IT'S BEEN A WHILE...

Yes, it's been a long and involuntary hiatus, for reasons which I'll explain further down the post because I'd like to start by mentioning last Sunday's International Women's Day, La Giornata della Donna. Susanna Duffy in Melbourne invited me to speak on her very interesting radio programme Left After Breakfast on Melbourne 3CR radio and this is what I said:

"It's 9 a.m. in beautiful, Baroque Modica and in a few minutes I'm going to a nearby bar where I know there'll be bright yellow mimosa-inspired cakes because the mimosa blossom is the symbol of International Women's Day – la Giornata Internazionale della Donna – in Italy.

This was the idea of Teresa Mattei, a World War 2 partisan and one of the Mothers of the Italian Constitution – that is, she was a member of the Assemblea Costituente which drew up the Constitution after the war. She thought that mimosa would be a great symbol of International Women's Day for the simple reason that the flowers are in season here in early March and can be obtained easily at little or no cost. Little bouquets of them are being sold right now in the streets and people do buy them for the women in their lives. It's quite a joyous day here with free entry for women to all State cultural sites.

Teresa Mattei died in 2013 at the age of 92. The mimosa blooms for you today, Teresita, as it does for all women.

Buona Giornata della Donna - Happy International Women's Day."

Mimosa-inspired cheesecake

at the Cicara Caffeteria, Modica.

But what had I been up to in the months before that? Not much, really as in November I underwent knee replacement surgery. I spent five weeks in hospital, where I must say the physiotherapy was wonderful but the worst part was being away from my dog Bertie-Pierrine. She was well looked after in kennels and they were kind enough to send me photos every day but I missed her so much!

One day the doctors said I could have a visit from her, provided it was outside and not for long. I got better pretty quickly after that!

And then, two days before Christmas we both came home and it was fantastic!

I'll leave you with a true story of something that happened in the hospital - it might make you smile:

Battle of the Bra

This morning a kindly male nurse is preparing me for physio. All is going reasonably well until we come to the matter of my bra, which, not being a queen who has a dresser at her command, I put on in my usual way, back to front to do up the fasteners, with the intention of then turning it around. 

"No!" says he, trying to pull my bra from my hands. "It's the wrong way round!"

"I know", say I.

"But how are you going to wear it like that?" he asks, still trying to wrench it from me.

(My dignity you have taken; my bra you shall never have.)

"Like this", I reply, deftly sliding the garment into its correct position and manoeuvring my tits into it.

Scratching his head, the nurse looks at me as an Egyptian might have looked at Moses when God parted the Red Sea. (I am left in great puzzlement as to this man's home life. Does his wife never do up her own bra?)

Then we moved on to the socks...

THE HEART OF ITALY

If there is one thing that has not stopped over the Ferragosto period, it is the arrival of "boatloads of sorrow" carrying migrants seeking refuge and hope in Europe. Amongst so much sadness, today I can bring you a story which proves that Italy, as we all knew, has a great heart:

A few days ago, a thirteen-year-old Egyptian boy called Ahmed was found on a migrant boat and he was clutching a medical certificate wrapped in plastic as if it were a treasure. The certificate proved that his seven-year-old brother Farid, then still in Egypt, is suffering from the blood disease thrombocytopenia and Ahmed had boarded a migrant boat in order to find help for his sibling.

He spent much of his journey hidden in an animal crate - this despite a promissory note for EGP 2,000 which his uncle had handed to the traffickers -  and some of the events he had witnessed along the way are truly shocking.  He thought he would die on the journey.

Ahmed had decided to take this risk after hearing his parents and other members of his family talking about his brother's plight: Egyptian doctors had already carried out one operation and a second would cost EGP 50,000.  How could a family of date pickers find this sum?  Thus it was that Ahmed, determined to find work to pay for any medical treatment his brother might receive in Europe, made the dangerous crossing.

"I'm asking for help from doctors and hospitals in Italy but I'll work to pay for everything", he told a volunteer on Lampedusa.  "My dream is to see my little brother playing football with me."

Ahmed was transferred to Florence today and there the NPO Fondazione Careggi had already set about raising funds to help the family.  Tuscan Regional Councillor for Health Stefania Saccardi said,

"We wanted to respond to Ahmed's great gesture of love for his brother with a gesture of love of our own."

Farid and his parents will be joining Ahmed in Florence later today and the Meyer Hospital, with help from doctors at the Careggi, is standing by to treat Farid.  The Palermo Children's Hospital has also offered to help.

Well done, Italy. I'm sure my readers would wish me to express, in turn, our love for you.

CUPPING IN SICILY

Image: WPClipart.com

I'm not interested in sport but I was interested to read of the popularity of cupping amongst today's athletes.  It is, as the article says, an ancient technique and in Sicily the practice, or something akin to it, has probably never stopped.  Here's what I wrote about it in 2007:

Some years ago a friend's son had a nasty chest cold and my friend got him to bend over and breathe deeply, then placed heated glass cups, open end downwards, all over his back. Next, she massaged his back with warm olive oil. After this, the lad was wrapped up in fleecy pyjamas, a fluffy dressing gown and as many blankets as could be found in the house and was sent to bed with half a dozen hotwater bottles. My friend who, like many Sicilians I know, prides herself on hardly ever switching on her central heating - they prefer to sit around in their own homes in jacket, muffler, cap and gloves in deepest winter - did switch it on that night.

Needless to say, in the morning the young man was fine and I'll never know whether it was some magic property in the heated cups, the olive oil, the deep breathing, the unaccustomed warmth in the house or just sweating the cold out but who am I to question something that works?

I hate to tell you, dear athletes, but the Sicilians got there before you!

A HEARTENING PROJECT

I often criticise Sicily when things go wrong so it is only fair to congratulate the island's administrators publicly when they come up with an excellent project.

By the end of the year, 310 defibrillators are to be installed in public places in Sicily and careful thought has been given to the eventual locations: Schools, universities, rural pharmacies, small prisons, public transport vehicles, archaeological sites, theatres and railway stations are among the locations selected and training courses in the use of the defibrillators have already begun. It seems that all the Sicilian provinces are included in the programme and the smaller Sicilian islands have not been forgotten.

The Ragusa Health Authority is responsible for developping a software programme to support the project.

Well done, Sicily!

FEVER SOUP

Red onion soup made with brodo [stock] is an old Italian cure for colds and flu and when I was feeling poorly last week I knew that onion soup was just what I needed. I didn't have any red onions and lacked the energy to go and get some but I did have some white ones. I also wasn't really in a brodo frame of mind, so I decided to concoct my own onion soup using passata. [I like the rustica type that is a bit thicker]. Here's what I did:

For 1 - 2 people thinly slice 6 medium white onions and chop 2 cloves garlic, then soften them very slowly, in a heavy pan, in 55 gr butter and 1 tablesp olive oil.  This will take about 15 mins.

Now, what's this lovely stuff?

It's coarse seasalt flavoured with lemon zest and mint and I found it in Catania at Christmas. I've been dying to use it so in some went!  You can of course just add normal seasalt, some grated lemon zest and chopped herbs of your choice. Add a good grinding of mixed peppercorns, too.

Now add 680 gr passata or homemade tomato sauce. Simmer, stirring, for about 20 mins.

To serve the soup you can put buttered toast in the bottom of the bowl if you like, but I just added some small squares of ordinary bread as it reminds me of the soups I ate as a child. Don't we all need to think of being cossetted when we're unwell?

I felt heaps better the next day. It could have been the medication the doctor gave me but I'm convinced it was the soup!

A TO-DO AT THE DOCTOR'S

Having given in to la febbre on Wednesday, on Thursday I reluctantly took myself to the doctor's; "reluctantly" firstly because I'm British and we carry on and secondly because of the inevitable wait that the occasion would involve.

In my doctor's surgery there is a collection of numbered metal discs on a desk by the door and a notice asking patients to take one, but no one does as this would be too much like organisation and would also limit the possibilities of social discourse. Sicilians think it is much more fun, after you have passed the time of day with all your fellow-patients individually, to look around and ask, "Who's the last one?"  L'ultimo having piped up, you know who you have to watch, and watch is what you do, for no magazines are provided and no one takes along anything to read.

If, however, one of the "patients" is wearing a suit, sitting in a self-assured way and has a bulky briefcase at his feet, you know that your wait will be even longer than usual, for this is a pharmaceutical company rep and one of these gentlemen is allowed to go into the consulting room after every two patients.  This system seems most unfair to me when there is a roomful of sick people but "Pazienza - What can we do?"  Yesterday my heart sank when I saw not one, but two self-assured gentlemen with bulky briefcases in the waiting room and summoned my reserves of hard-learned Sicilian resignation.

Just after I had arrived, a couple came in and asked the usual question, "Chi è l'ultimo?" The elderly man next to me was about to say that he was when a woman dashed in and said the honour was hers, explaining that she'd been outside.

"If you're waiting you can't be outside", said the elderly man, continuing, with unarguable logic, "because inside is inside and outside is outside."

At this everybody except me - I still felt too ill - joined in, all at the same time, of course and one patient shouted,

"Anyway, how do we know you were outside?"

That did it!

"Are you doubting my word?" asked the young woman in a horrified tone.

"No", chorused the company, "we're just saying that inside is inside and outside is outside and you should be inside because how do we know you're inside if you're outside?"

By this time the wife who had started the whole thing with her question was on the phone to her daughter, relating the incident in even louder tones than the shouting and everybody else had turned to the person next to them for confirmation that outside was outside, an assurance which was given at full volume in every case. One of the reps had completed his sales spiel to the doctor, too and, when he left the consulting room, silence suddenly fell as we all held our breath for a fight over who would go in next - the elderly man or the inside-outside woman. But Sicilian chivalry won the day:

"Si accomodi, signora " ["After you"], said the elderly man with a dignified nod of his head, looking around as if it was the most obvious course of action in the world and as if he was wondering what we were all gaping at.

Just him and one more rep and I was in, too!

IN HIS CUPS?

Reading this article about "buttock-cupping" and other "cures" on the BBC site today made me smile and reminded me that I once saw something similar in Sicily: 

Some years ago a friend's son had a nasty chest cold and my friend got him to bend over and breathe deeply, then placed heated glass cups, open end downwards, all over his back. Next, she massaged his back with warm olive oil. After this, the lad was wrapped up in fleecy pyjamas, a fluffy dressing gown and as many blankets as could be found in the house and was sent to bed with half a dozen hotwater bottles. My friend who, like many Sicilians I know, prides herself on hardly ever switching on her central heating - they prefer to sit around in their own homes in jacket, muffler, cap and gloves in deepest winter - did switch it on that night.

Needless to say, in the morning the young man was fine and I'll never know whether it was some magic property in the heated cups, the olive oil, the deep breathing, the unaccustomed warmth in the house or just sweating the cold out but who am I to question something that works?

TAKING THE PISS?

Image: WP Clipart

Italians love their cars and Modicans, I would say, more than most: every one of them will tell you, "We have a transport system that doesn't work" but this doesn't seem to matter because, as a student told me some years ago, "Only old people use it." "Thanks very much", said I.

So frustrated am I by the infrequency of Modica's buses that, whenever I go to Catania, I am like a child let loose in some Christmas wonderland at the sight of buses that actually appear to be going somewhere and bus stops placed in locations where people might want to alight.

Using your car for every journey is all very well but, in these days of the crisi - which is showing few signs of abating in Italy - it is, more than ever, costly. Help, however, may be on hand from our neighbours in Sardinia, where on Tuesday entrepreneur Franco Lisci unveiled a plan to use urine as petrol. This is not a new idea but it is new to Italy and Mr Lisci was very happy to demonstrate the use of a filter made of 100% Sardinian wool to isolate impurities. 

By all accounts the plan could work and help not only the Italian environment but the health and purses of the country's citizens as the use of urine as fuel for cars and for the running of domestic appliances would not only be cheaper but would reduce CO2 emissions.

Two questions come to mind:  firstly I would like to know how long it will take the Italian government to think up a way of taxing the stuff - not long, I suspect - and I have visions of everyone walking about with those pretty revenue stamps of which Italian officials are so fond attached to their private parts. Secondly, from whom is the quantity of urine required to be procured? I do have a suggestion:  Get it from the politicians, Italy.

"CHI E NATO A ENNA....."

"Chi viene a Ispica compierà 100 anni - Those who come to Ispica will live to the age of 100", goes the saying in these parts but perhaps we now need to add, "Chi è nato a Enna - Those born in Enna....." for the world's oldest man comes from there.

Arturo Licata, who celebrated his 111th birthday in May, officially became the oldest man in the world at the weekend, following the death of 112-year-old Salustiano "Shorty" Sanchez in the USA.

Arturo sadly lost his wife in 1980 but he has seven children and is looked after by them in his home town of Enna. One of his sons says that, although Arturo can no longer see or hear, he is in reasonably good health, which he partly attributes to the fact that his father has never smoked and limits his alcohol consumption to a glass of red wine with meals. He has also always eaten lots of vegetables and is partial to a raw onion from time to time. Arturo's favourite dish is pasta with ricotta.

After working in the sulphur mines of Pasquasia for 20 years, Arturo became a nurse in the Enna Dispensary. One of his duties was to take children with tubercolosis  to hospital in Palermo. He also served in the military in Africa during the Fascist period.

Later Arturo learnt to play the guitar and was often called upon to compose love songs for friends who wanted to impress the ladies.  He developed a love of poetry and won several prizes in poetry competitions.

Now he passes the time telling the children in his family all about his long and interesting life. Let's hear it for Arturo and pasta alla ricotta!

MONDAY, MONDAY

This morning I had to go to the hospital to have my eyes checked:  for some time now, although I can read a book or work on the computer even without my glasses, I've been experiencing some difficulty in reading the newsbar when I watch TV. I do have a very small television, I must admit, and those of you who are used to state-of-the-art sets might wonder how anyone could see the screen, let alone the newsbar! Anyway, a few weeks ago I went to the optician to check whether my glasses needed changing and he thought I should see an eye specialist in case I had the beginnings of cataracts. [I am well aware that age does not come alone but I had hoped for a few years' grace before the cataracts caught up with me and of course, it's only natural to wonder if it might be something more sinister.]

Well, today was appointment day and, after I had paid for my "ticket" - you have to pay for outpatient appointments in Italy even if, like me, you are covered by the health service -  off I confidently strode to the hospital's new wing, as that is where my appointment card told me to go. Silly me! I should have remembered that Sicilians always ask the nearest bystander for directions, even if they have satnav, written instructions in their hand or can see a clear signpost right in front of them. They just don't trust the written word. I shouldn't have been surprised, then, that I got to the ala nuova, only to be told that the eye clinic hadn't moved in yet and I would have to go back to the old wing. Off I went again and this time I asked for directions at the counter in the lobby. I was told I would have to go to the end of the very long ground floor corridor, "where there are people waiting" but, having reached the end of the corridor without finding any people waiting or an eye department, I asked the only member of staff there for help and was informed I'd missed the department and had to go half the way back again. [Yep - I sure needed an eye test!] This time I found the department but on the door was a sign saying it had moved to the second floor, so now I was in search of a lift. Every lift I came across was marked "staff only" or "guasto" [broken] but finally another member of staff directed me to a lift hidden in a corner. Upstairs there was only one corridor and I walked its length, meeting no one and finding no oculista but on the way back I did find a porter. "Oh, this is the new wing", said he "and you want the old one. You will have to retrace your steps." 

By now I'd walked about three miles, I should think, and I wanted to cry. I do have a knee problem and I can't just keep walking like I used to. Besides, this is a hospital and most people who go there are likely to be already ill, worried or stressed or all three, so why aren't there any clear signs or some people around to help? Some of you may remember that a few years ago I spent some time as an inpatient there, so I know that volunteers appear in the afternoons. Why not in the mornings, when there are outpatients?

Downstairs I made straight for the lobby where I knew there were public lifts and luckily I was deposited right outside the eye department. I sat down to wait and the next thing that happened was that a beggar came along. He seemed pretty harmless and was wheeling a toddler in a baby buggy but beggars should not be wandering around hospitals, where people are at their most vulnerable. I suppose a young man with a toddler looks normal enough, given that relatives can visit patients in the mornings to give them breakfast, but where was the hospital security?

As always, once you are in the hands of the medical personnel here, you are treated well and receive a very thorough examination. Everything is explained to you and if you ask questions, you will receive clear and honest answers. Yes, I do have the beginnings of cataracts but nothing will need to be done in the near future. I just need a check-up once a year for the time being.

Happy with that, I thanked the staff and made for the loo. I hadn't put my eye-war-paint on for obvious reasons and I wasn't leaving without it! But vanity, this morning, was very nearly my downfall for as I left the building, I realised that one of my earrings was missing. This must have happened as I was applying my eye makeup, I reasoned so I turned to go back and my knee chose that moment to give way under me. I somehow managed to stop myself falling, limpingly retraced my steps and in the loo....... no sign of my earring. There was no sign of it anywhere else, either and, having emptied out my bag just in case, I sadly resigned myself to its loss.

When a girl needs cheering up in Sicily there is usually gelato but it's THAT time of year again:

The whole of Italy has to go on holiday at the same time and most of the bars are shut, along with nearly everything else. Come to think of it, that could explain why there were no volunteers on duty this morning and why there were only two or three people waiting when I reached the department.

At lunchtime I came home, started to get ready to have a shower and, as I was taking my bra off, there was this welcome clink of something hard on the tiled floor. Yes, I found it - or it refound me! That's the third time I've found a piece of missing jewellery down there and to do so is one of the few advantages of being voluptuous. On one memorable occasion a pendant of mine travelled from Sicily to London in my bra......

Tutto è bene quel che finisce bene. So that was my Monday. How was yours and who remembers this?

The Mamas and the Papas - Monday Monday

ELIXIR OF LIFE?

I've often wondered just what it is that keeps elderly Sicilians so sprightly: the combination of sun and sea, lifestyle and the famous Mediterranean diet are all factors and now it seems that the Sicilian prickly pear or fico d'India may contain the very elixir of life.

A recent study found that the process of ageing was significantly delayed in people who ate eight prickly pears a day and scientists say that they may soon produce a health supplement containing the fruit.

I'm not waiting for the supplement - I'm off to buy a crate of the fruit right now!

PRIVACY ACROSS CULTURES - A "LET'S BLOG OFF" POST

Every two weeks, the blogosphere comes alive with something called a Blog Off. A Blog Off is an event where bloggers of every stripe weigh in on the same topic on the same day. The topic for this round of the Blog Off is "Privacy".

In Italy the British are famous for their supposed love of privacy and Italians even use the English term for the concept. Thus it is that I often find myself explaining that my compatriots' perceived "coldness" or lack of curiosity is really just British reserve or the Anglo-Saxon virtue of leaving the other chap alone unless he asks you to become involved in his troubles.

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We are, I tell my Italian friends and students, just as interested as they are in the lives of others and I ask them if they have ever, whilst on holiday in Britain,  seen a net curtain twitch.  The British, after all, have some of the most intrusive media in the world and there is no tolerance for those who fall foul of it or, like the late Diana, Princess of Wales, fail to understand it.

Just a few miles away but across a significant stretch of water, things are very different, however:  When it was publically revealed that President Mitterand of France had a second, "secret" family, his countrymen deemed the matter to be largely his own business.  In Britain he would have been hounded and, of course, political scandals such as those being revealed almost daily in Italy would not be tolerated.  In fact, whenever I hear a British Prime Minister announcing his "support" for some hapless colleague whose lustful instincts have ruled his or her head, I know that that politician will resign very shortly indeed.

Italy's privacy laws* do set out to protect the ordinary citizen, though, and a blogger in this country would have to be very reckless to publish a non-public-domain photo of someone without his or her permission.   A few months ago I wrote that I had managed, using a photo editing programme, to restore a faded photo of my first Italian boyfriend to its former glory after 40 years and several commenters asked me why I hadn't published it.  The answer is that I daren't.  

But nowhere were my own concepts of privacy more challenged than in a Sicilian hospital, where I had to spend some time three years ago:  I want to say at the outset that the medical care I received was excellent and I will always be grateful for that.  However, being examined in full view of the other patients in the ward - there were no partitions or curtains that could be drawn around the beds - was somewhat disconcerting, as was having your case discussed within their hearing.  Once I was in the loo when a group of doctors on the ward ruminated upon the best course of action for me and I learnt about my future medication not from them, but from the solicitous patient in the bed opposite.  This lady also appointed herself as my dietician and my advice to anyone having to undergo a similar hospital stay is to surrender your privacy gracefully, for the rewards of doing so are great.

The trouble with privacy, it seems to me, is that we all have a different concept of what it entails and this can happen across or within cultures:  I once had a foreign colleague who kept turning up at my home without warning at inconvenient times and I couldn't work out why he wanted to spend so much time with me, for there was no romantic interest.  I was flabbergasted when he told me that he had never, until he came to Britain at the age of 31, spent as long as one minute of his life alone.  I was almost as surprised when a young Sicilian friend told me that when she gets married she will move into a house situated between that of her mother and that of her mother-in-law but, as she says, what she loses in privacy she will gain in helping hands and she will certainly not lack willing babysitters when the time comes!  

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Another friend here, who has had six children in as many years, does not seem to need personal space at all and perhaps that is just as well! Yet, paradoxically, this friend is more capable than most of understanding that a single life with all the privacy you want - and some that you don't - is not always a joyride.

So there we have it: some have their privacy thrust upon them whilst others give it up for security, family, fame or, unintentionally, to satisfy other desires.  In a world in which we are all increasingly observed, what would you give up yours for?

* Italian privacy laws are under review as I write and there is concern that they may be used to silence some bloggers.  This is a political matter which I do not want to expand upon here but you can read more about it in this post at Alex's.

Below is a full list of blogs participating in this theme:

ITALIAN WOMEN ARE SLIMMEST IN EUROPE

It's official:  according to research findings published on The Lancet website, Italian women are the most svelte in the EU and rank 63rd in the world for thinness.  Italian men, on the other hand, are 133rd in the world but in the nation as a whole only 10% of people are overweight.

Britain, shamefully, has the highest number of obese inhabitants in the EU but the South Pacific island of Nauru, whose inhabitants have reportedly succumbed to a diet of junk food, has the highest number of obese inhabitants in the world, with 90% of the population being clinically obese.

The thinnest people in the world are those of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

How, you may ask, do Italian women do it? Indeed,  I am often asked in the comments on this blog whether they count calories.  The answer is, of course, that they eat healthily, do not rush their meals and do not eat between them.  Having said that, I have to add that many of them have exercise régimes that they carry out with military precision and regularity. But I'm sure that their relaxed and respectful attitude to food is the secret.

"Everything you see I owe to spaghetti."
- Sophia Loren

NUTELLA IN THE DOCK

I have to admit that I am not a fan of Nutella, that ubiquitous hazelnut spread that Italians love to use at breakfast - or what passes for breakfast in Italy.  Nevertheless, I think that World Nutella Day is a lot of fun and the product does not deserve to find itself in the dock in California.

Yes, you read that right:  San Diego mother Athena Honenberg has taken Ferrero USA to court because, having  bought a jar of Nutella for her four-year-old after watching a television advertisement which claimed that the spread provides a healthy breakfast for children, she discovered that it contains 70% saturated fats and refined sugars.

Ferrero is defending both its product and its publicity.  My research showed that Nutella ingredients are listed quite accurately in the USA so I have a suggestion for Ms Honenberg:  next time, read the label!

ITALY MAGAZINE ROUND-UP - 23

Here is my pick of last week's Italy Magazine articles:

In the run-up to next year's celebrations of 150 years of Italian Unity the Italian flag is being honoured in an exhibition in Rome . Twenty-four  of the country's top designers have been asked to contribute their interpretation of the tricolore and their creations form the highlight of the show.  Elsewhere the Unity celebrations have caused a row as the organisers of next February's Sanremo Song Festival argue over which songs to include on a night dedicated to the anniversary. 

Never mind:  Italian researchers have proved that a healthy sex life is good for us and  in more good news Italian footballing hero Roberto Baggio received a well-deserved award.

For my Patti Chiari column I wrote about Vincenzo Bellini and his relationship with the city of Catania and the pasta dish named for his most famous heroine.  The recipe is here, too.

Happy reading.

CHRISTMAS DOINGS

I'm always pleased when I make a new food discovery [new to me, that is] even if it is not a Sicilian product and yesterday in our deli I discovered lard d'Arnad, a salume produced to an age-old method in Arnad, Valle d'Aosta. It may not look much but after its long brining in herbs it tastes wonderful - ideal antipasto food on bruschette or rye bread.

Yesterday I was also pleased with myself because I managed to walk as far as Raffaele the hairdresser's for the first time since becoming ill and I am now a redder blonde. It was great to be out and about under my own steam in the Via Sacro Cuore, not least because I was beginning to wonder how I was going to do my Christmas shopping without the recipients of my presies knowing exactly what I was purchasing for them, as my friends were kindly taking me whenever I needed to go there [and very grateful I am].

Today has been a day of unexpected gifts and kindnesses, beginning with this pretty "angel" plaque from Rosa [the miracle cleaning lady] and her family. I need all the guardian angels I can get so I was both touched and delighted to receive this. Then Cathy my boss turned up with a most welcome bottle of gin and she also brought along the white torrone, a gift from the manager of the Altro Posto who had apparently been asking after me. Isn't that fantastic? It seems so long since I visited my favourite bar but I can't quite make it that far yet. I'll be there soon, though, Giorgio - don't go bankrupt in the meantime!

At 5pm the door bell rang and it was the kind neighbour who visited me in hospital and brought me some of her marmellata when I came home. I'd left an English Christmas card for her and her family and she was so glad to have it that she came round bearing a bag of mandarins and lemons from her trees plus a plate of her home-made goodies; I couldn't resist showing you a close-up of these and they are, anti-clockwise from the front: cobaita [a bit like torrone but covered with sesame seeds], Modican chocolate [made without dairy products], honey biscuits and [centre] almond torrone. I very much appreciate the time, trouble and love that goes into preparing such a gift.

Nothing could really blight such a day when we have had glorious sunshine as well but the Post Office nearly managed it: in I went to post just two packages for delivery within Italy and, ever the optimist, I thought I'd be quick as I'd got ticket 171 for the postal counter and noticed that the customer with number 168 was already being served. In my Christmas cheeriness I had not bargained for the inevitable three customers who queue-jump to ask for "a little piece of information" which takes as much time to explain as the splitting of the atom, what with the clerk not knowing the answer and going off to have a conference with his colleagues about it, then the customer wanting more and more details... After three and a half years, why these customers are attended to out of order still mystifies me. I also saw that a new notice has appeared on the postal counter, informing customers that now the clerk is only allowed to deal with five transactions per customer at any one time. After that, you have to get another ticket and wait all over again! [Thank goodness I posted my 30 or so items of varying weights to the UK last week!] It makes no sense, as if someone has one heavy parcel that they want to send by registered post, that alone takes about half an hour. And there are plenty of these! A lot of them are elderly gentlemen and they all post enormous boxes of uniform size and shape to the mainland. What can be in them, I wonder? Sicilian food for the folks up north?? Anyway, after "only" about 20 minutes or so, my tasks there were completed and I limped off [rather jauntily, I thought] to enjoy the seasonal atmosphere of Sacro Cuore once again.

Finally tonight, behold, reader, how beautifully the shops gift-wrap for you; in this case you don't even have to find a label!

NIGHT SHIFT POEM

While I was in hospital, a friend who works there composed this for me during a night shift and brought it to me the next morning. I was very touched by this and it helped me a great deal. With her permission, I now share it with you:

Se la vita ci richiede
di camminare su un sol piede
non conviene indietreggiare
ma piuttosto affrontare
ed il nuovo fronteggiare
anche se in tali congiunture
si fanno avanti vecchie paure
che prospettano sciagure
per tutte le zone oscure,
succede di reagire in modo scomposto
con la ragione fuori posto,
ci si ribella alla creazione
si va in sterile ribellione
ci si arrende mancando l’occasione
invece di appogiarsi al bastone.
Sta a ciascuno indovinare
in quale posizione ci si deve collocare.
Quel che adesso è un problema
è l’ignoto che crea pena
ma la diagnosi verrà
e l’atteggiamento cambierà.

If life requires us
to walk on only one foot
it doesn’t help to look back.
Instead, we must face it
with new ways of coping
even if, in such circumstances
old fears come to the fore
predicting disaster
in all our dark places.
Sometimes we react in panic,
not using our reason
but if we rebel against creation
we rebel uselessly
giving in and missing our chances
instead of leaning on a stick.
Each of us must work out
where he stands.
What seems a problem now
is fear of the unknown
but the diagnosis will come
and your way of facing it will change.

[My translation.]

BEING LOOKED AFTER

My wonderful friends here are in touch every day, run me around for shopping and various medical appointments and are conspiring to feed me up, reader!

At Gina's last Sunday there were these lovely ravioli, filled with sweetened ricotta and cooked in a pork sauce, then various meats cooked in the same sauce, followed by these crispelle di riso from which the honey was just dripping. The other day, also at Gina's, I was treated to pasta with dried porcini and frittata with salad. There were also slices of freshly cooked pumpkin [not shown] seasoned with chilli pepper.

Linda brought around some comforting pasta al forno she had cooked and on Saturday night Marco and Giovanna turned up with plates of focaccia, arancini and pasticci [pies, meat ones in this case].

Gina has also managed to get me to Raffaele the hairdresser's, for sitting around being ill is one thing; but sitting around being ill with your roots showing is quite another!

LA GALERA O L'OSPEDALE

“Everyone”, runs an Italian saying, “does their time in la galera [prison] or l’ospedale.” As it is just over a week since I "escaped" from the latter institution, I feel it is time to describe it.

To begin at the beginning: since August, I have been experiencing episodes of balance loss; nothing much at first but then they became more frequent. By 9th October, I was only getting to work because kind friends took me there and collected me and I fell over 4 times during that week. I had also lost weight dramatically, without dieting, during the same period. Finally my GP decided that the best course of action would be for me to go into hospital for a week or so, as all the necessary tests could be done quickly and on the spot. This meant kennelling Simi suddenly and I was most upset about this, as by the 14th, when I was admitted, I was so scared I had some awful neurological thing that I feared I would never see her again! But I knew it was the only thing to do so off she went to Mr Enzo’s establishment and in I went.

Let me say at the outset that I received excellent physician care and I cannot praise their thoroughness enough. Indeed, I would go as far as to say that the only way you could get such a complete check-up in the UK would be to pay for it. I was always treated as an intelligent person and test results were communicated to me straightaway. I very much appreciated this courtesy.

Very little, then, of what I have to say below is intended as criticism; I just think that some of you might find the comparisons interesting.

In Britain, the first thing that you lose when you go into hospital is your dignity as you are weighed, prodded and immediately called by your first name. Here, you retain the dignity of signora but the first thing that you lose is your privacy: Imagine, now, a 4-bed women’s ward, with ample lockers and hangers for your clothes plus a normal bedside table-cum-locker each. Yet there are no screens or curtains! When one of you is to be examined or treated all visitors are asked to leave the room but everything happens in full view of the other 3 patients. The old lady in the bed next to me was too ill to be moved for a surgical procedure, so this was carried out in the ward. Not even for this was she afforded the privacy of a screen. The other 2 patients slept through it; I pretended to read.

The next day, the old lady was sent home to die. I really felt for her family, as I had lived through anxious, sleepless bedside vigils such as they kept when my mother was so ill, but I never had to wash or change her when she soiled herself or the bed. Yet night after night relatives did this and more for their loved ones, even turning and lifting them and administering treatment. In fact, the whole system works on the assumption that you have a relative there. I can see the human side of this, but I do not think that male relatives should be allowed to spend all day and all night on a women’s ward when their loved one is not that ill [or female relatives on a male ward]. It can make things awkward for other patients.

Mind you, the lack of privacy has its funny side. All information is conveyed to you within earshot of your fellow-patients and the kindly lady opposite me took great pride in being able to reel off everybody’s symptoms and diagnoses for the benefit of any newcomers. The correct response to this, I learned, is to utter “Pazienza”, “È così [“That’s how it is”] or “Siamo qua” [“We are here”]. You absolutely must sigh deeply for dramatic effect before saying the last of these and you must have your hands placed firmly in your lap whilst you speak.

Now, I was not incapable of getting to the bathroom but I nonetheless found it a precarious expedition! For one thing, could someone please tell me why there are no toilet seats on any of the loos in the entire hospital?! This didn’t seem to bother anyone else [“pazienza”, etc] but for someone as wobbly as I am these days it made life more difficult! And I found myself crying from fear of falling every morning as I attempted to shower. The nurses [2 for the entire ward of 7 rooms] just do not have time to accompany you while you do your ablutions! Please do not infer from any of the above that the nursing care is poor for it is not; there just isn’t enough of it.

Visiting times [largely ignored] are 07.30 – 08.30 [presumably so that relatives can help with bathroom visits and bring in food], 12.30 – 2. 30 and 6.30 – 8.30 pm. Only the Italians could visit a hospital and behave as they would at a festa, with children bouncing on the beds, the women gossiping loudly and happily and the men forming their own little “gossip groups” in the corridor. And perhaps it isn’t so bad for the patients after all. I felt rather sorry for the visitors, actually, as only one hard little chair is provided at each bedside; not even the patient has the luxury of being able to sit in an easy chair for part of the day! I certainly did not lack visitors myself, with wonderful and loyal friends coming in every day, bringing gifts and taking care of practical needs such as washing. One day, nearly all my women neighbours turned up, including the lady who took a year to acknowledge my greetings after I moved in here. I was most touched by that. There had obviously been some sort of “neighbourhood conference” as no one had seen me or the dog for a few days and they had noticed that my shutters remained closed. So along they came, determined to find me!

Meals, apart from breakfast, were quite good. I’ll never know why the Italians, who produce arguably the best food in the world at other repasts, either neglect or make such a mishmash of breakfast. At 7.30 am a horrible, dark brew masquerading as “tea” was brought around, and into this evil-looking gruel people happily dropped slices of fette biscottate [French toasts] and ate it as if it were the consommé du chef. For lunch there would be a choice of pasta or soup, plus a meat or fish main course with a contorno [nearly always green beans]. Then you would get some fresh or “cooked” fruit [ not stewed, as you might imagine, but the whole fruit cooked to soften it]. In the evenings there was always the same nourishing, vegetable soup, served with bread and a choice of ham or cheese. The nurses would bring the food to you, but not clear it away so again, if you were bedridden, the system depended on your having someone there who would do this for you. You also got a bottle of mineral water every day, but not a glass to drink it from! – You were expected to bring your own supply of plastic beakers. At least in this hospital you were provided with plastic cutlery at each meal; I have heard of hospitals here where you have to take in your own.

Oh, I am forgetting one very important detail for my lady readers! One of the doctors had the eyes of handsome Mubbs from Holby City!

Well, there you have it: I survived and am now home with” Dr Simi”. And the diagnosis? It seems that I have advanced osteoporosis and it is this that is at the root of everything. I knew, of course, that if you have osteoporosis, you are likely to break something if you fall; what I had not realised, however, was that the condition can so debilitate you that it can cause you to fall in the first place. So if anyone out there has knowledge or experience of this, I would be really grateful to hear from you.

Meanwhile, I am still tired and weak, walking with a stick and certainly cannot work next week. The future looks uncertain but at least my brain is working – or so they tell me!

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Italian medical system, all who took care of me in hospital, my kind GP and all the friends, on and off line, who have been so very kind, concerned and supportive.

WE'RE BACK!

Hi, folks. Simi here!

My mummy's been in that hospital kennel across the road, you know. She says it was OK but I don't think it can be a very nice kennel as they wouldn't allow me in! Now, I ask you, what trouble would I have been?! I could have kept everyone in order for them, warmed people's beds while they were off having tests and cheered them up by sitting on their heads.

Never mind: I had quite a pleasant time at my friend Mr Enzo's doggie hotel and I got my usual beauty treatment before I came home. Don't I look pretty? I must take my mummy there so they can do the same for her.

I'm off to read what my pal George has been up to while I've been away - I hope he hasn't let the side down by being obedient or anything! - and then I must look after mummy. She sends love and hopes to be back blogging tomorrow.

Meanwhile, lots of love, kissies, wags and woofs to you all from Simi xxxx