Signed up

7th February 2021

I was very much afeard that for the third week in a row there would be little of import with which to regale both my readers. I had, however, figured without the combined forces of both British and Italian bureaucracy to configure a complicated, if ultimately unexciting, story arc.

First things first: I received last weekend a letter from my bank saying that as my address was not in the UK I needed to provide documentation showing the countries (because, of course, I have multiple homes in multiple locations throughout the world) in which I was resident for tax purposes. I could send the original documents or copies, but in the latter case they would need to be authenticated by one of the respected pillars of the community listed in the notes accompanying the form. Our first instinct was to call on the services of Giordano, my erstwhile pupil and the first port of call for all such matters by the people of MSP.

Under normal circumstances we would just drop by the office to see if he was available or to fix a time for an appointment. However, even with giallo we were not sure what the situation was so I sent him a message via WhatsApp to say we needed some documents authorising and could we make an appointment. It was not till the next day that I received a reply, timed at 01.03 in the morning, which suggested that he was working as hard as ever, and saying he would ‘phone during the day. He didn’t because he was again too busy but he did send another message, this time at 23.59, to suggest 10.00 the next morning.

Unfortunately, as is the way with all these things, that was about the only time we couldn’t do as I had a date with Claudia, the dentist, but we did arrange to call at the office in the afternoon just after 4 o’clock. As in all the best narratives, I will leave the developing plot at this point to build up the tension as I backtrack a little to fill in the minor events that provide important local colour.

Tuesday morning, while the affair of the documents was keeping warm on the back boiler, we had the happiness of returning to Pina for breakfast but also an additional unexpected joy. When we were driving to Conad afterwards, we passed the latest improvement to communal life in Monte San Pietrangeli – the new bus stop. Actually, saying new bus stop is doing it a disservice, for where there was once just a post and sign there is now a gleaming new shelter atop its very own custom made concrete plinth complete with panoramic views across the sweeping countryside were it not for the frosted Perspex. Three cheers for the Comune.

Wednesday morning, as I said, was an appointment at the dentist, where Claudia took X-rays of my molars to check all was well, which it was as far as they were concerned. However there are a couple of small jobs of general maintenance required for which I will return in a month’s time. For those of you who might be a little concerned on my behalf to hear that I was taking the same route that last time resulted in my speeding fine humiliation, I can reassure you that I took it very steadily and can only hope that if anyone is going to be penalised this time it will be those drivers who overtook me. Mind you, it would be much easier to make sure you kept within the speed limit if the authorities helped a little by erecting the odd speed limit sign now and again, but where would the fun be in that, I suppose.

To return to the main plot…

After my lesson with Rocco and Alessandra I met up with Stephen just after 4 p.m. outside Giordano’s office and rang the bell. We were let in and had only a few minutes to wait until he arrived and ushered us into his office where we spent an hour chewing over the business. We should have known that things would not be as simple as we had hoped, for when we explained what we wanted Giordano said that it wasn’t something he could do as it did not fall within his legal remit, Italy being a land punctilious in its demarcation of roles and responsibilities. After an hour of reviewing the situation we left with a promise on Giordano’s part to be in touch with his lawyer (such lofty heights) to see if he was able to help and he would call the next day.

Before we get to that, there is the small matter of Wednesday also being the feast day of St Biagio, the town’s patron saint. Usually on this day the saint’s effigy is paraded around the town and a special service is held, with a street market on the following Sunday. This year, of course, there was none of that though there was the customary blessing of St Biagio’s bread in the crypt of the church (the main body still being out of commission due to the earthquakes four years ago now). We were fortunate to get our hands on a blessed roll courtesy of Manuel’s mother, who also gave Stephen our first lot of strappe, home made, of the Carnevale season when he called by on an outing with his bff. The blessing is significant as one of St Biagio’s areas of responsibility is the throat and its ailments, so eating a piece of his bread saves you from a year of sore throats.

Stephen was out and about with Manuel the next morning, managing to get as far, for some reason, as Ikea in Ancona, returning to my surprise with three new rugs, one for the back room and two for the bedroom. I can’t say that I was aware we were in need of these but am very happy to have them as the bedroom ones in particular, offer a cosier feel to the winter months.

It was while Stephen was out on his jaunt that Giordano got back to me, saying that he had spoken to his lawyer who said that really it was a job for a notary but he could verify the copies of the documents as they were not for use within the EU and he had done something similar before. His charge, he said, would be at least €50 per document and more if he had to have them translated into Italian. Once I was able to swallow again (St Biagio already proving his worth) I relayed this information to Stephen who shared it with his bff, the designated driver. A brief confab resulted in a decision to phone the Comune to speak with our old friend Fiorenza, who I’m sure was over the moon to hear from us as we have always had such simple requests to make of her and who said that if we called in the next morning she would see what she could do. And, she added, Stephen could take our election cards with us to hand in, as now we were extra-terrestrials we would not have any need of them in the future.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t take these cards with us as Stephen was unable to find them, not being with the other documents associated with our living in Italy. We did, though, after the customary haircut and Friday shopping, turn up with my residency certificate and the enlarged copy of my carta d’identità as well as two of the official stamps (at €16 a throw, expensive but cheaper than a lawyer) that have to be attached to all official documents. This proved a bit of a hiccup as when we stopped at Pina to buy them it was to be told that their machine was broken, which meant a quick trip back to Bar del Borgo, where we had had our breakfast and where we could have got them earlier if we had realised they also sold them.

After a few minutes’ wait in the square while Fiorenza popped out for her coffee break, she beckoned us into the foyer of the Comune (the furthest you can access in these restricted times) where we explained what we needed. Despite her puzzled look all proceeded well as she instructed a younger assistant to photocopy my documents, but then came the question of the voting cards. She was having no truck with Stephen saying that he had looked all over for them but couldn’t find them and claiming that we hadn’t received any in the first place. Off she went into the offices with an air of grim determination, returning a little later with the damning evidence of a sheet with our signatures on acknowledging receipt of said cards.

We looked suitably chastened and apologetic, and Stephen said that he would have another look and bring them in, but that wasn’t necessary, she said, as we could declare them lost. Enter the vigile, the town’s traffic warden and general troubleshooter for matters too minor to bother the police. Fortunately, he was in a fairly jolly mood, which was at odds with the last time Stephen had dealings with him, when he had been told off in a very officious manner for using the wrong door. So, while Fiorenza went off to stamp and sign the back of the copies, he got us to sign a form each to say that we had lost the voting cards. After a bit of friendly banter, because after all we are those stupid Englishmen who have to be humoured, Fiorenza reappeared with the authenticated forms and we scurried out before we got in trouble for something else – once the vigile had shown us how to open the door.

All that was left was to fill in the form for the bank and to put it with the evidence in an envelope. This we did today and the envelope is all ready to take to Paolo tomorrow to speed it on its way (a term used advisedly for postal communication between Italy and the UK). As for the voting forms, you will not be surprised, given the way these things work, that Stephen found them this afternoon, not with the house documents as we had thought but with the passports. We could, I suppose, take them to Fiorenza to prove that we are not quite as disorganised or incompetent as she thinks, but having signed the lost card form we most likely won’t. By now our reputation in the Comune is well established, for it seems our lot, if not in life at least in the corridors of parochial power, is to be perpetually misunderstood.