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6th February 2022

If January was the month of things stopping working, February looks like being the month of appointments. The first of these was my booster vaccination on Wednesday, but before we get there, there is the little matter of my latest brush with the Italian language as it is spoken in MSP and nowhere else.

The weather being set fair for most of the week, the Mogliani brothers made the most of it starting on Monday when they set about tilling the field, with Luigi taking the afternoon shift. Still being early in the year – the nights are continuing to draw in so work in the field doesn’t go on past dusk. That is why, as I was out closing the shutters a little before 6pm, Luigi hailed across from near the barn where he had parked the tractor, with his usual opening gambit of “Stevané!” I replied that Stephen wasn’t here and it was me, Ian. No doubt this news made his hear sink, but he soldiered on anyway, asking if I had a…

What, was a mystery, as I didn’t recognise the word. I told him so, and undaunted he changed to asking for what sounded like “zappa”, at which I perked up as I knew this one, and not only had I loaned our adze to Mario some time ago but I even knew where it was kept.

Telling Luigi to wait a moment I went in to get a torch, foolishly answering the phone as I did so and having to put off a very persistent cold caller who wasn’t accepting my protestations of not being able to speak Italian as a get-out clause, forcing me to garble a thank you for calling before hanging up. Outside once again, with Luigi patiently waiting on the far bank, I went to the wood store, grabbed the adze and went across with it, much to Luigi’s great amusement. He then, fortunately for all involved, used a word that was either (a) one I knew or (b) Italian or (c) correctly enunciated – I will leave it to a jury of my peers to decide. “Secchio,” he said, and mimed placing an upturned bucket over the exhaust tube standing proud on the tractor.

Well, why didn’t he say that in the first place. We have several to choose from, and I headed over to the downstairs glory hole, retrieved one and handed it over to Luigi, who had followed me across. He took it gratefully, saying he would return it tomorrow and went off to put it over the pipe (I think because rain was forecast overnight) with a broad grin on his face – no doubt thinking of how entertaining the story of the Englishman, the adze and the tractor pipe would be over that night’s dinner table.

There was a change to our routine the next day when my lesson with Diego was again cancelled. After two near misses, he eventually succumbed to you know what, which I suppose meant an even longer stint in his bedroom – and no food parcel for me. Still, Pina did its best to make up for it in the morning when we called in for breakfast and were faced with the dilemma of having two home cooked cakes to choose from instead of the usual one. “Could we have a small piece of each?” asked Stephen. Well, of course we could, it is Pina after all, so Amalia cut us a slice of plain ciambella and a square of crostata, smaller indeed then their usual generous portions… but not much.

The evening saw the start of the annual bash of Festival Sanremo, where twenty-five specially invited singers compete for a trophy and the right to represent Italy at the Eurovision Song Contest. This later was usually a minor detail, but after Måneskin’s triumph last year there is now a matter of national pride involved. As usual, the whole process is more protracted than voting for the Italian president, taking up five hours of television, interrupted only by copious advertising, on five consecutive nights, and with a voting system so complicated it would make your brain hurt if I tried to explain it. If you are interested, you can read the explanation on RAI’s Eurovision website (and try to scramble Google Translate’s brain by running the text through it), but I will warn you in advance not to be shocked when you discover that this year the orchestra didn’t get to vote.

And so to Wednesday and my booster, which, in the first instance at least, was remarkably painless. Stephen dropped me off in good time for my 2 pm appointment outside the entrance while he went to find somewhere to park, though I was a little nonplussed at first as to whether I was in the right place as I couldn’t see anyone else around. I did, eventually, spy in the distance through the tented entrance, two men in yellow jackets loitering so headed in their direction. One of them took my documents – five in all, downloaded, completed and signed as per Stephen’s and the Carellis’ instructions – stapled them together with a number on the top and sent me through to the main building.

Here I had to wait while the yellow-jacketed man on duty at that point finished completing the forms of the man in front of me before taking mine, seeing they were already filled in, thanking me for that and indicating me to a seat outside one of the medical rooms. This was where things slowed down, and where I realised 2 pm was not an optimum time as I had hit the changeover of staff. Still, it gave me the opportunity to watch a series of people arriving and being sent into the registration room to fill in their sheets, and then being sent back to complete them properly as they had missed such details, as the man pointed out to them, as their name and surname.

I probably only had to wait five or so minutes, but you know how time expands when you are waiting for a vaccination, after which I was called into the room where the doctor was the same one as had overseen my second dose. It wasn’t so much that I recognised him, and he certainly didn’t remember me, but when he discovered I was British he told me all the same things as he had the last time about visiting Scotland and how wonderful Edinburgh was before getting round to asking me if I wanted Pfizer or Moderna.

I wasn’t expecting being offered a menu, and besides, I would have thought that decision was for the doctor to make. Initially I half-heartedly opted for Pfizer, as all the horror stories I’d heard had been associated with Moderna, but sensing my indecision the doctor seemed to wait a moment, offering me the chance to ask him what he advised. Moderna was stronger against Omicron, he said, so I opted for that one instead, which must have satisfied him as the young man with the needle lost no time in swabbing my bicep and sticking in the needle.

I was in and out in less than thirty minutes, which meant we had more than enough time to stop off to fill up with petrol before hitting Girasole for a minor but important task. This was not the litre of milk we bought at the supermarket, nor the shampoo, face wash, or shaving foam (with 30% off), from L’Erbolario but a set of four passport-sized photos of yours truly. These are necessary for my Italian driving licence, which is due for renewal on 22nd of this month and a trip back to the driving school in Rapagnano with the required documentation, including said photo, clutched in my hands. As part of the procedure is an eye test, it is going to be interesting given the current state of my cataract cultivation. I would say watch this space, but it might be regarded as being in slightly bad taste.

I’m pleased to say that unlike after my second dose, this time I suffered fewer effects, apart from the very sore and stiff arm, which seems to be an obligatory part of the Moderna vaccine, and feeling a bit eugh with a touch of lightheadedness on the Thursday. I was back in fighting form by Friday, enough to withstand the shock of a recent record being broken. You may remember that recently a letter from NS&I took two months and one day to arrive at our post box. That is now as nothing compared with the statement from Tesco Bank, late of this parish, which was dated 11th November last year and arrived on 4th February, which comes in at my reckoning at two months and twenty-four days. I’ll just let that sit with you.

And that would really have been it if not for my very first Zoom meeting yesterday evening. I know that given you know what, it appears to have become an integral part of everyone’s daily routine but so far my life has remained Zoomless. Not any longer, or maybe only partially so, for the lovely chat we had with the trio of Val, Val and Josie last night, arranged by Val 1 (or 2, depending how you look at these things) was actually on Stephen’s laptop and not mine. Who knows for how much longer, though, for given my imminent showdown with the eye chart, I might find myself in need of all the magnification help I can get.