The shape of water

18th September 2022

After the Freeclimber hogging all the limelight, it was the turn of the Panda to take centre stage, albeit in something of a cameo role, when we dropped it off at Ivano’s (we are expecting to be invited to the Christmas do, after all we have probably paid for it) on Tuesday morning when we went to do the shopping. The instructions were to look at the cause of the warning light I mentioned a while ago now, which was more than likely for a rear braking light, check the handbrake, which needs a hefty pull up to engage, and generally give it a thorough examination.

As Stephen was out all day, it wasn’t till the evening that we could collect the Panda, and as he didn’t get home till just before my first lesson with my new student, he had to go himself. He left the Freeclimber at the zona industriale car park, a couple of minutes round the corner from the garage but when he got there the place was all locked up with no one in sight. The keys had been left in the ignition so he was able to drive it away, but before he did so he thought he better let someone know he was taking it. He phoned Ivano’s number, who seemed a little surprised that Stephen had called – and when he asked about settling the bill, Ivano answered in that offhand Marche way that there was no hurry, pay whenever.

Stephen actually dropped by on Thursday morning, but before that there was the little matter of collecting the Freeclimber from the car park, for which he devised a cunning plan, one he outlined when I came up after my lesson. As we had to drive up to the zona industriale, we might as well continue to the pub, being halfway there (sort of, if you’re being generous), then collect the car on the way back. I dithered a little, but then Stephen said those magic words, “My treat,” so that settled it. What excuses some people will come up with for a plate of tortellini and another glass of Death’s Head beer.

After a temperate period where the weather was concerned, things changed somewhat dramatically overnight on Thursday, when the forecast storms materialised. Our sleep was disturbed firstly by Harry, sensing something was coming, whimpering, and then, as the wind and the rain intensified, in getting up to close all the shutters. Things were calmer and clearer by morning, with little sign of the tempest of a few hours earlier other than a lot of leaves on the terrazzo and downstairs, and the odd branch lying around. The road, though, had taken a battering, with a few more channels appearing and a shifting of the surface.

We had, however, as we found out later, got off very lightly compared with the line of devastation only 40 kilometres or so north from us, stretching from inland near the mountains to the coast at Ancona. The photos and films online and on the evening news on Friday of the flash floods sending rivers of mud, metres deep, through the streets of various towns, a roiling torrent causing dreadful damage as well as the loss of at least eleven lives, were truly shocking. Our hearts and our prayers are with the victims of this catastrophe.

We had no awareness of all this on Friday morning as we drove to Civitanova for Stephen to catch his usual 8.12 train to begin his trip to Milan for MICAM and Linea Pelle. We set off extra early, with Stephen driving, as roadworks on the superstrada where we join it had been causing delays and traffic jams earlier in the week. Fortunately, at just after 7 a.m. it was still clear, so he didn’t have to change routes at the last minute. My return home, though, was a little delayed, firstly because just as I was about to leave the station car park Stephen phoned me to say that he still had my debit card, having used it to pay for the car the previous day. We rendezvoused and he handed it over, which fortunately for me will severely curtail his spending options in Milan.

The second thing was that while we had been able to get on the superstrada at the usual place, the exit was closed, meaning I had to go to the next one. This was no big problem, but I was delayed when I hit a line of traffic on the way to Monte San Giusto. It wasn’t till I got round the bend that the reason revealed itself, and the first indication of problems from the night before, as there was a digger clearing all the mud that had slipped onto the road from the fields next to it. Still, it wasn’t that much of a delay, and I was back in good time to take the dogs for their walk prior to showering and heading into downtown MSP to do the shopping – or I should have been if the bathroom hadn’t decided to think otherwise.

I don’t wish to offend anyone of a delicate nature, who thinks, like the Victorians, that the legs of a piano should be covered up in case the sight of pieces of turned wood inflames the passions, so I will be circumspect. The problem arose after I had done the usual necessities required when one arrives back home, and the flush would not stop flushing with water continuously cascading into the toilet bowl.

Let me explain something here, so you get a clear picture. The flush is controlled by a panel above the bowl, which triggers the cistern inside the wall. The panel, as is common these days, has two discs, one larger than the other so you can choose a reasonable flush (the one we usually use) or a super flush if the need arises. This cascading water has occurred on the odd occasion before, but a gentle push of the smaller disc would reset the mechanism and bring it to a stop. This time, when I pushed it, nothing happened, nor did I feel any resistance, so I pushed the larger one. This released another torrent of water, that kept going, and going, and going, and nothing I could do would stop it.

Of course, I phoned Stephen as I needed to know where he kept his tools so I could turn the isolating valve to the bathroom’s cold water supply (the knobs covering the hot and cold valves having long ago become decorative rather than functional) to shut it off. After a bit of a search, for while the tool kit had a plethora of spanners, none of which were the correct fit, the only pair of pincers was well hidden at the bottom. I used them and stopped the flow, and thankfully the decision as to what to do next was taken out of my hands.

Stephen, who’d been trying to monitor all this via a WhatsApp video link, then called to say that help was on its way, and you won’t be very surprised that it was arriving in the shape of Manuel (who had had a similar problem, Stephen said). I went to meet him at the top of the road and brought him to the house, and indeed he worked his wonders achieving a partial solution. He managed to ease the outer cover off the panel, and the plastic cover for the internal mechanism; then, with a twist here, a flick there, and more than the odd poke, he managed to get the larger section working but the smaller one was well and truly kaput.

He replaced everything, apologising that he wasn’t able to get it fully operational. That was fine by me, at least I could turn the water back on which meant that I would be able to shower and do all my other ablutions, and as for the toilet until Stephen returned and we could sort out a plumber, a bucket would suffice (those Victorians again).

I took Manuel back to his car and thanked him profusely for yet again coming to our rescue. “I’m offended,” he said. “Don’t say thank you, there is no need to say thank you. If I can help my friends, then I am happy.” In which case, we must bring unbounded joy into his life.

That, though, wasn’t the end of my dealings with things aquatic. Yesterday, when I got up and let the dogs into the garden to occupy themselves while I got dressed for our early morning walk, it was to the sound of running water. At first, I thought it must be coming off the field and down the channels by the side of the road, but as it had been dry for over twenty-four hours I realised what it must be. Sure enough, minutes later when I went downstairs it was to find that someone who had been using the hosepipe to water the pots on Thursday evening had not turned off the tap and the join in the pipes had blown at some point during the night. There were two nice little paddling pools, one at the foot of the persimmon tree and one at the bottom of the steps, so the water must have been gushing for some time. Still, I consoled myself with the thought that no matter how much water had been wasted by that and the broken flush, it was as nothing as when our supply pipe sprung a leak and we were watering Mario and Luigi’s field.

If that wasn’t enough, there was a reprise of Thursday’s storms. After lunch yesterday, I took Bella and Harry into the garden as it was too hot to go for a walk, but could see, up the valley, dark clouds bearing down on us. I thought we might be ok for a few minutes, but a smattering of raindrops told me otherwise, and really I shouldn’t have dithered knowing how quickly the storms come. Sure enough, by the time we got back upstairs, the wind was rattling around the house and the rain was intensifying, and it was all I could do to grab the shutters and bring them together, against the power of the wind, to close and lock.

Actually, the wind did help a little, as when I opened the French windows onto the terrazzo, to take hold of the shutters there, the one of the left was a struggle whereas the right one was caught by a strong gust and whipped closed, smacking into my forehead in the process. The good news is that I don’t seem to be suffering from concussion; the bad news is that there is a bit of a lump, sore to the touch, but no bruising so I don’t look like a battle-scarred hero – which is more than can be said for the Mogliani brother’s barn. Although yesterday’s tempest was short-lived it was still fierce enough, to lift one of the sheets of corrugated iron on the roof and bend it at very jaunty angle. Let’s just hope we don’t have a third onslaught, this time from the opposite direction, to try to blow it back.