Shiver me timbers

31st December 2023

Whilst the end of the week may not have panned out quite as we’d planned, we have no complaints about the way it began – with Christmas Day. What’s not to like?

With no lunch to prepare, we were able to enjoy a leisurely morning of opening presents, walking the dogs and making ourselves ready for our luncheon date. We’d asked Maddalena what time to arrive when we saw Marco and her on Saturday, though the response of anytime didn’t narrow it down quite as much as we’d hoped. Well, she said, 11.30, or earlier, they’d be there from about 10. Taking a British approach, we thought midday would be about right – and we were right, arriving after her uncle and his partner but before her auntie and while Chiara, her sister, and Daniele, her partner, were still visiting a neighbour and  Marco was finishing off the grilled meats, for the fifth course, on the barbecue on the terrazzo, whose clear panoramic view across the surrounding countryside is one of the finest I’ve seen in the area.

Maddalena’s parents were very pleased with the festive tree, and also with the magnum of spumante that we took as a little contribution. They welcomed us as part of the family, and with final preparations done, the return of Chiara and Daniele – and, to much relief, of their cat, Tony, who had gone into hiding in protest at being transported from Lake Como - it was time to eat. It was a suitably modest affair, starting with a plate of mixed antipasti, including homemade crema and olive all’ascolana, then two primi, two secondi and finally dolce, so not much really. There was plenty of joviality to aid digestion, especially when Maddalena’s aunt, who relished an audience, entertained the table with various anecdotes, but by the time the family had exchanged gifts and caffè and digestivi had been drunk it was half-past three and time for us to make a tactful withdrawal.

There were protests, of course, but we pleaded the dogs which was accepted with the rider that we must come back later to play cards. We smiled enigmatically, not least imagining the chaos of Stephen being involved with a game involving sequencing and numbers, gave our thanks and headed home. Bella and Harry were very pleased to see us, and after our afternoon walk we all crashed out, relaxed, managed a few more goodies to celebrate the day and went early to bed. Perfect.

San Stefano (or Boxing Day, as you prefer) was blissfully quiet at home, well, apart from Stephen making the most of a day off to do the ironing before returning to work on Wednesday. He was due at a factory in Sant’Elpidio al Mare at ten, an appointment that came through from the boss on Saturday afternoon, which meant we could squeeze in belated quality time and breakfast together at Pina before I did a spot of shopping for perishables.

I drove round to Conad and he hastened not to the factory but to the office in Montegranaro. A heartfelt plea received from Cecilia while we were quaffing cappuccini said Bertrando had taken over that duty, but she was in desperate need of moral support and where was he. I’m not sure how urgent it all was, as the biggest dilemma still seemed to be the question of the office Christmas dinner. If you recall, Thursday had been mooted as a rescheduled date, but Wednesday passed without a decision and the rumour on Thursday (if you can have a rumour amongst a staff of three, including the boss) was that it would be Friday. Stephen scotched that idea, or at least tried to, saying that he had already planned to go to the pub with me. Anyone would think he wasn’t totally entering into the spirit of things.

To bring yet another one of my less than gripping narrative threads to a conclusion, it was probably just as well the dinner was postponed again (25th January now, I believe) as with the various things to clear up at work before the end of the year it was seven before Stephen made it home, though our dinner date at the pub didn’t work out either. We drove up after I finished my lesson, but when we got out of the car it was to see a totally dark and very closed Mcintosh.  That threw us into confusion, as it’s not like there’s a lot of alternative choices in the area but Stephen suggested we try Civico 24, a self-styled Italian restaurant (ie, pizza, pasta and burgers) he passes every time he goes to the office in Montegranaro.

I am sure it is just a coincidence and the fact that when I left the restaurant I began to start shaking uncontrollably, and not stop till sometime around two in the morning after Stephen had wrapped a thick cover over our duvet to keep me warm, had nothing to do with the beer, the food or the service, all of which were very acceptable. It was though the start of a bad bout of flu that confined me to bed for the duration. In all of our discussions about how to see in the New Year we never thought to include the option of one of us being zonked out by a virus and the other playing Florence Nightingale. As I say, it’s an option, but maybe one I can’t wholeheartedly recommend.

Not that Stephen could afford the luxury of lounging around as the full weight of responsibility for looking after the house, me and dogs fell on his shoulders. Yesterday morning he was bobbing about for one reason and another, including checking on bff Manuel and his chosen look for his New Year’s Eve outing, and then this morning he was out again as he decided that maybe I was in need of some medication.

As luck would have it, the chemist in the village was open – or it was until a couple of minutes before Stephen drove into the square. The nice pharmacist was just locking up, and looking dressed up for a luncheon date with her husband who was hanging around. “Are you open?” mouthed Stephen as he passed her. Well no, but yes for while he was able to pull into a parking space serendipitously vacated moments before, she reopened the shop (you don’t get that with Superdrug). Apparently, half the village has either flu or Covid, she said, which confirmed what Manuel had said the day before, his mother being one of the former, as she gave him a pack of strong paracetamol, sachets to mix up as a balm for my chest and a Covid test.

This latter proved negative when I did it on his return, which means that it is indeed good old-fashioned flu. I guess it is a moot point which is worse, though Stephen without wishing me ill had been hoping for an excuse to quarantine at home next week. Ah well, we can’t always get what we want, though I’d have been happy to settle for not getting what I didn’t want.