It takes two to tango

'So let's go dancing tonight!'. The voice of the director of the school where I teach English boomed out inappropriately across the office. I tutted. It was already late and I just wanted to get home to tea and cheese on toast. Think of the promotion, I reminded myself, the extra hours. 'OK Benito!', I answered before asking, 'Err, what sort of dancing exactly?'. 'Waltz, foxtrot, tango....' The list spiralled on dizzily. I gripped the nearest thing in a panic, it was the secretary. She wrestled herself free, scowling. 'So not...errr.....disco then?'. I guess not. An hour later, having stopped off for the director to change his shoes to dance more comfortably and after 3 limoncellos to steady the nerves we found ourselves standing at the side of the dance floor surveying the clearly competent participants whirling around effortlessly. 'What's this dance then?' Enquired the clearly enthusiastic director. I stared back blankly. It sounded gallopy but I doubted that was actually a dance. 'It's the......' and I mumbled an incoherent word. He strained in, grimacing. 'What?' I repeated, 'The.........'. He tapped his ear as if to say, can't hear a thing. Good, first hurdle. 'It's time to dance!' He announced triumphantly, clapping his hands together. I groaned. Visions of cheese on toast floated enticingly but elusively before me. I had an idea in my mind that even if you danced badly, if you did it with a confident look on your face, you could get away with it.....I was wrong. Before I knew it, there I was, being whirled around, the limoncello churning violently inside me. I kept stepping on the director's feet. 'Tut', I thought. 'Clearly he's out of practice'. Apart from the fact that he used to run a dance school before setting up the English school..... We stopped mid tango. 'Why's he doing that?' I thought. I waited. Actually it's a tango pause. I stepped on his feet again. We lurched and rolled and tripped our way round the dance floor. He glared at me. I apologised. It's not like I was doing it on purpose. The spectators were highly amused. Like watching the competitor ice skaters, willing them to fall..... At the end of the tango, I threw myself back. I've seen it done in films, a dramatic ending to an...errr....undramatic dance.....The sudden movement unbalanced the by now disillusioned director. We went tumbling down..... The band came to an abrupt stop, the needle being scratched off a record. So there I was, Friday night, in the middle of a, by now, relatively deserted dance floor, on my back, under my portly boss. Not quite what I had envisaged for a quiet wind-down to the week. The perspiration was seeping through his shirt. Whether this was due to the exertion or the excitement, I was unsure. He looked shocked and staggered with great effort to his feet. I followed suit. 'So should I have put my LEFT foot forward that time then...?' I enquired, trying to make light of a heavy situation. I looked skyward. 'Just once, ONCE, let me have a NORMAL night out'....

...and may all your Christmases be green

Well, I returned from a 2 week hol in London. Turned on my phone at the airport and it was already ringing. 'Pronto', I answered, knowing who it would be. 'Hello sweetheart, welcome back. I've got something for you, a late present....but better late than never.' Hmm, you think...? Sometimes I would prefer the never I must admit. Lovely! I answered appreciatively. It reminded me of my father years ago who stated seriously that even if someone gives you a clod of earth as a gift, you should be grateful for the thought. I remember struggling to understand at the time. Yes, the theory is great, but in practice......opening your presies on Xmas Day, full of anticipation and there you find.....a clod of earth. 'Ahhhh, you shouldn't have!' or 'I can see you've put a lot of thought into this' or, knowing the giver and anticipating their gift, reach into the bin 'and this is for you....' My regular readers will remember the recent pumpkin farce....Yes, it's the same person. 2 hours later, a ring at the doorbell. 'Listen, I can't stay long but I picked this today.' He thrust a plastic bag towards me. 'Happy Christmas!'. I peered in. A cabbage, albeit very fresh looking, peered back. It smelt cabbagy. A pause, perhaps too long. 'Ahhhh, you shouldn't have! I can see you've put a lot of thought into this'. I glanced towards the rubbish bin, unfortunately it was empty as I had just arrived back from holiday. My comments were well received. 'Sorry it's late'. You're apologising because it's LATE?! 'You might find some slugs or snails in it but it's all goodness! 'And...' he paused for effect 'I removed the outer leaves and fed them to the chickens'. His consideration overwhelmed me. 'Anyway, must dash.....' TT scowled at me, disgusted and trotted off to chew on an equally stinky bone. The tone was set for 2010...

Vegetable Steamer

After a lot of heartfelt thinking and standing on my balcony one night looking up at a star studded sky on my third glass of Montepulciano, I decidedly sadly that the relationship I had been in for about a year just wasn’t going anywhere and it was time to call it a day. It would be difficult and I knew it wouldn’t be easily accepted. Never mind, I sighed, time to move on. Well, anyway, the following day I relayed the message as gently as I could and left it at that, so far so good. This particular person has always kindly brought me offerings over the months from his carefully tended vegetable patch, his marrows are just spectacular. Anyway, it got to around 9pm and I had just arrived home from teaching English when my phone rang. Fishing it out of my pocket as I trudged back home clutching my grammar books and cassette recorder I saw his name flash up on the display. I bit my lip, should I answer....? ‘Pronto.....’. It’s me, listen, I was just up the road, are you home....? Err...well... nearly.....what do you want? He continued.....Can we meet, I just want to see you, that’s all. I sighed.....Look, this isn’t a good idea, I explained earlier, can we just go our separate ways.......? There was a silence. It’s just that I’ve got this bag of tomatoes for you, I picked them early this morning and it would be a shame to let them go to waste. ....I hesitated, he DID do good tomatoes. Cursing myself I answered...OK, but just for five minutes, that’s all. Within half an hour, he was standing in my living room sheepishly holding out a bag of plump tomatoes. I had an uncontrollable urge to rinse them and chop them up into a basil laden salad but held back on the temptation. I’ve missed you, he blurted, pulling out a bunch of spring onions from his jacket pocket. My eyes narrowed, hmmm, don’t think you can win me back with your prize vegetables, I warned him but I was beginning to weaken.... Well, readers, I’m sure you can guess the end of the story. Later on that evening just as he was leaving, he turned to me....oh, I almost forgot. I’ve got something for you. It’s special, I know you’ll love it. My fantasies turned to a delicate jewellery box with a tiny gem inside when opened, or perhaps a weekend away in Tuscany, a romantic dinner for two along the coast even.....I could hardly contain myself. It’s in the car, he encouraged. Walk up to the top and when I drive past, I’ll hand it to you. So there I was, standing under a lamppost with my woolly cardy wrapped tightly round me against the brisk wind that was whipping up. His car suddenly appeared, I felt excited, like a child at Christmas, I stood on tip toes and chewed nervously on the edge of my fingernail in anticipation. Here you are sweetheart he smiled and pushed this massive plastic bag through the car window. What the.....? I thought, grappling with it unceremoniously, barely able to hold its weight. He blew a kiss through the window and sped off into the night. I had to lower it to the ground as it was too heavy to carry. Peering in, I caught sight of a massive pumpkin. I stood there for several moments with a multitude of mixed feelings. Oh well, I reasoned, that’s plenty of soup for winter and Halloween will be a cracker. I had to drag the beast home as it was simply too heavy to carry and by the time I got it back, I was sweating and panting like nobody’s business. Oh well, it’s the thought that counts, I consoled myself, climbing the stairs wearily to bed, a number of pumpkin recipes already starting to crowd my mind.

Opera blues

Aaaah, a typical Italian lunch, imagine the scene, a long table set up heaving with bottles of vino, locally produced cheese, salami, plump tomatoes, just idyllic. I had been invited by a couple for a leisurely lunch along with 10 others. My mother, being in attendance this summer, I thought I would bring her along too. So there we all were, tucking in heartily to the local delicacies when suddenly, fuelled by the vino and grappa, my Mum stands up and announces she is going to perform some Italian opera...as one does.....She then suddenly erupts into a heartfelt rendition of a Verdi opera piece. Silence suddenly reigned, forks poised mid mouthful, as this tiny figure belted out her rendition of a classic masterpiece. My dog started howling but I put that down to hunger pangs, immediately quelled by an offering of leftover BBQ bones....all gratefully received. The performance came to an end amid rapturous applause whereupon the focus of attention fell into a nearby chair and promptly fell into an alcohol induced sleep. I prised the glass out of her hand and thought, OK, I’ll let her sleep it off. An hour later I had her carried upstairs to the hosts’ bedroom where I thought, OK, I’ll let her sleep it off. An hour later she was manhandled into the front seat (passenger seat, I hasten to add) of my Panda, still relatively unconscious and now mumbling incoherently, something to do with Pavarotti and pancakes??? I thanked the bemused onlookers for their hospitality and apologised profusely, reassuring them that my mother didn’t normally get blind drunk and have to be carried home, the daughter, perhaps but luckily that subject wasn’t touched on, at least not this time round. So there I was, approaching the house. Best not park round the front, I thought. I was going to have to drag her indoors with one of her arms dangling round my neck. Please God let her cooperate because if she’s a dead weight, we’re both doomed. I parked round the back and grappled unceremoniously with the former opera singer now fallen from grace. Thank God she isn’t a drunk that lurches into unbridled and barely comprehensible profanity when someone tries to move them. I struggled down the side alley, so far so good. The door was metres away, just need to turn the corner and.....uh oh.....my next-door neighbour’s guests were leaving....now what do I do? This coincided with a sudden and momentary revival of the Sicilian opera, now horribly out of tune, more a Sicilian farce. Shhh, I pleaded, they’ll hear us! The prim elderly couple passed by and peered down the alley. I waved at them cheerily, my Mother now silenced and slumped of course didn’t wave. We’re just going for a walk....! I trailed off wishing they would do the same. They waved back hesitantly, momentarily confused by the scene before them. The dimness of the alley was the only good thing about our encounter. Once they’d gone I wrestled the dead weight to bed. Tut, drunks, no use to anybody, I muttered, pulling the door to her bedroom closed and making a mental note to keep her on the orange juice next time.

"traditional" dessert

My delightful neighbours invited me to dinner last Saturday night so of course I offered to bring dessert…..guess what English sweet I decided to make (regular followers of this blog may have an inkling....), yes, the ubiquitous apple crumble, groan. I could make one with my eyes closed. So there I was in my kitchen, crumble cooked and I looked around for something to cover it with. I reached into the clean washing pile and grabbed hold of a dishcloth. Perfect!.... and draped it over the prize offering. Imagine the scene dear readers, two hours later, dinner finished, I made a big show of lifting up the still warm dish off the kitchen work surface and bringing it proudly to the table. I placed it squarely in the middle, a slight smile playing on the corners of my mouth. Ahhh, I thought, this one will really make an impression. Cooked to perfection, soft on the bottom and crunchy on the top, sprinkled with cinnamon and brown sugar (anyone’s mouth watering?). There was a tangible air of expectation, an electric silence among the 10 guests gathered. They were going to experience a true English dessert the likes of which had never been seen in these parts. I stood up and smirking to myself grabbed the corner of the tea towel and yanked it off and waited for their reaction. There was a gasp from an older member of the group and a giggle from the youngest, hmmm, not quite what I expected....strange.... Silence still.....frowning slightly, I looked down and there, to my horror, draped over the famous British pudding was.....a pair of leopard print, red frill trim knickers......!!!!! I had to give a double take as I could not, just could not, believe my eyes. Any minute now I was going to wake up, 1, 2, 3....nope, this was reality......What the......??? How.....? Clearly they'd been swept up from the clean washing basket along with the dish cloth. The room swirled momentarily and I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself. Ten pairs of eyes narrowed on me, confusion reigned.....only the 90 year old grandfather seemed a little flushed, probably hadn’t had this much excitement for 30 years. I had to think fast, my reputation was on the line here, think, think.......I cleared my throat, the serving spoon trembling ever so slightly in my hand. “I want to thank you all for your kind invitation here tonight.....” – “ I consider you all my good friends and we in England have a time honoured tradition....to show our openness and as a symbol of intimate and eternal friendship, I present to you .......The Great British Crumble ....With Knickers...”. There was a stunned silence as my captive diners digested this excess of visual and verbal information. Then, after what seemed an eternal pause, the mother, a portly woman who could only fantasize of squeezing into what was blatantly displayed before her, broke into a sudden frenzy of clapping and suddenly everyone was joining in. I’d got away with it. Sweating profusely, I whipped off the knickers and with a deft swirl of the hand, inserted them into my jeans pocket before asking breezily “OK, who’s first.....?’ The crumble went down a treat, some even asked for seconds. By the way, the knickers were clean... I checked....My toes still curl at the memory. Hey, do you think I could start a new Brit tradition here? After all, it was well received......

Plumbing the depths

Plum season has just finished. It’s like everyone’s got a tree and wants to get rid of their plums. You end up with this constantly never ending circuit of oval fruit that passes from one family to the next and in fact, it’s not impossible after passing through 10 sets of hands to end up with your original plums again. Here’s how it works. You pick your plums. Uhhh, I’ve got too many. If I eat them all, I may as well just sit on the toilet until Saturday. So you prepare your plastic bag containing 5 kilos of plumbs. Then you run into Giancarlo the plumber or Maria the seamstress and you say, here, have some plums. They of course accept them gratefully but probably groaning inside as they’ve probably done the same thing that morning, proferring their goods to Carlo the butcher and Franco, the village drunk. And so it goes on, the relentless ‘pushing’ of plums. I came home the other day after work and noticed a plastic bag slung over the railings in front of my house. Uhhhh, my stomach lurched, I know what those are.....Trembling, I reached forward, lifting the bag and lo and behold, it was full of plums. I groaned inwardly....visions of opening my front door and a cascade of plumbs tumbling out, stopping local traffic. Autopsy reports, yet to be confirmed, cause of death, excess consumption of plums..... The other day, in an attempt to escape the flood, I went out on my bicycle. Hmmm, a gentle evening cycle through the village, no plums, no acceptances, no rejections. And so I set off, pleasantly taking in the rugged green scenery. I take a bend and suddenly this guy dives out in front of me from nowhere. I slam on the brakes, eyes wide, heart pounding.....Julia, I’ve got some plums for you.....My heart sank. I’d failed in my mission. “But I can’t carry them.....” I indicated my humble form of transport. “But they’re from my land.....” He looked genuinely hurt. How could I resist? “That’s so kind of you....” and there I was, the lop sided cyclist, swerving all over the road, with 5 kilos of plums dangling precariously from the handle bars. I was already racking my brains as to who I could donate them to. I got home and saw a plastic bag left ceremoniously on my front step. No prizes for guessing what it contained......

Sticky issue

There are a few chaps who hobble round the village on sticks. People have tried on numerous occasions to tell me their names and about their histories but I seem to lose track. There are at least 3 or 4 of them. I wonder if when they pass each other in the street, they give a salutary wave as do vintage car owners passing another such vehicle on the road, or motorcyclists or tandem enthusiasts as in ‘we’re in this special club’. Well anyway, one day, my next door neighbours happens to mention that so and so, the man with the sticks fell over outside the butchers, passed out and by the time the medics got to him, he was dead. ‘Oooh, that’s awful!’ I explained, struggling to decipher which one of the hobbling band it could be. It must be that one, I decided, given the description ‘the man with the sticks’ that it was Culprit A. So there I was on a Monday morning sat at the doctors surgery and happened to mention that this person had died. There was a collective gasp from the other eavesdropping patients. Yes, I elaborated, there he was, clutching his bag of sausages (well, you need to embellish a bit to make the story a bit more interesting, add a few more details here and there), I think the ham was on special offer that morning (as if this was a relevant detail in the poor man’s demise) and he tripped, whacked his head and that was it. There was a general murmuring as the news sunk in. Hmm, I thought, they’re going to think I’m well informed, not bad for an ex-pat, finger on the pulse, hot bed of information. I nodded back knowingly. Anyway, later on that day, I was trotting back home when, horror of horrors, there he was, Lazarus, returned from the dead, phoenix from the ashes, the hobbling man, hobbling towards me. My first thought was ‘.....I thought you were six feet under’.... in fact six feet over because Italians are generally buried in highrise vaults, swiftly followed by ‘uh oh, there goes my reputation...’. I scowled at him, he scowled back, probably heard how I’d tried to dispose of him in the doctor’s waiting room. I had visions of his home receiving lots of condolence calls, cards, flowers, wailing friends and relatives because that English woman said he had passed away.....er, well, sort of......Hmmm, still time to do away with him....I brushed the evil thought away, no doubt he’d already been spotted and the game was up. Ahh, the importance of getting your facts right.....