What, a fiasco?

24th October 2021

Despite having said goodbye to our summer wear over the weekend followed by putting the terrazzo furniture into storage downstairs on Tuesday, the start of the week gave a lie to all this by being both sunny and warm enough, in the afternoon, to leave the front door open for Harry and Bella to pad in and out. Not that we regretted our decision, because as is the nature of the time of year the rest of the week was more than a little mixed, with bright days and dull, drizzly ones intermingling. This caused a little chagrin on Thursday when Stephen used a fence post in the garden to host a new, solar powered light, so positioned to illuminate the bottom of the outside steps, the side of the house and the path at the front, all of which are in shadow, and the dull day meant we weren’t able to judge its effectiveness until Friday night. Fortunately, it gave satisfaction, so all was well. What would we do without first world problems…

Speaking of which, I spent some quality time, along with Stephen whose phone I had to borrow, when I called up HSBC to enquire about my application for a bank account, working on the basis that allowing over three weeks since I uploaded my documents was more than generous. Anyone who has ever tried to contact a bank in the wonderful new world in which we operate will know that it is not easy, starting from the first challenge of following a convoluted trail on their website to find a telephone number.

The one I eventually found for calling from overseas was the same for both customers and non-customers, so I had to sit tight and ignore instructions to enter my account details hoping it would then put me through to a real person. This it sort of did, for getting no response out of me to its first request, after a brief pause the system offered me a second menu, including a new account option. Having selected this, and being warned that they were experiencing heavy customer traffic, I settled down and waited… and waited… and waited until after some twenty minutes someone answered – only the line was so bad that Marconi’s first transatlantic radio transmission would seem like being via fiber-optics communication in comparison.

We had no choice but to hang up and start again, and after a similar time frame I at last spoke with a nice young man, who was able to look into my query once we had surmounted a slight communication difficulty when he asked if I had an RUK number (I did) and I thought he was asking me if I had: “…our U.K. number.” How we laughed.

After this amusing interlude, it only took about a further twenty-five minutes whilst he placed me on hold two or three times to communicate with other colleagues to come up with an answer. Apparently, my application had been closed but he said he would reactivate it allowing me a 24-hour window to upload my proof of address (yes, it was as I had suspected) and then it would all be sorted.

Thankfully we had a recent water bill, which I immediately scanned and uploaded to my application, which would have been plain sailing if not for having to tick the box confirming it was in English. I was a little nonplussed: how are you supposed to have a utility bill in English if you are making an application as an EU resident? I ticked it anyway, uploaded it and sent it on its merry way, with fingers crossed but not, I have to say, particularly hopefully – which may be justified as at the time of writing I have had no further communication other than a message on Friday that I needed to upload my documents to continue with my application. I feel another call to HSBC, subcontinent division, coming on.

On a brighter note, Monday did see Stephen straining our fig and star anise liqueur that had finished its thirty days steeping, before adding the sugar syrup he had made and bottling it. We will let it mature for a while before pouring a glass for the tonsils, but if its wonderfully deep purply-rose colour is anything to go by it will be a delayed gratification to cheer us during the winter months.

Wednesday was notable for two things, one being our first fire of the season in the evening and the other Stephen reversing into the moveable washing line that he had made to order for my birthday when we first came to Italy – it being a welded iron frame about two metres in length with six lines on which to hang the washing. The problem with backing into it is that while the car emerged unscathed, the washing line tumbled to earth and broke more or less into its component pieces. What to do? Why, call Franco, who made it for us in the first place, to see if it were salvable.

Franco appeared the following afternoon and said that yes, he probably could fix it if Stephen could get the parts to his workshop as he no longer has a van, what with him having stopped his mobile greengrocer and general handyman about town businesses in favour of a pleasanter and more secure position working in the gardens at Villa Bianco, a local restaurant and wedding venue. This Stephen did the following afternoon. We have had no further word since then, but unlike with the stonily silent HSBC, we are hopeful that all is going well with the patient.

With the arrival of the end of October a common sight wherever you go has been large pieces of netting at strategic points on the roads and bankings of the area as families gather for the olive harvest. Our first brush with it was on Tuesday morning when Mario and Luigi had to gather up their nets so we could drive past their trees, while Computer Luca declared himself unavailable during daylight hours from Friday to Sunday. Meanwhile at Marzia’s house, both her brother and sister came back from university in Milan to help with their family harvest, so you can see how important a business it all is.

Not having trees ourselves but always happy to invest in some fresh, local produce Stephen stopped on our way back to ask the Mogliani brothers, once they had again cleared a path, if they would have any oil going for ready money, as last year they sold all their olives to a third party. Yes, said Luigi, which is why as I was driving out on Friday to go to my lesson he hailed the car for me to stop, whereupon his face fell when he saw it wasn’t Stephen. “He’s at home,” I told him when he enquired as to the whereabouts of the more dialetto conversant member of the family, whereupon he took a deep breath and told me to tell Stephen to come up with the fiasco as the oil was ready.

At least that is what I thought he said, but in I was in some doubt that I had heard correctly for while fiasco is not an unhelpful word for our dealings with the MS Pietrangeli Two, it seemed a strange one to attach to olive oil production. To confirm I was on the right lines I asked when Stephen should come up, to which a shrugged reply suggested that any time that evening would be ok, but that turned out to be a bit of a moveable feast.

When I returned from the lesson around 4.30, I told Stephen who set off a little later to go to Giordano’s, the ferramenta, for a five litre can for the oil, or, if you prefer, the fiasco (so I had heard correctly), only when he stopped on his way back the brothers were conspicuous by their absence, as they were on Saturday, and on Sunday. It’s reassuring to know, though, that a shrugged suggestion is just as reliable an any other means of making an appointment in Italy.

As for the weekend, Stephen had to go to Acqua e Sapone on his own yesterday afternoon as I was busy with other bits and pieces, including the restart of my lessons with Leonardo. This, though, was interrupted briefly when, following a volley of barking by Harry, Stephen appeared at the workroom door to say that there was a strange creature in the middle of the field and he was going to check it out – and if he wasn’t back in the next few minutes to organise a search party. You will be relieved to hear that he made a swift return, and reinforcements were not needed as a giant gold balloon in the shape of a number 2 that had apparently gone AWOL from someone’s party is not, to the best of our knowledge, on the dangerous species list.

It was still hanging around this morning, though it had managed in the interim to cross the lane into the other field where it danced menacingly in the pre-dawn light goading Harry into further acts of aggression on the dogs first outing of the day. Bella just ignored it. It had, however, disappeared by the time we went for our walk after lunch, but as no sightings of it have featured in the local press what happened to it will remain forever a mystery.

I spent the morning filling in our census online, which was a relatively easy process being somewhat less comprehensive than the UK equivalent, and also available in English. The only slight doubt is that no one else we have mentioned this too seems to know anything about it – but I think the Italian government has better things to do than set up an elaborate hoax just for two nondescript Englishmen in the middle of Le Marche.

Which brought us to the evening and a rare event for us, hitting Civitanova on a Sunday evening. What we weren’t prepared for was how busy it was, with the main drag buzzing with people filling in that time between lunch and dinner window shopping and taking in the market which we hadn’t realised occupies the main square every fourth Sunday (note for future reference). We were meeting with Shoe Marco and Computer Luca (the latter once the sun had set, see above) for an aperitivo but due to the thronging masses, our agreed spot of La Galleria was fully occupied.

Never fear, though, for while Stephen and I sauntered around the square Marco, messaged to say that he had arrived, parked, carried out a quick recce and found that Gossip, a bar not only down a side street but also a street blocked off due to roadworks was, unsurprisingly, less busy. We duly rendezvoused with him and he led us, by way of some duckboards, to the bar where we were joined by Luca, scrubbed up nicely after his day of manual labour, while we were finishing off our first aperitivo.

You may be wondering if there was a reason for this get-together, and you would be right, for Marco was doing the rounds before he sets off for London at the beginning of November. He worked there, in retail, for almost eight years before returning to Italy a couple of years ago, and his boss has allowed him a sabbatical to return for four months so he can keep his work visa valid. He will be working in the rarefied air around Bond Street, so won’t, I’m sorry to say, be heaving a much-needed HGV around the major roads of Britain, and won’t, therefore, be able to help you out with your Christmas turkey – but should you pop into the Carolina Herrera store on Mount Street and mention my name I’m sure he’ll fit you up with lovely scarf.