Cherry blossom

Durone di Cesena cherry tree

It’s not a patch on the pink cherry blossom in Japan, but still quite impressive I would say.

This is one of our two Durone di Cesena cherry trees; we planted a third cherry tree of a different sort, but I don’t know what variety it is.

There’s a place in Foligno where, every Summer, a lady sells Durone di Cesena cherries out of the back of her car. They are absolutely delicious – the best sort of cherry you could imagine. Apparently her brother has a whole orchard of nothing but cherry trees.

Our trees, however, have never had a single cherry between them. Well, I tell a lie: last year they each had a couple of deformed ones that the birds ate.

So let’s hope this is their big year.

I have a funny suspicion that it won’t be. It always seems that the weather changes just when the cherry blossom comes out. Along with apple blossom, it’s the last to open.

When I took the photo there weren’t many bees around, which might have been just because it was evening, or it might have been because they weren’t venturing out at all due to the weather.

The blossom had the most glorious scent, though. I wonder if it was my imagination, or did it actually smell like cherries?

Very expensive ham

Small packet of ham

Yesterday I went into one of the major supermarkets in Foligno and bought, over the delicatessen counter, 2 ‘etti’ (one fifth of a kilogram) of their most economical cooked ham.

The girl who served me put the label that came out of the weighing machine to one  side, and stuck another label on my packet. She made a slight flutter as if correcting a mistake, and I thought nothing of it.

Today, Clive noticed the rather bizarre price of €12.50 on the very small parcel of ham. The label had neither product name, nor purchase weight, nor weight per kilogram. The price had been ‘manually imposed’. My till receipt confirmed that I had indeed paid €12.50 for the item.

I phoned the supermarket and asked to speak to a manager.

“What’s it about?” asked the man who answered.

“A complaint. Well, a mistake,” I said, giving the benefit of the doubt and going on to explain.

“What’s the time of purchase on your label?”

“15:15.”

“Come in tomorrow afternoon.”

“I may not be able to come in the afternoon. I have to take a dog to the vet …”

“Come in the morning, then.”

“It might not be the morning …”

“You have to come in! What do you expect me to do over the phone?!”

“I’ll definitely come in. But it’s your error, and I can’t give a precise time. I think it’s likely to be at lunchtime.”

“Come at lunchtime, then, and we’ll sort it out.”

“Will you be there?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

He told me.

Clive, who listened in, will vouch for the fact that there was not one conciliatory word, let alone an apology however conditional, in the whole conversation.

We noticed subsequently that my till receipt records 14:40 as the time I went through checkout. There’s obviously a time warp in this supermarket.

Unnecessary cargo

When the snow was on the wane but the drive was still slippery, the Valtopina Police kindly brought us (at our request) a sack and a half of grit salt to use as  necessary.

Shortly after, our cleaning lady was on her way home and her Ford Focus couldn’t make it up a tricky slope some way from the house. After watching her tail lights go quickly up and slowly down a few times, I phoned her on her mobile and said we were coming to the rescue.

Between us, Clive and I put the sacks of salt and a spade in the car. We’d just got the engine started when she phoned us back to tell us she’d finally managed to make it to the top.

As we’d both nearly ruptured ourselves lifting the sacks in, we decided to leave them there in case they were needed on another occasion.

Snow-clearing equipment

Today, with the snow reduced to a few white ribbons on high ground, I lifted the tailgate to put the shopping in, and there was all the clobber. I’d forgotten all about it and we’d just given it a free ride to Foligno.

Computer down

My computer went down today, big time. There was no warning: suddenly the screen resized itself, all the shortcuts on the desktop disappeared, and the mouse opened things without them actually being open.

I’m writing this on Clive’s computer while he tries to recover my files. So far he seems to have got just about everything, except my email files aren’t readable.

He may be able to make the email readable but it’s by no means guaranteed.

Bummer.

Desk, pool, pellets, and Damaris up a ladder

This photo was on a flash key, taken by Clive using the mobile phone. It shows my desk, the indoor swimming pool (masquerading as a bookcase), plants, stacks of pellets, and a reclining Taylor. The sinister dark shape right at the back of the room on the right is me up a ladder cleaning mould from the ceiling where the outside wall is exposed to the brunt of the wind.

New doctor

We’ve found a doctor who can’t fail to be an improvement on our last one and also the one that was recommended to us.

Unlike Britain, where doctors operate in Practices and there’s a danger of running into the one you’ve just moved from unless you change Practice as well, in Italy doctors are separate entities.

Sometimes they club together and share relatively modern and well-appointed premises, but usually the surgery (‘ambulatorio’) is in some nook or corner of an old building in the historic centre. Access is often up difficult stairs or across pedestrian-only cobbled courtyards, and there are no signs to guide you on your first visit. You have to ask a passerby, who almost invariably will ‘know’.

This new doctor has 2 surgeries, one in Foligno and the other in Vescia. Vescia is the nearest.

We went to see her yesterday evening, for a pilot visit before we make the official change. There’s no appointment system in Italy: you just turn up within surgery hours – or an hour before if you fancy a gossip - and it’s first come, first served.

When it was our turn, we found her engrossed in a telephone call. She must have taken 3 or 4 more calls during our session, and each time she knew the name of the caller and their precise requirements without looking them up, as well as remembering exactly where she’d got to with us before the interruption. (Doctors in Italy are accessible at most times of the day on their mobile phones.)

It was freezing cold: the heating wasn’t working, she explained from the depths of her fur coat.

As a woman, I do generally prefer a female doctor, and Clive isn’t bothered either way. Vescia was the nearest possibility. So far I feel very optimistic; she’s already inspired me with confidence.