WITHOUT A TRACE

I haven't indulged in a post office rant for some time and I must admit that the service is quicker [by Sicilian standards] and friendlier than it used to be. 

But what has happened to the posta prioritaria, the option whereby, provided you were posting within the EU - of which the UK is, at the moment, still a member - and that the letter or packet weighed less than 2 kg, you could send items at a reasonable price and be fairly certain that they would reach their destination quickly? At one time, items sent from here to the UK or vice versa would arrive in two days. The only drawback used to be that you couldn't track or get a receipt for your posted item.

Alas, things have not been arriving speedily for some time now and last week I learned that the service has been changed to a two-tier one, with a tracking option. I thought I'd give this a go and was handed a slip with a QR code and tracking number.  After a few days, I attempted to track my item online and was informed that the number wasn't valid. I don't know why I was surprised!

When I made enquiries at the post office, I was told, "Oh, no, it doesn't work from this end for items sent abroad but you can tell the recipient in Britain and they can trace it from there." This might be fine if you are posting something to friends or family but I had sent an important document to a government department, where the employees are unlikely to have time to trace it or to have Italian speakers on hand to deal with the hardly straightforward post office site! And anyway, why hadn't the clerk who took the item informed me that you couldn't trace it from Italy? Because he didn't know and this, in turn, would be because nobody had bothered to tell him.

Come on Italy, it's traceable or it isn't traceable.  Stop saying it is for show and give us back our speedy prioritaria service [until the Brexit, at least].  I'd be interested to know if anyone is having difficulties with "priority post" from the UK.

There endeth my rant, along with my pazienza.

SCROOGE, LOVE AND IMPANNATIGHI

I am ashamed to tell you that on the morning of Christmas Eve my gloomy mood would have made Ebenezer Scrooge seem like Santa and it was all the fault of - can you guess it? - the post office. I'd cheerfully walked down to the ritiro office, having been advised that a parcel was waiting for me, only to be told curtly that they were closed - at 11.30 am on Christmas Eve! I huffed and I puffed but didn't have the energy to blow the premises down so contented myself with grumbling all the way back.

Then I picked up the newspaper and read a love story for our times:  Monday's print edition of La Sicilia reported that two migrants, Massouda from Tunisia and Mohamed from Libya, had arrived on Lampedusa - so often the backdrop to tales of deep sorrow - on separate migrant boats in April 2011. Both had suffered loss and tragedy in their respective countries and were fleeing from horrific events. They met only briefly, as they disembarked, but it was love at first sight. Massouda was almost immediately transferred to the centre for asylum seekers at Mineo and eventually obtained refugee status. This meant that she had the legal right to leave the centre but something held her back. Then one day, Mohamed arrived there too. Their love blossomed and a baby - to be named Yassine -  is expected any day now.

Massouda and Mohamed say that they have been welcomed kindly in Sicily and regard the centre staff at Mineo as friends. They would like to stay here but accept that it is going to be difficult to find work. Even so, I found their story uplifting and indicative of the real message of Christmas. It is also a reminder of Sicily's cosmopolitan past.

By the time I got to the hairdresser's and was fed homemade impannatighi I felt positively chirpy:

Later, in an afternoon temperature of 20 C., I looked out at a perfect blue sky and asked myself if I really wanted to be in a country where people were so stressed about Christmas that some stores had decided to open at midnight and where shoppers were probably jostling each other and fighting over the last turkey at that very moment. I decided I did not so there is nothing for it but pazienza.

SICILY, USA?

So anxious are certain Italian politicians to rid themselves of what they regard as the "burden" of the South that one of their number, Mario Borghezio of the Lega Nord,  has suggested that Sicily and Campania be sold to the USA.  The idea that Sicily might become a US state dates back at least to the end of World War 11 and the era of Salvatore Giuliano so its resurgence in another unsettled period is hardly a surprise.  But let's take a light-hearted look at what the idea could mean in practice:

As far as I know, no one, this time round, has asked the Americans if they want to buy but their arrival might speed up transactions at the post office.  On second thoughts, the narrow street that is home to the Modica Sorda post office is far too narrow for all the indigenous cars whose drivers insist on entering it so I can't quite see Cadillacs managing the parking. Most of Modica's streets would have to be widened, in fact, and I think the Modicani would be accommodating about this, understanding as they do the necessity of driving wherever they want to go.

The only time when it is permitted not to drive is during the passeggiata, which takes place after work but before dinner on weekdays and any time after siesta until dinner time on Sundays.  This is when men and women parade in their finery along a set route and when you reach the end of the street or promenade you turn around and walk its whole length again.  It is also where boy meets girl, man courts woman, local gossip is exchanged and fashion trends are set.  It is essential, ladies, to throw on as much bling as possible and the men will blend in once they get used to wearing trainers with suits.  [The trainers, by the way, must be by Gucci.]

But we are jumping ahead, for our happy band of American administrators will need to take a siesta after all that driving and competing for parking spaces, followed by lunch. When they wake up, it will not be time for dinner, as at home, but to head back to the office for a few hours.  Then, having fulfilled their passeggiata duties and survived until the earliest possible hour at which a Sicilian might consider dining - at around 8.30 pm - they may be relieved to know that Sicily does have its own fast food in the form of focacce and arancini.  [Modica even saw off a McDonald's a few years ago so it is better not to mention Big Macs here.]

Pizza, though, is definitely not fast food and should you decide to go out for one you will have to show pazienza while it is cooked in a traditional, stone oven.  It will occur to no one to offer you an aperitvo during this considerable wait so you will have to do what the locals do and order a plate of chips to fill both the time and your stomach.  You are expected to consume one whole pizza each, not between you but don't worry because when it comes it will be so delicious that you will have no difficulty.

Afterwards you will take another passeggiata as you move on to a bar known for its pastries and you might even get to bed at around 1 am or later on Saturdays.  Oh yes, the pace of life might be slower but believe me, you will need all your energy!

Talking of the pace of life, the pace of Italian bureaucracy, as everybody knows, is even slower. No sale has been agreed and I think that, in Sicily, we 'll be happily staying exactly as we are.

XMAS IS POSTPONED

It's a while since we had a post office story on Sicily Scene and this one comes via a friend who lives in Marina di Ragusa:

Not having received Christmas cards that friends in the UK had posted in early December, my friend went to her local post office to ask if there was any undelivered mail for her last week.  The clerk said that there was not and then, when asked if he could check, that it was not his job to do so. 

Yesterday, therefore, my friend went to the main postal distribution centre for Ragusa, where she was informed that if she telephoned them they would check and get the postman to deliver.  My friend said she knew there was post and wanted to collect it herself.  This caused much deliberation among the employess but finally they agreed to check and produced no less than 29 Christmas cards, a magazine, a letter and a bill which had to be paid that very day.  The excuse for non-delivery?  "Well, it's holiday time."

Hey, Ragusa - we're British and we want our Christmas cards!

Lest you should imagine that the local post is much more efficient, the employees at Ragusa confirmed my friend's suspicion that all post in the Province with a local address goes to Catania [which constitutes another  Province] to be franked and is then sent back to the towns of origin for delivery.

"Time stops at Messina".

TWO TALES OF "PAZIENZA"

"Today would be a good day to go to the post office", I told myself as I waded past that building in torrential rain on Monday [drainage in Modica not being particularly good].  In heavy rain, you see, the Modicani stay at home if they possibly can and one of the few advantages of this type of weather is, therefore, that you stand a chance of being attended to in bureaucratic public offices within a shorter time than usual - not quickly, you understand, just less slowly.

But if I thought my own pazienza had been tried over the past six years, my ordeal has been as nothing when compared to that of the pensioners of the town of Orta di Atella in Caserta Province [Campania].  The town has seen a population explosion in recent years and its one post office is now insufficient for the needs of the 25,000 inhabitants, reports Corriere della Sera. So fed up are some of the town's pensioners with the chaos when the building  opens in the morning - the rush to get a numbered ticket, the pushing and shoving and then the interminable wait to be served - that they have begun queuing outside from 6 pm on the evening before their pension is due to be paid.  And there they wait, all night, seated on the cold stone steps, smoking, chatting and attempting to keep each other's spirits up - hardly a pleasant way to pass the night for anybody and certainly not for the elderly, with the town's disabled pensioners suffering from the situation even more.

Let us hope that articles in the media will draw the attention of both regional and central government to the pensioners' plight.

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Now to romance:  I was immensely cheered to read of the marriage in Modica yesterday of an 82-year-old woman to a 79-year-old man.  The two met through a lonely hearts column and, after getting to know each other well, moved in together.  Only after 16 years did they decide to tie the knot and one of the nicest elements of this story is that they chose, as a witness, a homeless man who is a well-known and kindly local character.

May they live happily ever after and I raise my glass to them tonight.

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Pazienza - if I just wait another 21 years.....

STILL BRITISH AFTER ALL THESE YEARS....

Over the past six years, I have got used to going straight up to the counter at the newsagent's rather than waiting to be asked what I need, having my change slammed on to the counter instead of put into my hand and, in larger stores,  being followed around by a shop assistant rather than being left to browse.  I have even acquired some of the patience and not a little of the resignation required to carry out a transaction in that least favourite building of mine, the post office.

But there is one thing I simply cannot do and that is to queue-jump: Thus it was that I received a very strange look from the post office clerk this morning after I had dutifully waited till my ticket number showed on the screen when all I wanted was a form to fill in.  Yes, everybody else makes a beeline for the clerk, with no  consideration for the customer whose transaction is being interrupted or for the many others still patiently waiting.  I have tried to do this, reader, but at the last minute I freeze and find myself rooted to the spot.

The British, as George Mikes observed, queue "for the hell of it" if no other reason can be found and, if this is our national sport, it is also the only one I am ever likely to indulge in, so I cannot give it up now!

CARO BABBO NATALE...

This is an article of mine which was published in Italy Magazine on Wednesday. I have found something good to say about the Post Office!

CARO BABBO NATALE….

A special letterbox has been set up in the post office in Rome’s Piazza San Silvestro for children to post their letters to Father Christmas and Poste italiane estimates that our red-coated, white-bearded friend will receive around 130,000 letters from children in Italy this year. Each child who posts a letter in the box will receive a personal reply from one of the postini di Babbo Natale [Father Christmas’s postmen] together with a sticker and a colouring book.

The letters, addressed to destinations such as “Father Christmas’s Ministry” – perhaps a politician’s son wrote that one – Via del Polo Nord, Via delle Stelle [Star Street] or Via Lattea [the Milky Way] express the various desires of children in the twenty-first century [which do not seem so very different from the desires of children in the twentieth or even the nineteenth century]: Some want a bike, others a horse, one wants a whole wild boar for his family to consume at Christmas lunch [he didn’t say whether he wants it ready-cooked] whilst more pensive young souls ask for peace, love or good health and the more practical for a million-euro lottery win.

This is not the first year that Poste italiane has replied to children’s letters to Santa and now it has published a book containing some of the best Santa letters of recent years. Proceeds will go to the non-governmental charity Amici dei Bambini [AiBi] which has been working, since 1986, to defend the rights of abandoned children to be brought up in a family environment. AiBi works in Italy and in 26 other countries as far apart as Eastern Europe and the Americas. The book, called Io ci credo che esisti [I Believe you Exist] is available in post offices, on the internet at

http://www.ecom.posteshop.it/ECOMM02/catalog_product.aspx?ProductID=99aa&Catalog=PT00_POSTESHOP

and on the AiBi site. In addition to the children’s letters the book contains a previously unpublished story and illustrations by the children’s writer Chiara Rapaccini.

Traditionally it is the Befana [a good witch] who brings children small presents on January 6th in Italy but now a lot of families use the Father Christmas tradition as well. Do you think this is a good idea or does it make an Italian Christmas less special?

UPDATE: 25.12.09

Since writing the article I have seen the book and the letter that touched me most contains this wish:

"Vorrei che tu andassi a salutare e a fare felice ogni terremotato che non ha niente ed ha perso i genitori..." "I want you to go and see and bring happiness to every child who lost their possessions and their parents in the earthquake..."

DAILY DOINGS - 26

A day off today for the Immacolata and it's been nice just to be at home and relax. Now it's beginning to seem like Christmas, though I don't think there's much seasonal cheer at the Water Office, as the service is "sospeso" yet again. So once again we pay for a private delivery and are thus charged twice for our water.

The Post Office, meanwhile, chose last week to change its "ticket" system: regular readers may remember that, as you enter [with the phrase "Abandon all hope" in mind] you take a numbered ticket for the service you want to use - bill-paying, other financial services,postal, business and so on - and then wait till your number comes up on a screen. Only now someone has had the brainwave of lumping all the financial services together, so that if you just want to pay a bill - which doesn't usually take long once you actually get to the counter - your ticket has the same letter on it as that of someone who is there to draw their pension, a process for which every document in Christendom appears to be required, plus laborious signing of slowly printed papers and the noisy stamping thereof. I suppose this system might work but for one problem - the fact that there is only ever one "financial" counter open. Pazienza.

Never mind: it is certainly Christmas over at Bar Edicolè [the one with the bookshop behind it] and the staff have worked hard at this tempting display:

Meanwhile, this is how to buy citrus fruit, I've decided. It is so deliciously fresh that no half measures will be permitted in this house!

Oh, before I go, Simi wants to show you "how to make a bed":




Quite right, Simi!

DAILY DOINGS - 24

Another Ferragosto has come and gone, and that means I have almost survived both the summer and the silly season! The summer takes some surviving because of the heat and, for women, it entails even more worrying about one's appearance than usual. As I reported on twitter earlier, the following has become my Sunday routine: shower, epilate, shower, exfoliate, apply moisturiser and then fake tan to legs. [I am pale and it's the only way!] Then wait at least an hour for it to dry and develop a bit [while I read, pluck my eyebrows, exfoliate my face and give myself a facepack]. The "Sicilian silly season" is definitely August, when many stores shut down for 2 whole weeks around Ferragosto and others do not reopen after siesta. It's a bit churlish to want to deny the Italians, who work so hard all year round, their August break, but I do find it absurd that a chemist's can close for a whole month! Even my beloved Altro Posto bar has been closed for the past two weeks but Raffaele the hairdresser is only closing for four days this year, instead of a whole week. This, I imagine, is due to increased competition from several new hairdressing salons which have sprung up in Modica this year. I can just about manage four days without a hairdo!

The Post Office, that embodiment of "abandon all hope", is again closed in the afternoons until the end of August. And, talking of that establishment, last week a post box appeared outside it. This may be normal in other parts of the world but it seems no one had suggested it as a logical place to put one in this part of Sicily!

The Edicolè bar is only closed until Monday afternoon, and they were feeling in generous mood when I popped in for an aperitivo and an ice cream on Friday: how about this for a complimentary snack?

When I bought a kilo of grapes for 80 centesimi from our local greengrocer, also on Friday, he didn't have 20 c in change to give me, so instead he plonked another kilo of grapes into the bag! OK, I know he had to get rid of them before the holiday, but I can't imagine that happening in the UK, can you? It seems that there are some advantages to the "silly season" after all!

Now, changing the subject completely, my friend M from Girl on the Run wanted to see what accessories I would buy to go with this outfit:

Well, I finally got them, in the end-of-season sales!

Meanwhile, Modica's young people have been having a busy time down on the beaches: I'm ashamed to relate that our lovely, clean beaches have been badly littered with cigarette ends and the Comune's machines don't pick them all up. Under the clever slogan, Filtriamo la spiaggia young people have been invited to clear the beaches of this mindless pollution and have been offered a free ice cream for every 50 cigarette ends they've been able to collect today. [I must say, I wouldn't like to be the person who had to count them!] A good initiative, encouraging the young to care about their environment and allowing local makers of traditional ice cream to sponsor an environmental event or the Comune evading its resposibilities and even potentially exposing the volunteers to a health risk? I've heard both arguments here and now would love to know what all of you think.

DAILY DOINGS - 22

"Patriuccia! Patri-uuuuuu-ccia! Sono io! " [It’s me!] sang a woman’s voice over the intercom earlier this evening. [ Sicilians are fond of the – uccio / a suffix as as term of affection. ] It was, of course, Lucia, who had arrived bearing yet another anguria and a squash. Squashes are symbols of good luck in Italy and I think the reason is that in days gone by, no part of the vegetable was wasted, so if you had grown a particularly large pumpkin, for instance, you were deemed lucky. It is no accident that Cinderella’s coach metamorphosed from a pumpkin. “You can either cook this or keep it for a while for good luck”, she informed me. Decisions, decisions!



Rosa had arrived giggling a couple of hours before that and when I asked her why, she told me that when her bus was on its way up the via Sacro Cuore, the driver, having spotted one of the 50% sconti [discount] notices in a shop window, brought the vehicle to a stop with a tremendous screech of brakes, ran into the shop, bought something , then ran out again and continued to transport his applauding public to their destination.

There are, indeed, many sales and, business being as bad here as elsewhere in the world, they were allowed to start a week early. I picked these beauties up last week for a total cost of 15€ :



Italians are, I read, booking more holidays abroad than they did last year and this is being taken by government as an upturn in the economic situation. I don’t think that business owners would agree.

Meanwhile, down at the market, the traders continue to try to persuade everybody to buy Italian. This I did last Thursday and here I am on Rosa’s balcony dressed in my market finery:



I also rummaged through the piles of remnants on the ground and found this – ideal for covering my pots of preserves.



These two traders were particularly keen to be photographed:



Lunch at Rosa's on Saturday consisted of: pasta with a special, sweet tomato sauce, merluzzo [cod] for the others and chicken for me, salad, potatoes and good bread. I took along the tray of ice creams. You can buy these in most of the pasticcerie and they are coated with a layer of icing so that they don't melt on the tray:





It's not easy making tomato sauce in the heat but Rosa and I managed to process another 10 kg of tomatoes yesterday:




As for the condominio, I’m not sure how much water we’ve got but we have light! After three months of pitch darkness in the lift, the ascensorista finally arrived to change a lamp! [I couldn't have reached it but I don't know why no one else did it.] “That was quite quick, then”, said a private student of mine in all seriousness. The water service is still “sospeso” as I write and the office is not answering its phone.

The pazienza of the Modicani is also being sorely tested by my favourite place, the Post Office, which has decided to close in the afternoons from this week until the end of July. We expect this to happen during August but no one was prepared for it in July!

I’ll close with the “ice cream of the week”. The Altro Posto has done it again!

MOUNTAINGIRL'S PHOTO CHALLENGE - FENCE

It's Friday and time for my friend mountaingirl's Photo Challenge. This week's theme is "fence".

This is the Altro Posto's fence, alongside which I have sat many times, sipping a drink or enjoying lunch in the sun:

As I've mentioned before, I live in a narrow but busy street in which there are no parking spaces for those wishing to use the nearby post office. This "fence" was put up to stop drivers making the street even more difficult to access by parking right up against the wall here. So what do they do? Park right next to the barrier, of course!

Finally, here is part of what was my garden fence in the UK. Nothing in Britain causes more problems between neighbours than a fence! People argue about where the boundary is, whose responsibility it is to put up and maintain a fence on it and what type of fence they should have. Then, when it's up, there are numerous disputes about whose job it is to replace it if it falls down, who is going to pay for any repairs and even about the smell if one neighbour decides to paint their side!

By the way, piglet Claude Cochon came with me to Sicily and now lives happily on the balcony.

TEMPO D'ESTATE

Summer has at last come to Modica: the sky is a bright, cloudless blue, the orange blossom and jasmine are out, their heady scent accompanying you wherever you walk and balconies everywhere are a riot of colour:

The bars again have their own ice creams, made from only the finest natural ingredients [by law] and the granite have appeared:



Women have not yet put away their trouser suits and tights, but that will happen by the end of the month and soon school will finish and people will begin their annual migration to the country or the sea, where they will stay until September or even November.



Seasons change but the Post Office never does, it seems: yesterday Rosa and I gave up after three attempts to pay her electricity bill, for no conto correnti counters were open at all for a good part of the morning. Today I thought I'd cracked it, popping along there at 1.45 and finding only two other customers in the entire place. How wrong I can still be! I'd appeared just as the shift change was happening and this took so long that I sighed and sat down, as usual. No customers were attended to during this process and when a postal counter clerk had taken up position, counted his float, logged on to his amazingly slow computer, attended to several queries from colleagues and finally looked ready to deal with his adoring public, you may imagine my facial expression when I realised that the woman with the ticket before mine was posting several large, fresh cakes [I knew they were cakes as I recognised the name of the shop on the bags] and intended to pack them right there, at the counter! "I didn't know what size box to get", she explained to the clerk, who then disappeared for several minutes, returned with three differently-sized boxes and proceeded to try to jam all the cakes into the first one. "Oh, they might get squashed!" cried the customer and that would never do, would it? What would all the relatives say? So out came the cakes and then they were fitted into the second box. It looked fine to me but not to the seven or so new customers who had by now arrived and gathered round to see the fun. It was not a bad box, you must understand; it just wasn't perfetto. At last the third box was filled with the precious delights and declared to be perfetto. It then took another ten minutes or so for the recorded delivery forms to be filled in, arranged prettily on the box [for their positioning has to be perfetto too - this is, after all, the country of Michelangelo] and for the copies to be noisily rubber-stamped. To be honest, I thought it was quite sweet that the clerk had the pazienza to be so helpful in this instance - I can think of no other country where that would happen. I rather think I ruined his day afterwards, for he is used to asking, "Per la Gran Bretagna?" ["For Britain?"] when I take a package in and is proud of his memory. He looked crestfallen this afternoon when I told him it was for Italy this time! Do you think I should send some cakes off somewhere in atonement?

Summertime - Tempo d'estate [1955]

"MA NON FANNO NIENTE..."

It’s a while since I had a real grump about the post office but I think yesterday’s antics there merit at least a mini-rant. For newer readers, I should explain that, on entering the esteemed edifice, you are supposed to take a numbered ticket for the service you want – postal service, bill payment, the business counter or benefit payment. In addition, the “élite” who have a post office account get their own counter to queue / be served faster at, depending on the clerk or the day.

In my still somewhat somnabulant state at 11 am yesterday, my arm almost automatically stretched itself leftwards to the ticket machine as I walked in, my eyes only popping open as I realised I was not touching metal, but flesh – the flesh of a little elderly man who had taken his flat cap off to scratch his head, to be exact. Crowded around both him and the machine were six other disgruntled customers, all with resigned expressions and all muttering “Pazienza”. I asked what was the matter, to which I got the response, “Ma non fanno niente” [“But they aren’t doing anything”]. “They”, in post office conversations, always refers to the staff. By now I had worked out that what “they” were doing nothing about was the fact that the machine was not working. “Ma lo sanno?” ["Do they know?"], I asked [having caught the Sicilian habit of beginning every question with “ma” = “but” .] “Sì, ma non fanno niente.” My British instinct would be to insist on speaking to the manager but that is a little too straightforward for here and, even if anyone was thinking of doing just that, they would not dream of approaching the gentleman before they had had several rounds of “pazienza”-uttering, rolling their eyes towards heaven and discussing the situation with everybody else. [I’m feeling charitable tonight so I’ve decided it’s a way of being sociable.]

During this time, four other customers entered, each of whom attempted and failed to use the machine. One of them, a tall, rather imposing fellow, pressed all its buttons twice, first starting at the top and then at the bottom, before assuming the resigned expression and beginning the eye-rolling. As with the other new arrivals, then and only then did the original eight customers, including, I’m ashamed to say, myself, cry in unison, “Non funziona!” [“It’s not working”], a conclusion which he had had ample time to reach unaided. “Why”, you may reasonably enquire, “did you all wait till they had tried to get a ticket?” Ah, dear reader, this is Sicily, so the answer is, “To have the pleasure of giving information, of course!”

Finally, without any of us saying a word about it, it was mutually agreed that there had been enough eye-rolling so a member of our group approached a clerk to inform him of the situation, though the latter could hardly have been unaware of it as he had been watching the pantomime all along. “The numbers are still coming up on the screen so it must be working” he announced. “The screen’s working because there are still people waiting who came in before us”, explained our spokeswoman con pazienza but the clerk just shrugged his shoulders. And then – disaster! The beautiful, gleaming, silver screen, that miracle of modern technology, suddenly darkened and … stopped! There was a deathly silence as the numbers ceased to ping. Customers who had arrived prior to the machine drama gaped at each other in shock. Clerks dropped their pencils . Birds stopped singing outside. Verily, I say unto you, it was the end of the world ... and then, behold! A manager cometh among us and he unblocketh the machine. [Sorry, I got a bit carried away there.]

“Who was first?” asked the manager, now physically blocking the machine. “Io!" shouted a young woman, triumphantly seizing the ticket that the manager proudly held aloft for all to see. One by one, we were allowed to approach the apparatus but I’m always a little slow off the mark on these occasions as somewhere inside me there’s still a Brit who deems queueing a daily duty. So I’m afraid I didn’t use my elbows to push the others out of the way and it was the tall, imposing fellow who got his ticket next. However, I must be getting better at looking as if I might assert myself, for, although I wasn’t the first to get a ticket, I certainly wasn’t the last!

After all that, you’ll be delighted to learn, reader, it took a mere hour to pay my bill, so now I can’t remember why I decided to have a rant in the first place!

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!

DAILY DOINGS - 13

This morning a letter arrived by recorded delivery: I opened it to discover that I am "invited" to pay 25 euros to the Azienda Sanitaria for the visit I made to Casualty [ER] in May. It is normal to pay for such a visit here and you also have to pay a nominal sum for outpatient appointments. I should point out that there would be no question of paying a fee if you were rushed to Casualty following an accident or other emergency and / or were subsequently admitted. I have no objection to paying this charge as I am grateful to be covered by the Italian health service at all, but I do wonder how much money is being spent on sending all such letters out by recorded delivery.

On my way out today I did the very thing that drives me crazy when I see the Italians doing it: I queue-jumped, reader! Yes, I ignored the ticket system in the post office and marched up to the counter to ask for a form for a recorded delivery letter of my own. This was duly handed to me despite the customer already at the counter, the notices about respecting customer privacy and all the people sitting waiting for their number to appear on the display boards. No one batted an eyelid but the Brit in me felt ashamed!

As I write, we are waiting for the water lorry yet again. I phoned the Comune to order a refill on Wednesday and I'm sure we are about to run out.

Saturdays seem to be Caffè Consorzio day, so yet another relaxing lunch was enjoyed there: interesting antipasti, a salad of radicchio, rocket, pear and grana cheese plus this beautifully presented ice cream:

Finally, there are worse places to be on a Saturday afternoon than sitting under a palm tree waiting for a friend. [A shame about the graffiti but you can't have everything.]