Start me up

1st September 2024

With Stephen on an unprecedented third week of holiday (almost, he did have to spend Wednesday dealing with an urgently needed sample), and the work on the lumber room more or less completed, he started the week with a well-earned beach day on Monday, in a quiet spot somewhere in the vicinity of Pedaso. I held the fort at home and fitted in my afternoon lesson, so wasn’t there to rub cream onto his upper back, that spot where you just can’t reach no matter how much you contort yourself, which accounts for why his shoulder blades were glowing more than the rest of him.

Tuesday was Ikea day. We were in good time for our appointment with Constantino and his computer, and it all went very smoothly indeed – well, it did once we moved desks because one of his colleagues took umbrage that he was sitting where she had been working earlier. He brought up the design program, controlling it on his monitor and a second one that faced us, fed in the room measurements (including windows, doors and radiator) that Stephen gave him, then whizzed through the side menu to of fixtures and fittings to populate the two opposite corners of the plan with L-shaped wardrobes using the modules available.

We were very happy with the combination of hanging space, drawer space and shelf space, we were happy with the choice of doors, dark grey and panelled as on the display we saw two weeks before, and with the long black door handles we chose, though we vetoed the narrow cupboard he suggested to maximise the space as while we liked the idea and the usefulness of a mirrored door, the steel edging just didn’t vibe with our overall look. The plans were finalised, a delivery date sorted (25th September as the one initially offered clashed with Stephen being in Milan), and contact details for the fitters established. We paid, shook hands and left – only stopping for new pasta plates, two storage boxes and two bags of their frozen meatballs on the way to the car.

Thursday morning we took Harry to the vet to make sure he had his annual injections in good time before he goes into kennels in October when we are away. It was just as well, as the nice lady vet, who must have been the locum while our usual one is on holiday, said that his four-yearly rabies injection was also due, and you have to leave at least three weeks between this one and his others. A return visit for the last week of September has been booked, which is still within our window of opportunity.

In the evening it was the last roundup at the summer market in Fermo. Of course we had to go, and of course we had to have aperitivo at Art Asylum, with Stephen promising the nice lady we would be back before Christmas – unless she decides to close again, if only briefly like last year. It was a bit of a greatest hits tour, stopping to buy some flavoured honey (pomegranate, lemon, and hazelnut) from the man from Rapagnano; take a coffee at Foschi, and buy two bottles of their very good coffee liqueur, one gift wrapped, ready as a Christmas present; some packets of spices, and a bottle of vino cotto. Wait, I hear you say, didn’t you just get one last week? Yes, and a litre one at that, but it’s all down to forward planning. If you’ve been keeping a tally of our summer hoard, you will know that with Thursday’s two acquisitions we should have enough digestivi, at a small glass each with ice after dinner, to see us through the long nights ahead.

It was the second beach day of the week for Stephen on Friday, again in near splendid isolation, giving him the chance to float in the sea and sleep under the umbrella so pretty perfect all round. As for Harry and me, our exciting moment came during our afternoon walk when we passed the corner of the copse behind the house and surprised the hare that was taking a moment to itself. Naturally, it hared off across the field (sorry, I couldn’t resist it) while Harry strained at the leash as the terrier spirit kicked in. “Fat chance of catching it,” I told him, but he didn’t seem convinced.

Yesterday started off with a bang, literally, as Stephen managed to fall out of bed and crash onto the floor some time just shy of 5.45. He said it was because he was walking Harry in his dream and they had to jump over something, but I’m more inclined to the theory that it’s because he sleeps right on the edge of the bed, an accident waiting to happen. Fortunately, while his arm took a bit of a hit there were no real after effects apart from a blister on his elbow which we think must be a friction burn, and him changing his mind about how it happened and saying I pushed him. Don’t tempt me.

The day did get better after that, especially in the evening with a trip to Girasole and then dinner at a new (to us) place, Yaya Sushi, five minutes or less further on from the shopping mall in a most unprepossessing location. That it is in a double-decker row of shops selling things like power tools, identical to the building next to it, just over the railings, each with its own carparking area had led us to dismiss its possibilities. The website gave us confidence when we checked it when discussing where we could eat, post-shopping, and as we were more than happy to further our investigations of the all-you-can-eat menus to be found locally it seemed a good idea.

I can happily report that we were very pleased with our decision. The service was speedy and friendly, the food just as good, and in some cases better, than Diver-Xo, and the ambience with darker décor and a lower ceiling more conducive to a romantic dinner for two. All this and a fishpond in the middle with a little bridge over it, what more could you want? Maybe not the woman, who may or may not have been the owner or his wife, parading round the tables with her baby in her arms and stopping at each for him/her to be admired, but it made her happy.

Stephen managed to stay in bed all night until the alarm went off, but we still woke to disturbing sounds this morning. The 1st of September equals the official start of the hunting season, and judging by the gun shots there were several making an early start. We closed the gate at the top of the steps to keep Harry confined to the terrazzo, just in case, and as we were out for our beach walk, he wasn’t due to have his morning walk till later on, after we had returned, by which time the hunters would all be heading home for lunch.

As it happened, he forwent his walk, and he may be forgiven for thinking he’d been abandoned altogether as we were two hours late in getting back. The curse that seems to be upon us where cars are concerned struck again and when we returned to the Renegade to head home it wouldn’t start. Out of hope, or maybe desperation, Stephen kept trying the ignition, and then getting out, locking and reopening the doors just in case the system might reset and stop flashing warning messages on the display screen and actually start. It didn’t.

Our insurance includes membership of ACI, the Italian equivalent of the RAC, so Stephen phoned their number. He made the mistake, however, of choosing English from the voice menu, and after fifteen minutes of it ringing out, he got me to phone again and stick with Italian. Even then, as is the case these days, I didn’t get to speak to an actual person, instead after I entered our membership details it sent, via text, a link to a webpage to enter all the information regarding the car, the problem and our location (thank you the automatic input from Google maps), all of which was sent off into the ether.

You might have thought we would have received confirmation, but with nothing forthcoming and time ticking on, Stephen started on a second course of action (well third really, seeing as our go to resource, bff Manuel wasn’t answering his phone) in locating a rescue service in the area. He found a number, called it and the man said he would be with us in the next half hour. It was as this conversation was concluding that I received a message from ACI saying that a tow truck would be arriving, probably in an hour’s time.  What to do? Well, take the first to arrive, the local man, even if we might have to pay a bit more. How to notify ACI that we no longer needed them was now the rub, the only option seeing as organisations now do everything in their power to avoid actually dealing in person with clients, was to send a reply to their presumably automatically generated message. 

The local man arrived earlier than he said, and a lugubrious soul he was but he seemed to know what he was about so we overlooked the lack of a cheerily reassuring face. He pretty soon figured out it was the battery and started it with one of those jump starters before telling us to follow him to his base. This was only five minutes away, and on the road home, and when we arrived at the gates of the garage, resplendent on the sign were the letters ACI – so the man Stephen phoned and the man sent by the recovery service were one and the same. We thought it would be a quick job for him to replace the battery, but it turned out to be over half an hour. He spent some time shouting at someone on the phone before swapping the batteries, and then said he needed to run some checks.

These seemed to involve him getting in and out of the car, shaking his head a lot and sighing, and looking even more doom-laden than before until he must have become bored with it all as, without seeming to actually do anything, he said it was ok and we could go. First, though, we had to pay (by card, though through the nose would have worked just as well), which was again somewhat protracted as Mr Happy had to field phone calls, with as much bad grace as he could muster, asking for assistance.

One has to sympathise. It must be awful operating a vehicle recovery service and then have people ring you up for assistance. I only hope the X-rated swear words he used when hanging up relieved some of his frustration, because I’ve made a note of them for the next time our car curse hits.