky that suggests sand and sea. Another was Stephen’s promise to Irene yesterday that he would definitely, definitely find all the documents related to the house. A profitable couple of hours spent with all the folders at the table resulted not only in him holding aloft the papers triumphantly, but all the other important files and documents sorted into logical groups, meaning that my mini printer, normally used only to produce labels for things for tubs going into the freezer, got to roll out GAS and BANK and WATER instead.

The third reason for cancelling the walk was that Stephen had had to retire injured. Although he looked much to advantage in his white boat shoes last night in Macerata, his ankle socks unfortunately were not quite up to the job, slipping down uncooperatively around his heel leaving his ankle exposed – and we all know what danger lies that way and who amongst us hasn’t been there? But there again, it would show a distinct lack of character if you let the prospect of a couple of days hobbling like Mrs Overall deter you from strutting your stuff.