Amateur Dramatics

Approaching a roundabout locally intending to straight ahead, I caught sight of a carabinieri (policeman) flapping around in the middle of the road. I swerved to avoid him and carried on wondering why one of the lanes had been blocked. Suddenly I heard a frantic whistling which momentarily reminded me of my grandfather’s erratic hearing aid years ago and glancing into my rearview mirror, caught sight of the policeman all but performing in a Covent Garden ballet. Gesticulating wildly, his arms were all over the place and his legs were quivering with barely contained rage. I wondered if he might be suffering an epileptic shock – a thought which (I am ashamed to admit) produced a sense of delight in me. Here, finally, would I be able to put into practice what I had learnt on those very interesting first aid courses over the years. Visions of wrestling my ‘victim’ into the recovery position, carrying out mouth to mouth resuscitation and checking professionally for a pulse swam dizzily before my eyes. The performance continued until he was stood next to my car. Yanking up my skirt and adjusting my top (well, it worked for my driving test!), I slowly wound down my window. I could see the poor man was both breathing and sweating heavily and I was on the brink of asking him if he was OK when he launched into a tirade of impolite questions. Virtually squealing, he voiced ‘And where do you think you were going?!!’ He repeated this twice, craning in towards me, his arms conducting an imaginary orchestra. I wondered what had got his goat that fine morning. ‘Don’t you know that road’s closed!!!’ he screamed, the tendons standing out on his neck. ‘Well…’ I attempted a reply ‘you allowed the car in front of me to pass without saying anything so I just did the same. Why was he allowed through?’ marvelling at my audacity in the presence of what was clearly a man on the edge, I waited for a reply. ‘He lives just down the road!’ he yelled ‘Oh, so that makes it alright then’ I thought but didn’t say. A sudden pang of homesickness welled up and I wished I could have been pulled over by a calm, professional and, more importantly, controlled policeman. He would have tapped politely on the window and then proceeded to ask perhaps a little hesitantly ‘Er, excuse me madam, but you do know that road is closed…?’ A jovial dialogue would have ensued with all parties remaining courteous and content at the outcome but no, I was stuck with this Italian histrionic, pompous carabinieri. . I longed to activate the ‘window up’ button thus trapping his head whilst gently exerting pressure on the accelerator but these things I know only happen in ones wildest fantasies. In this case, I think I was lucky because once he realised I was a foreigner, he made concessions and only flapped the one arm instead. Ultimately he waved me on my way down another road whilst prattling on about the importance of observing road signals and respecting the customs of other countries. Stiff upper lip? Knock it but I’d have that any day.

'Peas' of cake

‘Planting peas!’ I whooped ‘Yay, count me in’ mistaking an announcement that a friend was going to be doing some earth turning in the morning for an invitation. I was more concerned that such a minor task could provoke some enthusiasm. Perhaps it was true what they were saying after all, that I did need to get out a bit more… but we’re diverging a bit here. And so there I was at 6 o’clock the next morning clad in high heeled boots and pin striped trousers clutching a tin foil wrap of egg sandwiches for when I got a bit peckish after the hefty work I was anticipating. I was already sweating at the thought. My friend looked me up and down ‘What?’ I queried ‘Too city girl for you? Hmmph, I’ll show you!’ He followed me into the field shaking his head. ‘OK take this’ and he handed me a hoe; it felt heavy. ‘Work your way down that hill digging out small holes at regular intervals. When you reach the bottom, do the same going back up hill. I peered down to where he indicated, hardly able to make out where it ended. Hmm, this is definitely going to be more than an hour’s work and tutting, I set off, big clods of earth sticking to my shining boots, making walking just that little bit more difficult. I applied myself with dedication and wondered why the hoe kept getting stuck leading to violent wrestling with afore-mentioned implement. By hole 4, I was ready for a cuppa and an egg sarnie but not wanting to appear weak, carried on toiling. Every time I looked up, my companion was in a different place, easy competition for a conventional plough. A twinge of envy welled up inside. By now, my back was aching and I racked my brains trying to remember if my E111 was still valid – might need a bit of treatment on that back at some point if I carry on slaving away like this. ‘OK now sprinkle about 4 or 5 of these seeds into each hole and cover with dry soil’ was the next instruction. ‘Cheap labour’ I muttered ‘it’s always the foreigners that get exploited round here’ and I started to drop the beans into the holes. After a few minutes, I heard a shout ‘What are you doing?!’. I looked up startled. ‘Counting the beans’ I answered. My friend sighed ‘Just sprinkle a small amount in. Doesn’t have to be exact, if not we’ll be here all day!’. I turned round and discovered I had done 4 holes so far – 20 minutes had so far elapsed. I frowned. ‘That works out at 5 minutes per hole’. That can’t be right. I dismissed the surprise news and carried on with my task. After my first row, I announced I was going for a quick break and scooted off – as quickly as one can scoot with half a hectare of earth encasing each boot. I then perched on a rock overlooking this quaint scene and whipped out my sandwiches; the smell of eggs wafted around as I sighed contentedly, taking in the stunning landscape. ‘Ah, the taste of country life!’ I sighed, marvelling as my companion carried out the rest of the hard work, joining me an hour later then proceeding to grumble about how I’d volunteered to help out then left him to do all the hard work. ‘Moral support!’ I reminded him indignantly holding out the last of my egg sandwiches…

Blessing in disguise

A few days ago, the village turned out for the festival of San Antonio. What happens is they build a fire in the main square and get it going. Then the village brass band turns up and marches down to the tiny chapel at the foot of the hill with the rest of the villagers following obediently behind. Then they collect the wooden saint and carry him back to the church. What I didn't realise was it was also an opportunity to have your pet blessed. Go and get TT, urged my next door neighbour. I raised an eyebrow; yes, go on, all the other animals will be there, she chirped as though it was an important social event in the village calender where all the important pets would be in attendance - one not to be missed. Sighing, I dutifully trotted off and collected TT, my little dog. She hates a collar and lead and will shake her little head in a diabolical manner if you attempt to harness her in any way. I carried her halfway back to the square and then put her down. She trotted a few feet then decided she was bored. Turning round she trotted back without a care in the world. Yes, she knows her own mind and what she wants and what she doesn't want. Frowning, I marched after her instructing her to come back. My words floated futilely into the wind. Catching up with her, I scooped her up and carried her all the way back to the square where, by now, all the other pets and their owners were waiting expectantly. Within a few minutes, the priest arrived and strolled along the line of animals and their owners. There was Sinbad, an overfed benign-looking bulldog, Oscar, a pony, who, I am informed, had come over especially from Sardinia for the occasion and Penny, an amiable dalmatian, along with a myriad of other cats, dogs, goats and parrots. The priest asked for their names then sprinkled his holy water over them. When I had 'introduced' TT, he did his water job upon which she started barking furiously. How dare someone splash her like that! The priest took a wise step back and I looked at him apologetically explaining she was fussy with whom she socialised. I think he understood the joke and carried on annointing the other better behaved pets. After that, it was all back to Antonio's (not the Saint's of course) but another villager who had laid on a massive spread for the occasion. A delightful afternoon!

Aspirina

I got back from my teaching job midday on Saturday to find a group of worried villages standing about near my house. One of them immediately explained that there had been a spate of dog poisonings in and around the village. Apparently it was one/some of the countryside folk, disgruntled because a stray dog had attacked and eaten their chickens. It’s not uncommon for this to happen but as a result, a few of the familiar ‘faces’ around the village had disappeared including the chemist’s dog, Aspirina, a cheeky little black dog with oversized ears and undersized legs. He was always around and I’m told was the publicity for the pharmacy. The motley group standing about warned me to keep my little dog enclosed so that it wouldn’t wander off and eat any of the poisoned meat left lying around for strays. How terribly sad. Wouldn’t it be better just to reinforce the fencing around your chickens than to resort to such drastic measures?

Dis-accordian

Last night I decided to do a shepherds pie seeing as I was having a guest to dinner, a particularly fussy eater at that. A simple English dish should be acceptable. So there we were, dinner on the table, fork poised in mid air for the first tasting when the doorbell rang. Hoping it wasn’t another neighbour complaining about my effervescent puppy, I got up, forgetting my serviette still draped round my neck. I opened the door and immediately this cacophony of accordions and home-made drum started up lead by a vocally challenged ‘singer’. To say I was startled would be an understatement. My confused expression must have been obvious because my companion, still seated at a safe distance, shouted above the din ‘It’s San Antonio’. Wondering whether he meant the noble saint was one of the quartet, I peered at them more closely but could only make out Giovanni and his brother from the gas station down the road. The other two I didn’t recognise but one only had 1 tooth whilst the other had skew eyes and I wasn’t sure who he was addressing when he spoke. My guest elaborated it was an annual celebration of the Saint and it was customary to do a carol singer sort of thing round the village. Thinking they would soon stop, I applauded politely as they drew to a conclusion fumbling in my pocket for some loose change which I held out to them whilst simultaneously starting to close the door. My hopes of an early retreat were premature as they roared into life again, the accordions wheezing and puffing away accompanied by the ever-enthusiastic though ill-named ‘singer’. I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, glancing longingly at the now lukewarm shepherds pie. Seeing this, one of the accordion players glared at me and I swayed enthusiastically to the ‘music’ feigning ‘delight’ at their impromptu show. I wondered whether it would be impolite to go and get my coat given the blast of icy air that was howling in through the open door but then thought they might take it as a signal that I was hoping to be stood there for another hour so I braced myself against the chilly night, false smile plastered on my face. Don’t get me wrong, it was all very quaint but after the first 10 minutes, I was ready to get back to my long anticipated dinner. Finally after 25 minutes and having told them it was too much excitement for one night, I managed to close the door. The shepherds pie, by now, was stone cold, and the occasional lumps in the potato topping, when hot, edible, now seemed uninviting and unforgivable. ‘San Antonio’s!’ I cheered shrugging in resignation.

Gift Horse

Got chatted up today by this toothless old guy – his daughter is well into her seventies. He kept saying I was ‘hot’ and could he interest me in a capucchino which I didn’t really know how to respond to – slippery slope and all that. I didn’t want to encourage him but at that age, it seemed a shame to dash his hopes completely. One thing is to go for the older man but I thought this was taking it a bit far. At one point he pointed out I had good teeth which made me feel a bit like a horse at an equestrian fair. Maybe it was because he didn’t have any himself that he fixated on this particular feature? Finally I accepted the capucchino but drew the line at that saying I had a series of dental appointments coming up which would be keeping me busy for the foreseeable future, yes, even tomorrow night at 8 o’clock. Oh well, it’s when a woman stops getting the attention that she really has to start worrying I suppose.

Dirty Dealings

Today I left the house clutching three plastic bags, two containing rubbish and one containing my mobile phone, purse and door keys amongst other items. The idea was to throw the two rubbish bags into the refuse container. I think you probably know where this story is going… Anyway, head in the clouds, I arrived at the rubbish container, a big rectangular thing with a flip lid and chucked in what I thought were my two bags of rubbish. A hundred metres down the road, I realised that this was not the case and that my bag of valuables in fact contained a quantity of potato peelings from last night, a batch of used hankies from a persistent cold and the torn up remnants of a gas bill. Tutting to myself, I sprinted back and flipped open the lid, rummaging around furiously, convinced it would be sitting on top of the rubbish but no, it must have slipped down the back; that would have been too easy. So there I was, sifting through the rubbish, my puppy wisely distancing herself from this unsavoury behaviour whilst noticing curtains in the vicinity twitching. A very important official from the local ‘Municipio’ office drove past and I managed an embarrassed wave and weak smile – banana skins and used nappies clinging to my forearms. This episode coupled with the previously detailed rumours circulating the village of my hot water bottle preparations for the dog, would most certainly not contribute to any elevation in status on my part. I really wanted him to pull up and wind down his window so that I could tell him jovially the real reason I was elbow deep in rubbish then we could have a good laugh about it and, who knows, he might even get out and help me look, but instead he sped up and whizzed by, shaking his head in disbelief. Hmm, there goes a speedy resolution to my residence permit papers. Anyway, I finally managed to locate the bag and then tried to walk away with a casual saunter as if this was something I did every day without shame. Hmm, never a dull moment round here.

Puppy Love

Well, I had only been here 3 days when I acquired this puppy – not something I had really planned to do as a) I’m more of a cat person and b) I didn’t really want the commitment however when I saw it shivering in its empty little kennel, I insisted on taking it home with me where it has remained ever since. The locals are completely perplexed as to why I make her a hot water bottle every night and why anyone would want to put a coat on a dog. Even the dog looked confused at some point. I think I’ve just become the eccentric English woman in the village.