Take it to the bank

TT (my little dog) will often trek round after me and so it was that I had to go to the bank. It’s about a 30 second walk from my house (as is every place in the village) and as I opened the door, she darted in. Too late to retrieve her and make her wait outside so I let her wander round unsure of the rules about canines and banks. It’s a pretty open plan type of office and as I was waiting in the queue, I suddenly heard a yelping. I recognise the sound well as it’s the noise TT makes when you step on her because she’s got under your feet. It was a shrill noise that filled the whole room. I heard someone swearing in Italian and shouting ‘whose dog is this?’ I said nothing knowing that the bank manager and I are on good terms and he would feel embarrassed at such an outburst once he discovered it was my dog and then I would feel embarrassed at his embarrassment and so it would continue in a never-ending embarrassing chain. There would be too many undercurrents and all I wanted to do was to pay in a cheque. I caught sight of him discreetly moving a cloth around the floor with his foot. Clearly he had trodden on TT and the dog had tinkled on the floor. This only added to my embarrassment and as my little pet came towards me, I frowned at her, tutting noisily and opened the door for her to exit. ‘Tut’ I complained ‘people who let their dogs loose in public places…’ She peered at me non-comprehendingly through the window, waiting for me to come out as I mouthed at her ‘Go home… now!’ The bank manager nodded at me appreciatively, glad someone was agreeing with him. How naïve of me; it’s only a matter of time before he finds out who the dog belongs to as everyone knows everything about each other’s lives in the village.

Get Stuffed

Ah, the leisurely meals, savouring every mouthful, stretching hours and hours into the night….. but not so with this particular meal. 6 o’clock was the appointment for dinner at the hostess’s house, time enough to eat then stroll down to the village hall for the first of our dance lessons. With predictable British punctuality, I arrived at 5.55pm clutching my bottle of red wine, mouth already watering as the thought of an appetising meal. The door swung open and my friend, already of a nervous disposition, grabbed the bottle, propelling me towards the kitchen table where the first course was already served. ‘The classes start at 6.30 not 8!’ she announced breathlessly, grappling laboriously with the proferred bottle and pouring it before I’d had a chance to say ‘White please’. I pulled up my chair glancing nervously at her husband and my dance partner for the evening, Frederico. Barely having finished the anti-pasti, the plates were whisked away and a large tureen of steaming pumpkin soup appeared. She ladled it sloppily into our bowls and we obediently followed her pace, eyes watering at the heat. She talk incessantly ‘…. first class… can’t be late… bad impression…’. ‘Mmm, that soup was….’ I started but didn’t have time to finish as she was already clearing away the bowls. Seconds would have been nice but the ravioli was demanding attention, large parcels packed with ricotta and spinach. Rather ambitiously, I helped myself to 2 but she had already added another 3. ‘Go on, go on, tuck in!’. I forced them all down, not wanting to offend her and waited for the inevitable palpitations…. more wine was poured…. Still chewing the last mouthful a large dish of potatoes and oversized turkey legs appeared as if by magic in front of us ‘mangia mangia!’ she implored, shooting a look at the clock on the mantelpiece. I tucked in, feeling a twinge of a stitch beginning, sweat breaking out on my forehead. She plonked salad onto our plates and pushed the bread basket towards me ‘try it, it’s home-made’ I smiled crookedly reaching for a piece, mouth already crammed with a Jurassic sized leg. Do turkeys really get this big… ‘Mmmm!’ I nodded unintelligibly by way of complimenting her cooking. Another glass of wine….The other 2 munched silently, heads bowed; clearly this was nothing new for them. A bowl of lentils, one of risotto and another of corn competed for our attention. At long last I sat back, my stomach protesting violently at the sudden onslaught of food. ‘Brava brava!’ she applauded noisily collecting the plates and bringing out 6 varieties of cakes/home-made biscuits/pancakes and strudel. The dance classes were no longer an enjoyable prospect. I merely wished to be sitting at home, preferably with the lights, off in peace. Another glass of vino…. ‘I’m stuffed!’ I announced clutching at my stomach in an exaggerated theatrical fashion. She picked up each plate in turn and held it inches away from my nose ‘Just try one, go on, go on…’. Not wishing to offend her, I did as she asked. Now I really needed to go to the toilet and not just numbers 1s….’Have a chocolate, they’re typical of the region!’ she trilled unwrapping three and holding them out to me. I merely nodded, the will to fight, and possibly to live, now long gone. My growling stomach startled us all. She produced the liqueurs ‘Cheers!’ we clanked glasses joylessly, then a refill, then the fruit…Would it be rude to ask for an Alka Setzer? I thought it best to wait till I got home, ditto the toilet visit. Finally, a mere half hour later, it was time for our class… lots of bouncing around, swirling and movement – a bit like my innards at that precise moment. And the dance classes? That’s another episode…

Airing your dirty laundry...

My little dog has a rather annoying habit of chewing everything, but not only this, but picking up with the item in question and transporting it elsewhere for further mastication and so it was that the local priest was due to visit next door to discuss forthcoming parochial events. A truly charming character with a good sense of humour (just as well really), he turned up last week and I heard him chatting outside with my neighbour. Opening my door, I was horrified to see between his feet a pair of dirty black knickers which TT (the afore-mentioned villain) had dragged out, though God knows why anyone or anything would want to chew on a pair of unwashed knickers. ‘Had he seen them?’ I had no idea but I knew I had to take immediate action to prevent ex-communication and other unpleasant exclusory actions. He would think I had just thrown the offending items out of the window demonstrating a) I was a litterbug b) my moral standards were low c) I hadn’t done my washing. ‘Padre!’ I exclaimed, a little too enthusiastically, startling them both ‘Why don’t you come in for some tea! We’ve never had the chance to just sit and chat, you know, chat and things…’ I trailed off, darting a look at the bedraggled underwear lying on the ground. I grabbed him by the arm, yes perhaps a little too familiar for a man of the cloth, and guided him indoors before he could protest. Once indoors, I sprinted out and stuffed the knickers into my pocket making a mental note to remove them at the earliest opportunity and not to carry them round with me while I taught over the next few days thus setting up another situation where they could be produced with equal embarrassment and shame.

Cheap Thrill

The other day I was asked by a local school to do some marketing for them so there I was with this list in front of me of local firms who might be interested in having English lessons. Boring of the task quickly, I reached firm #10 on the list and this man answered with the most delectable voice ever – velvety, caressing the air, rich, mellow, sensual and pleasure promising… and all in musical Italian. ‘Wow!’ I thought, suddenly awake. I quickly realised that his firm didn’t need English classes but how to keep him on the line and thus enjoy for a little longer that gorgeous voice? Banal and irrelevant questions spewed forth…. ‘So do you employ any of your family in your company?’ / ‘Do you get the chance to visit the beach in your lunch hour then?’ (I had no idea if they were situated along the coast or not) / ‘Has it been a good year for business so far…?’. At each question there was a slight pause before answering, though, God bless him, he did answer them all, probably thinking ‘What’s the matter with this woman?’. Finally I couldn’t think of any more questions so I just came out with it. ‘Can I tell you something? I think you have a lovely voice’. He laughed, a deep rich intense laugh – I had goose bumps and wondered suddenly if he had hairs on his chest. ‘Thank you’ he answered ‘You have a nice voice too’. Unsure what to say next, I said lamely ‘errr, well, if you ever need English lessons, you know where to find us!’. Ahhh, a pleasant lift to the morning. I think it was just one of those situations where you think afterwards, ‘I should have told him’ so I did. After this, I told all my girlfriends about it and they begged me for his number so that they could get a cheap thrill as well from it. No doubt his company have been receiving repeated ‘wrong numbers’ and women asking similarly irrelevant questions in the hope that this sexy-voiced hot blooded male will answer and brighten up their mornings too.