Last laugh

Some of you may remember the snooty woman mentioned in one of my earlier entries - the one who likes to look down her nose at me (and squeezed into a clearly too small skirt and thought it was flattering). Everytime that I pass her in the village, she looks right through me. This is what it must be like when you die, I thought, and come back to visit your old friends but no-one sees you any more....Anyway, after countless episodes of pretending I didn't exist, the other day she finally noticed me. It wasn't to say, 'Hello Julia, how are you?' or anything cordial but immediately started the sentence 'Oh, what a shame I missed the start of your new English course. I would have loved to have attended. Never mind, you'll run another one won't you and then I'll come along to that one' and with that, she dismissed me with a vague wave of her hand and walked away without allowing me to reply in any shape or form. 'Cow!', I murmered and had sudden visions of giving her an intensive course in .....'Gobbledegook', that grammatically challenging language used by the hard of speaking. Imagine, after 10 weeks of solid drilling and heavy homework, she comes away speaking a language no more understandable than a chicken with hiccups, Latvian spoken backwards or trying to talk with a mouth full of mashed banana (one of my all-time favourite childhood games!). Ah, the joy, the satisfaction imaging her next trip to London as she walks into a newsagent and spews forth a dialogue of nothingness and nonsense. Hah, bet she'll stop ignoring me in future though...

New 'friend'

I have now moved out of the village and am living in a country house with only 3 cows and a moody group of chickens for company. On Saturday night, I had been invited to a book launch in the village and went first to the house of my former next-door neighbour. My dog TT has quite a following now and her favourite admirer, a little black and white specimen with long pointy ears, is forever looking for her, knowing where she used to live. Of course, he was outside the village house when I approached and went wild with excitement which quickly turned to bitter disappointment when he realised that I was alone. I shrugged at him “TT sends her regards” I consoled him. He cocked his head to one side and sniffed at my shoes. Yes, this lady was definitely the key to finding TT. I collected my next-door neighbour and we set off in my car. The book launch was to be held in the grounds of the village hotel, about a 5 minute drive away. During the journey, I checked my rear-view mirror and could see ‘Blackie’ in fast pursuit. Horror! I was going to be stuck with this beast all evening and he wasn’t even my dog! We arrived at the do and I parked up. Blackie, a little breathless from his run, greeted me happily. “Shoo”, I flapped, but in vain. We walked up to the garden area where champagne was being served. A small group was already in attendance, all smartly dressed. “Please go away” I implored, looking down at my “companion” for the evening. He took this to mean “welcome, stick close”. With each step, I could feel him pressed against my foot, as though some sort of modern foot accessory. At least give me the space to walk unencumbered. A few heads turned. “Hello” I waved breezily as if unaware of my canine escort. My walk became three steps forward, shove to the side to try to free myself, another three steps forward, an intriguing yet puzzling gait to the casual observer. “Is this your dog?” asked a very posh woman with a cluster of diamonds where her hand should have been. I looked down in feigned surprise, my “companion” looked up at me. “You mean this one?” as if there could be any doubt which one she meant “No, he’s just……” The words “a friend” popped out. “He’s just a friend” and I smiled comfortingly. “Oh, I see” she replied, clearly not seeing and moved away to talk to someone more normal. And so the evening proceeded with my little “friend” trailing me around the formal do until at some point the hotel manager crept up to me “Err, excuse me madam, is this your dog”. I flushed “No, he just follows me around”. I really didn’t want to go into lengthy explanations as to why this little being was stuck to my foot. At some point, the manager was able to shoo him away and when I left the event at around 11, I thought I caught a glimpse of my little friend again in my rear-view mirror but jammed down on the accelerator in case he had visions of following me home.

Men in black

The appointment was for 4pm – a chance phone call from an 'English school' looking for a mother-tongue teacher. Why we were meeting in a deserted car park instead of the imagined plush offices of the school was a mystery to me, as this meeting would indeed turn out to be. At 4pm sharp, a BMW screeched to a halt metres in front of me sending up a cloud of dust that circled wildly as I tried to make out the face of the driver. The car door opened and out stepped a tall man dressed in a black suit wearing dark sunglasses. He looked around nervously before striding towards me, arm outstretched. “Julia?” he queried without preamble. “Yes, pleased to meet you. Can I ask….” but he held up his hand to silence me and beckoned me towards the boot of his car which he deftly opened displaying a row of files and a large black briefcase. “You start next week. The details are in here”. Again he looked around suspiciously, the expression in his eyes unreadable behind his dark glasses. I glanced around also half expecting a spray of bullets from a passing hitman. This was more like a scene from some Russian gangster movie or a sequel to the Godfather. All I wanted was a few innocent hours teaching English but had visions of becoming embroiled in some international racket. “Er, how many students are in the class?” I ventured. “A small group” he answered vaguely. “…and their level?”. He scanned the horizon behind my left ear “Ah” he waved his arm dismissively “You’ll find out when you start”. I tried again “and what exactly do they want to focus on?”. I sensed these questions were a trifle annoying for him and obviously didn’t want to push him too much “Do a bit of this and a bit of that” he clarified. In my mind, I visualised my Scheme of Work for the course headed up in bold and underlined “A bit of this and a bit of that”. “Look”, he interrupted, clearly having had enough of these “irrelevant” questions “Read through these contracts, sign them and send them back to me. At the end of the course, the firm will pay you, then you pay me, right?”. A somewhat irregular arrangement, I nodded dumbly. “All clear then? This is the amount you’ll be paying me” he jabbed a finger at a figure at the bottom of the contract. “Fine” I gulped. “Er, about the company, what sort of …..” but before I’d had a chance to finish my question, he was back in the car “You’ll be hearing from me…” and with that, he was gone. I was left clutching my contract in the middle of this deserted car park. Mmm, clearly a reputable well-established school. I sighed. My accountant would definitely not be happy with this set-up…

Warmth of Italy

I have now moved 5 km out of the village for the summer and I recently returned to pick up a few items. I ran into my next-door neighbour, a wonderful chap of 80. Let me just diverge for a second. I adore my next-door neighbours. They have become my second family here and have helped my out so many times since I first bought my house. I really don’t know what I would have done without their support. Anyway, seeing my return unexpectedly, the first thing he said was ‘There’s some pasta for you’ and then returning to his pottering in the garden. Those words filled me with a deep affection and said so much beyond just filling my belly. I wanted to hug him but instead went in to next-doors where his wife, upon seeing me ordered “Sit down!” and immediately placed a bowl of steaming minestrone in front of me “Dimi cara”… she started “com’e sei stata?” [well, love, how have you been?]. Small things in life but it’s the small things that count.

Impressive moves

Well, continuing with the theme of our little dance class, last night I really wowed my fellow dancers. Unfortunately not with my dance moves I must confess. It is customary for someone to bring along a cake of some sort which we tuck into along with a glass of spumante at half time. All the calories which we burn off during the first half are immediately thrown back on again with the consumption of the dessert but hey, who’s complaining? Well, it was my turn to bring in the goodies and I must say, the competition was high. Every week, we had been delighted by the fluffiest of sponges, the creamiest of Tiramisus and the most delectable ricotta cheese cakes. I racked my brains – “That’s it!” I cried triumphantly, surrounded by recipe books in my little kitchen. And so it was with pride that I unveiled an apple crumble last night much to the amusement of my fellow dancers. They peered over my shoulder, somewhat confused “Looks like a box of sand” chirped one little Italian man “Are you sure it’s cooked?” quipped another podgy woman. I sighed. They had no idea what this was and yet were so ready with the comments. I made them wait while I ceremoniously spooned our helpings for each attendee. I could tell some of them were thinking “Hah, English food – no chance! A silence fell on the hall apart from the careful munching of the proffered platter. I knew a lot rested on the final opinion of the ‘panel’. One of the builders started “This is great! Can you make it again for us”. I caught his wife eyeing up the remaining portion. The rest of the motley crew nodded approvingly and two of the women asked simultaneously how I made it. Not one to divulge secrets, I answered vaguely with a flamboyant wave of the serving spoon “Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that, then bake for 30 minutes”. Hah, I don’t want everyone making my crumble – where would the exclusivity be in that! And so, all’s well that ends well. The crumble went down a treat and I think fuelled even further the ardour of our dance instructor…

A light touch

I’ve always wanted to learn traditional dance as opposed to the drunken shaking around on a Saturday night accompanied by ear-splitting music. Every Wednesday evening in the local village, a group of us meet and attempt to be taught by our, I must say, VERY patient tutor. We are trying out Tango, Waltz, Foxtrot and a local speciality – Liscio. In the films, it all looks so graceful – ahem, slightly different from how we prance around with forced grins on our faces. The first evening I went along, my dance partner didn’t have a clue. His robotic movements did little to help me learn the new steps “She’s not a car!” barked our tutor .”….so don’t drive her!”. My partner changed gear, sweat pouring profusely from his forehead. “Have you got haemorrhoids?” shouted the tutor at another hapless victim “….so why are your legs so far apart?!” And so it is, with these gentle words of encouragement that we stumble through these classic dance steps in the hope of one day impressing our future audience. Talking of our tutor…I’m not entirely convinced that squeezing of arms and tight squashing against bodies is REALLY an essential element of say the Tango and yet I get squeezed and pressed against every week by our overly “keen” instructor. “Give me your body…” he whispers in my ear. Somehow, I don’t think he is referring to the need to dance close against your partner. Sigh, Italian men….

Some good tips

Asparagus season is with us again and that means going out to pick it. How wonderful! I exclaimed, obviously something I would never do in London. My initial enthusiasm soon evaporated when my fellow asparagus pickers turned up at 6 in the morning, all cheery and expectant. I answered the door bleary-eyed wearing my scruffy pink dressing gown and at first not comprehending who they were or what they wanted of me at this ungodly hour. Then it came back to me asparagus picking. I groaned inwardly. Just be a tick, I assured and walked laboriously upstairs huffing and puffing pulling on the first mismatch of clothes I could find. Half an hour later, I found myself tramping through an Italian wood, hair snagging on obstructive branches, peering into the undergrowth for asparagus tips. Finding a good handful, I trotted back to the group leader, smugly holding out my offering for inspection. He shook his head, ‘No, these are young brambles. We can’t eat these’. Disconcerted, I looked at them closely. ‘Are you sure?’ Me with 30 minutes of experience, he with 30 years…. One look from him satisfied me that indeed, these shoots were not palatable and so I continued my search. The others were doing very well. I did actually find 3 shoots; one of them had been given to me as an example of what to look for. Another, a fellow collector had dropped and I discreetly picked it up. The third, I happened to sit on whilst taking a rest. It was a bit crushed and limp but served with some olive oil and parsly, I reckoned it could be revived. At one point, I got stranded on this ledge and had to be rescued and this was swiftly followed by the announcement that I didn’t have my woolly hat anymore and could we go back and look for it which resulted in another 20 minutes of delay while someone agile scampered down the slope and retrieved it. All in all, an interesting morning. I know my companions felt sorry for me at my relative inability to forage and if called upon, to fend for myself. Much easier to buy asparagus ready packed in those little bundles in the supermarket though if you ask me.

Mind your language

My English lessons often produce a wealth of unintentional mirth which I have to suppress a) because it would take too long to explain to a relative beginner why the mix-up of words was funny and b) Italians are easily embarrassed by their mistakes in English. Here are a few recent mistakes that cropped up in recent lessons:

One student informed me that loved cocaine and that he did it at least three times a week. His wife was clearly pleased with this hobby and he even suggested I come round and try some. I was about to thank him but turn him down politely explaining my nasal passages probably wouldn’t be able to withstand it when it emerged he was talking about cooking. I breathed a sigh of relief to hear this.

Often students, when asked to write a piece for homework, will just go to Google and do a dodgy online translation then hand it in claiming it is their own work. One student, trying to explain his sister has long hair wrote ‘she has a high bouffant’. He then wanted to explain the dialogue in a clothes shop where ‘these trousers are too tight’ but he wrote ‘my pants are constricting’. In a last flourish of creativity, he tried to explain this firming body cream that had been invented but it came out as ‘bottom botox’.

One student can’t pronounce the word ‘who’ and instead it comes out as ‘ooooo’. I of course tried to correct him and so the conversation went ‘whooooo’, ‘oooooo’, ‘whoooo’, ‘ooooo’, ‘whoooo’ etc etc. We sounded like a pair of courting owls.

The best one was when another student who tried to ask me about my grandmother’s appetite but the question came out ‘Is your grandmother on heat at lot?. Needless to say I was most annoyed to be asked such a question, not least because she’s been dead 20 years but it all became clear and we remain firm friends.

When it comes to the crunch

Next door’s cat is forever visiting me – a small thing, I think she is the only cat in the village that allows you to stroke her, having been brought up in an affectionate environment. She will often stroll in and of course head straight for TT’s food bowl which is generally piled high with crunchies and chocolate – clearly a balanced diet (!). She turned up yesterday and I know that only five minutes previous to this, TT had tucked in heartily until she couldn’t eat anymore and was now upstairs rearranging my shoes (you can generally hear a crashing and banging noise as she carries a boot up and down the stairs, stopping at each landing to chew on it). Hearing someone eating her crunchies, she darted downstairs clearly furious at having to share her food reserves. Not content with grabbing the cat by the scruff of the neck and dragging her out, she had to make a point of eating MORE crunchies lest she be deprived herself so there then followed a frantic scrabbling around on her plate as she literally wolfed down as many crunchies as she could. She wasn’t even hungry!!! But no, they were hers and she was going to eat them. Next door’s cat, looked on from the doorstep with an expression on her face which said ‘I think your dog has psychological problems’ and had she voiced this, I’m sure I would have agreed. It reminded me of that scene from Mr. Bean when he stays in a hotel and sees a fellow guest helping himself to various items at breakfast; of course, he has to better that and helps himself to double the amount. Finally TT finished stuffing herself and I heard a distinct growling from her stomach area. She looked up at me suddenly and whined. Yeah, I thought, indigestion? That will teach you, but of course, it won’t because she’ll do exactly the same thing next time.

Skirting the issue

Last Tuesday was market day and I found my neighbour and her friend cooing over some skirts on special offer. The friend is notoriously snooty and even after being introduced to you would most likely never bother to acknowledge you if you passed her in the street. I had TT in tow and as this woman was wearing a fur coat, TT started snarling at her (something she never does!). Good dog! I thought, half-heartedly pulling her away. The woman looked down her nose at both of us. ‘Whose dog is this?’ she asked disgustedly. Hmm, the clue is, if you follow the lead from the neck of the dog, it will usually lead you to the owner. Without waiting for a reply from one so inferior as myself, she continued to hold up the skirt against her expanse of waist. ‘Let’s go and try them on’ she suggested to my neighbour. My neighbour beckoned to me and we all trooped off to the snooty woman’s house round the corner. ‘The dog stays out!’ she glared at me. I rolled my eyes and TT was only too happy to oblige and with that, trotted off back home by herself, glad to be free of this fur clad toff. I followed them into the bedroom and they proceeded to try on the skirts. My neighbour had no trouble fitting into hers – and it did suit her very well. The other woman however struggled into hers – I thought a shoe horn might come in useful but thought she probably wouldn’t appreciate such advice. At last, gasping and perspiring heavily from the exertion, she admired herself in the mirror. Clearly the skirt was 2 sizes too small for her and she could only hope to ever stand in it as the slightest attempt to sit down would result in immediate disintegration of the said item and consequent social embarrassment. Her stomach bulged in an unsightly manner and even if she were able to bend over, which was a physical impossibility, the comment ‘has there been an eclipse?’ would not be inappropriate. ‘How does it look?’ she asked and then immediately answered her own question ‘Yes, it’s quite flattering’. I said nothing, my silence speaking volumes. I didn’t exist anyway so my opinions counted for nothing. It took her another 10 minutes to wrestle free of the garment – Houdini would have been proud of her. ‘Let’s go and find a matching top for this!’ she announced triumphantly and trotted off victorious.