tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21338022305130645162024-03-13T20:41:06.234+01:00My Grappa HellItaly. An interesting, infuriating place to live as a gin-raddled expat. Some notes and observations.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.comBlogger277125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-32767865050040793272013-07-28T20:59:00.001+02:002013-07-28T20:59:36.201+02:00The Bad news and The Good NewsThe <b>bad news</b> is that my Labrador, Lucky, had a stroke recently and she isn't too well. When she had the stroke I thought it was curtains. She couldn't stand up, kept crashing into things and didn't seem to know where she was. After some serious doses of Cortisone and now some tablets for her blood she seems better, although she is still very dodgy on her legs. She is nearly 14 so the moment of reckoning cannot be that far away. Hey ho.<br />
The <b>seriously marvellous good news</b> is that our neighbour died, quite unexpectedly. He was only 70 which, in Italian expectancy terms, makes him a virtual teenager. But his falling off his perch has changed our lives. They lived in Genoa. He and his wife used their house here as a summer home. So they came up at the beginning of May and left around the end of September. Psychologically he always had the advantage in that his house is above our road so when we came to our gate we had to look up to see if he was there. He was the most unpleasant, inconsiderate, selfish, pig-ignorant person I have ever met. When they were in residence there was a constant stream of noise. He had an electronic organ with all the disco-effect bells and whistles that he loved to play for hours on end. At maximum volume. Pum-padda-pum-padda-pum-padda-pum. Their dog howled for hours when they went away. Their TV was always on maximum volume. When we suggested that they might have more consideration for their neighbours (us) he used to say that when in the "countryside" he wanted to do what he liked. They even had a bloody cuckoo clock which joyfully chirruped every sodding hour. They argued incessantly. Earlier this year he had an intestinal blockage, went under the knife and, wonderfully, it was too late. His widow can't drive so for now we are in delicious isolation.<br />
There is a God.<br />
Thank You. Thank you. Thank you*<br />
<br />
* © Jenny Agutter, The Railway Children.<br />
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<br />
Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-74258280079513223622013-06-09T13:04:00.002+02:002013-06-09T13:04:47.855+02:00Duck's ArseI think in the misty past I may have alluded to the fast that the Piemontese can show quite remarkable levels of tightness.<br />
I was working at the London International Wine Fair recently. I was showing a few wines, one of which was a <i>Moscato d'Asti</i>, the light, frothy, slightly sparkling sweet dessert wine. But not sticky or heavy, more like <i><b>angels dancing on your tongue</b></i>*. It comes in at about 5º of alcohol so you could pour it over your cornflakes and still drive to work.<br />
The one I wanted to show was from a local producer. I went to see him at his hillside vineyard, having been there previously to buy wine on my own account, and explained the exhibition to him. Biggest in the UK, good opportunity, excellent showcase event, blah blah blah. I said I didn't want many bottles for the stand as the tastings were selective. He then brought me a case and asked for the full retail price at €5 a bottle. Somewhat surprised I paid up, left and got the box shipped to Blighty.<br />
At the show there was some interest. This producer is good and is one of north west Italy's foremost organic winemakers. But he has no distribution in the UK.<br />
Getting back here I sent him an e-mail telling him that an importer was so impressed with his Moscato d'Asti that they would like to sample some of his organic Barbera d'Asti and Dolcetto, both decent local reds.<br />
He said he would be more than delighted to send some samples if the importer would like to pay for the courier cost. Which is probably around €100.<br />
So far this tasting has cost him zero, zippo, zilch.<br />
Niente.<br />
Nothing.<br />
Sod all.<br />
So the company that I work for not only paid full price for the wine samples, but also the transport, the stand, me, my hotel, my meals, my drinks (God help them) and my flights. But he wants this potential customer in a huge market like the UK to pay €100 for DHLing the samples so he is then sure that they are 'interested and genuine'.<br />
Give me fucking strength.<br />
<br />
*©Ron Combo. Proud of that one.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-76818060792233666272013-03-24T22:27:00.000+01:002013-03-27T23:44:20.525+01:00Where there's a will...I did write a pretty virulent Last Post but (a) in the sober light of day and (b) on the advice of my professional team of counsellors I have deleted it as it was too bitter and rancid even by my own minimal standards. It was also a little too personal. Family stuff you understand.<br />
So, time to say <i>arrivederci </i>and toodle pip old chums wherever you may be.<br />
Ron<br />
<br />
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<br />Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-24314768203739046232013-01-11T18:58:00.001+01:002013-01-11T18:58:30.303+01:00Airport Musings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Of late, I have been spending far too much time at Gatwick Airport. I am intrigued by the sort of corporate advertising one sees upon arrival on the interminable hike from the plane to Border UK or whatever it's called this week. They are usually horizontal Adshel six sheets. The first one might show a woman running on the horizon of a very green field. The sky is blue. Her face is the picture of concentration. Underneath in Helvetica is <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>Performance</i></span> and in a logo KS&G. The next one might show two shirt and tied, slim 30-something 'businessmen' shaking hands but not smiling too much. The grip is firm 'though. Underneath is the text <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>Delivery</i></span> + logo of course. Then there might be a woman post-delivery, in bed holding her grizzling new born, <i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Passion</span> </i>(passion: possibly this decade's most overused word). The next you can make up maybe. Perhaps a 48 storey office block at night with just one light burning at some office on the 23rd floor. What shall we put underneath? I know! <i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Commitment</span>. </i>Then the last one has a sort of fizzed-up Mercator Projection of the world done by some 23 year old whacked out on charlie with arrows all over the shop and underneath <b>Keimann Schultz & Greishaup</b>. <i><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Crossing frontiers, delivering change</span>.</i> And I stop and realise that I don't have the faintest idea what these people do. Are they chartered surveyors? Caterers? Investment bankers? Nice work if you can get it I suppose for the ad agency.<br />
Whilst I am on an airport rant, there are some suggestions I would like to put forward which might make travelling by air a little less ghastly.<br />
1. The British are a foul race. Badly dressed, ugly, invariably either terribly overweight or heroin thin, spotty and pallid. They have few manners and their offspring are disgusting. Could we not have some form of entry-testing whereby any UK national who wished to use an airport would be asked a few simple questions like "What was the name of Nelson's cabin boy at the Battle of Santa Cruz de Tenerife?" and "When James Lees-Milne considered Wardour Castle in Wiltshire in 1948 as a candidate building for National Trust stewardship, what was the main architectural feature which made his response a positive one?" If they can answer those two questions they should then be required to sing both verses of "I vow to thee my country" in the key of C after which they should explain typical situations in which one might use the words "please" and "thank you". They should also pay a £600 good behaviour bond which would be refunded (less an administration fee of 50%) when they return from whichever filthy hell-hole they travelled to, provided they were not arrested or accused of anti-social behaviour.<br />
2. Airport police. Why are they dressed as if they are rejects from a casting session for some third-rate Hollywood LAPD Swat movie from about 1983? Why can't they wear a proper bobby's uniform and carry a Webley break-top revolver? The Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle is just not British old boy.<br />
3. Once you get to 75 it should be against the law to fly on a civil airline. The airport was jammed solid with those electric golf carts going beep-beep-beep, their miserable passengers blank-eyed after their 2 hour flight from Spain, their colostomy bags slapping against the side of the carts. There's a departure lounge for them and it ain't in an airport.<br />
4. On a separate note, what exactly do the firemen at Gatwick Airport do all day?Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-20008183839123956522012-10-22T21:48:00.000+02:002012-10-24T12:10:22.077+02:00Francesco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I went to Francesco's funeral this afternoon. He fell off his perch on Saturday morning, aged 86. He was glad to die, the doctors having threatened to amputate a leg just to keep him going a little longer. He was one of my most revealing introductions to Real Italy. Francesco was one of that dying breed (sorry), the <i>contadino</i>, the smallholder. Everything his family ate or drank (more or less), he grew. He had a few acres above the local town, vineyards, vegetable plots, a cow, a few goats, a number of hutches full of rabbits, two pigs (always named after the Italian President and the current Prime Minister..the last two were Giorgio and Silvio). They were slaughtered in his yard every February. Everything was used and consumed. I used to go there grape picking after teaching in the morning. I could always find the pickers in the vineyard by their chatter, even if I couldn't see them. Then at six o'clock we would go, knackered, to the tap near the pigsty (Ciao Giorgio! Ciao Silvio!) wash our sticky hands and faces and then go into the house for a supper prepared by his long-suffering wife Giannina. The house (not that much difference actually between the human accommodation and that reserved for the animals) just stank of pork. <i>Salami </i>dangled from the ceiling in various stages of maturing. Great hocks<i> </i>lined the walls. At table, there would be maybe 16 or 18 of us pickers and helpers, Francesco would preside over it all, his sparkling eyes reserving a special glance for any young females present. Plates and plates of food would appear, jugs of wine would be emptied and the singing would start. If it sounds all a bit Peter Mayle-ish and idyllic, well, it really was like that.<br />
RIP Francesco Campasso. A Good Bloke.<br />
<br />Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-77608978840261984442012-10-07T10:10:00.002+02:002012-10-07T10:10:58.211+02:00Fruits of the Bleeding Forest<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last year was a disaster for mushrooming but this year, with some decent rain in September followed by heat, is quite the opposite. I may have written about these before but can't be bothered to find out. Caesar's Mushroom doesn't find Blighty the right place to pop up but here is his home. They look like a shelled, boiled egg, then the orange head pops up and turns into a mushroom - bingo! Below is one morning's haul:<br />
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You have to be careful because if the head that pops out is pale grenish-white then it's one that will put you six feet under. I like to eat them (the safe ones not the dodgy ones ha ha) raw, sliced and sprinkled with finely chopped garlic and parsley and drizzled with decent olive oil. Below was a baked version, lots of garlic and parsley but with Ron's spuds. Unfortunately I didn't parboil the teddies so they were a bit hard, bloody bugger. Good zingy white wine is essential of course so an Arneis is good but I think myself and Victor the Spictor saw this one off with a couple of bottles of Smooth Tony's Pinot Grigio. Or was it his Sauvignon Blanc? Whatever innit.</div>
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<br />Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-40795541221282963382012-08-17T17:13:00.003+02:002012-08-17T17:13:56.921+02:00Give me a Good ExploitingThis is often how it works here:<br />
The phone rings.<br />
RC: Pronto!<br />
XX: Hello! We haven't spoken before. My name is Mr YY and I'm a good friend of Roberto, you know the friend of yours who works in Milan at the publishing house.<br />
RC: Err, yeeees (<i>who is this</i>?) ah, Roberto, yes I think I know who you mean (<i>faintest recall of someone I met at the Pinky Bar, once, maybe about a month ago, I'd been on Spritzes and gin). </i><br />
XX: Well, my son Luca has just got a really good job with a company in Brescia that makes safety equipment for airports and he thinks that their literature is really poor, especially the English versions. Would you consider doing some translation work for them?<br />
RC: Of course, that's right up my street, thank you.<br />
XX: So, it's OK if I give my son your telephone number and he gets directly in contact with you?<br />
RC: Of course, I'll look forward to hearing from him. Thank you again.<br />
XX: Not at all. I'm sure you'll do an excellent job, you know, you need a real English speaker for this sort of work.<br />
RC: Well, it is a help.<br />
XX: More than a help I'd say, ha ha! Oh, while I remember, sorry I was going to ask earlier...... I'm doing some work for a local conservation group, we're working on a castle, all not-for-profit you understand, and I've prepared a little tourism brochure and I've done the English translation myself, not like doing that technical stuff that my son will be asking you to do of course, ha ha, and I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind giving it the quick once over, my English is pretty good but I just thought you might be able to polish it up a bit, if that's OK with you, shouldn't take more than ten minutes. Would you mind?<br />
RC: You'll need my e-mail address then....(<i>and on it goes)</i><br />
<br />
What then arrives is about 600 words that kick off something like this:<br />
<b>"The Cazzo Castle stand proud over enemies from time ever and today is tired. Us worker do hard thing making castle new happy. Castle is all covered in tree with bird and beast. Tower is a heavy monument. The big Lord last drink strong wine here back 1790..." </b>(<i>continues thus for another 550 words).</i><br />
<br />
1. It is a hundred times easier to translate from the Italian than<i> </i>rework this garbage.<br />
2. I am not going to get paid.<br />
3. His son Luca is a trainee forklift truck driver in said company's warehouse. There will be no translation work with payment.<br />
<br />Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-58189054093702920882012-07-23T09:38:00.000+02:002012-07-23T09:38:01.159+02:00My Tomato Heaven!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After the <i>pomodoro</i> hell of last year, Ron's tomatoes are back, bigger and better than ever! Give me back my crown! Thank you the God of Manure!<br /><br />Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-59322782400786904062012-07-06T12:39:00.001+02:002012-07-06T12:46:37.431+02:00On The Road to Ruin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;">A weekend away in the mountains meant that Bruno decided to bring a Nebuchadnezzar of Refosco (a lively and cheerful red from Friuli Venezia Giulia) to accompany that evening's supper. This 15 litre monster he had bottled and corked that morning. Your correspondent was charged with keeping the beast upright between his legs (cue Affer please) on the 200km journey. All was well until a combination </span><span style="font-size: small;">of the motion of the car and the heat made the wine want to leave the bottle at speed. "<i>Christo!"</i> shouted Bruno as he considered the possibilities, the principal one being the loss of a lot of decent wine. Interior damage to vehicle and passengers was, I believe, a secondary consideration.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">What to do? I sat there with two thumbs pushing down on the cork which really was straining to leave the bottle. <i> </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>"Porca puttana di quella troia"* </i>shouted Bruno, his voice an octave higher. We had to find a bar and lo and behold an anonymous village came up on the horizon. Bruno skidded to a halt, came around to my door and blaspheming without pause lifted the brute out of the car as I continued to press down the cork and off we waddled, both of us holding the bottle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In the bar, Bruno called immediately for glasses, we went to a quiet corner while the horribly inbred locals looked on, slack jawed but hopeful. We rested the bottle on a table and Bruno stood, poised. On his command I took my thumb off the cork, it shot upwards, ricocheted off the ceiling and hit a peasant on his head. The wine foamed and creamed happily out of the bottle and the locals started cackling and pointing as Bruno let fly with a volley of seriously foul language. "Wine for everyone!" shouted Bruno as the barmaid brought a tray of glasses. "We need to get rid of at least a litre before we get back in the car or it'll go again!" The gap-toothed locals cheered to a man and gathered around, chortling and elbowing each other, barely able to believe their luck.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It was a good start to the weekend.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">*<i>Pig whore of that trollop slut</i> in case you're interested.</span></div>Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-45448169443222401062012-06-04T12:56:00.001+02:002012-06-04T12:56:25.452+02:00Upon Driving in Italy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvFlhdxMPHiSEZHywxpIcXmN981f1lVYb8GBMmnzD1WfYzXWom4LsQOIucFUrX7IK5Gw4zCz8ujLhjyo5TY3m45v23QCBmsO8QOAZW22c7oehZUGvi8PTVptTGaka6AzZmUqkBLgCwAw/s1600/11694853-a-crashed-car-as-a-result-of-a-street-road-accident.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvFlhdxMPHiSEZHywxpIcXmN981f1lVYb8GBMmnzD1WfYzXWom4LsQOIucFUrX7IK5Gw4zCz8ujLhjyo5TY3m45v23QCBmsO8QOAZW22c7oehZUGvi8PTVptTGaka6AzZmUqkBLgCwAw/s320/11694853-a-crashed-car-as-a-result-of-a-street-road-accident.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Some of you may be contemplating a driving holiday in Italy this summer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Having spent a somewhat fraught period on Italy's roads and motorways of late, I'd thought I'd give some driving guidelines for visitors to this fair country:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br />1.
Never stop at a zebra crossing for a pedestrian. If you do they will
only glare at you because you are weak and do not deserve to hold a driving licence.<br />2.
On the motorway, never drive so far away from the car in front that you
are unable to read the name of the manufacturer of their rear number plate.
This is <b>especially</b> important at speeds in excess of 160 km/h. Make sure you have your headlights on <b>full beam</b>.<br />3. On
the rare occasion that someone might let you into a line of slow-moving
traffic from a side road do not make any sign of acknowledgement or thanks. It is much
better to glare at them because they are weak and do not know how to drive like an real Italian. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">4. If you meet another Italian driver on a single-track road and (this is extremely unlikely) should he or she then reverse to a part of the road that is wide enough to allow you to pass, then follow rule 3 (above). Even better, stop when you are alongside and laugh openly at the driver, pointing and inviting any fellow passengers to follow suit. They are clearly weak and deserve all the abuse they get.<br />4. When approaching a red traffic light do not slow down. You never know, it
might change at the last second. Only weak, indecisive drivers bother with brakes
in such a scenario.<br />5. When negotiating a roundabout or indeed any
junction do not use your indicators. That is a sure sign of weakness and
people will laugh at you. Indicators are for idiots.<br />6. When travelling with small children
please be aware that all children prefer to travel standing up in the
front passenger foot well, preferably playing with a doll or toy on the
dashboard. This is even more important when travelling at high speed
(see 2 above) on the motorway and you are smoking and/or using your mobile
telephone and, like the rest of your gorgeous family, not wearing a seat
belt.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Happy motoring!</b></i> </span>Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-79062188299711408332012-04-15T00:02:00.000+02:002012-04-15T01:18:22.611+02:00My Lack of Faith<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyMyyVrkuf8p10gsgC8HEA4-45kcuP76bukv7pqRZ8pkd4Lk2ZFApykoRNTfLVYPvOCtiwOWMaoRzyEZhdl5-bVuG2noUhuKzLF8bIJyQq8kNfK8NxqzZmzGp0Y3TbYZa3Hy7tpVjiM-U/s1600/Photo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyMyyVrkuf8p10gsgC8HEA4-45kcuP76bukv7pqRZ8pkd4Lk2ZFApykoRNTfLVYPvOCtiwOWMaoRzyEZhdl5-bVuG2noUhuKzLF8bIJyQq8kNfK8NxqzZmzGp0Y3TbYZa3Hy7tpVjiM-U/s1600/Photo1.jpg" /></a></div>
This evening the local choir in which I drink sang at the ordination ceremony of a new priest. Young chap from one of the many parishes in this rather large diocese that almost stretches down to the sea in Liguria. Interestingly he is Italian. Even more interesting (or predictable) is that now there are no more young Italian nuns (damn! damn!). All the new nuns are from China or India or Africa. Apparently all young Italian girls want to be on Italy's Got No Talent or the Z-Factor or whatever.<br />
Being from the paramilitary wing of the Anglican Church I wonder whether my participation at an ordination is rather heretical. I stare blankly at the staggering amounts of pink and grey marble and gold filigree work and statues of the bleeding Jesus and the Madonna with her tacky crown of electric candles and wonder at the utter lack of spirituality that for me is the singular hallmark of Catholic places of worship. And then from the choir gallery I see all the new priest's young friends from his village beaming with pride, young children playing in the aisles, couples cuddling and people talking on their mobiles and think maybe this is the way a <i>living</i> church should be. Shortly afterwards Bruno says from the back of the gallery, "hey Ron, we've just opened a bottle of grappa that Giorgio gave me, you must have a glass." <br />
<br />Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-30105260106310426632012-04-04T20:16:00.000+02:002012-04-04T20:16:44.635+02:00Drawn to the Flame<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNMBK5gQjaDejFvBmuo_2DnebefF1g6eZdd7vVICpfOkU97Jk_cakxPzvLskucnS9Nro7vtcy-rCP6lWJAeUFJ688Ve41ND1xU3N-00fhf0IPOryrQvrcp26RSFWZ33IbXn05Xo0kMdxg/s1600/IMG_0268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNMBK5gQjaDejFvBmuo_2DnebefF1g6eZdd7vVICpfOkU97Jk_cakxPzvLskucnS9Nro7vtcy-rCP6lWJAeUFJ688Ve41ND1xU3N-00fhf0IPOryrQvrcp26RSFWZ33IbXn05Xo0kMdxg/s640/IMG_0268.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>I left an exterior house light on the other night and this little chap showed up, lying trashed and seemingly no longer of this cruel world on the terrace presumably having spent quite a few hours hurling himself against the synthetic flame. Actually he wasn't so little, about three inches tip to tip, and I immediately presumed it was a butterfly but then twigged when I saw the offending light still switched on. I took him into the Mad Brother Memorial Shed which is quite dark and left him there to get his wind back. The next day he was no longer there so I do hope (and think) he recovered.<br />
Continuing the Nature Notes theme, last Saturday I heard the first cuckoo and on Sunday saw the first swallow, twisting and turning northwards.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-60641480835611167782012-04-01T21:50:00.000+02:002012-04-01T21:50:57.337+02:00Please, stop me!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJts8DdOUXyyrYxUu8aS-f4S4g_Cm7tTb4_qQsxUIwgY8QAhVvOPDZswo9LhrtVOJ37buOSRRPYmT6gXldFE5QbgHZdWVup3STfE6cLGtlKMDhOD4xJqNNE4DgcAg_9Yj9IHdbLvY6F4/s1600/IMG_0263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJts8DdOUXyyrYxUu8aS-f4S4g_Cm7tTb4_qQsxUIwgY8QAhVvOPDZswo9LhrtVOJ37buOSRRPYmT6gXldFE5QbgHZdWVup3STfE6cLGtlKMDhOD4xJqNNE4DgcAg_9Yj9IHdbLvY6F4/s320/IMG_0263.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>One barely knows where to begin. But I will. All my Italian pupils use the word lavatory. Some interim punctuation would not go amiss. And as for issues....God help us.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-45134164564209999442012-03-22T11:24:00.000+01:002012-03-22T11:24:15.653+01:001950s RadioIn an after-dinner red wine haze, I was idly flicking through the 962 digital TV channels in an anonymous hotel room in an anonymous Italian town when I came across the radio station channels And amidst a blizzard of EuroPop stations with the DJs in constant fits of hysterical laughter even as they hand over to the weather forecaster I found <a href="http://www.rai.it/dl/rai/guidaRadio.html?refresh_ce">this little gem</a>.<br />
It's from RAI, Italy's BBC. Just go to the right hand side where the box is headed "<i>Dirette Radio"</i>. Click on RAI radiofd 5 and step back in time. Straight classical music, no ads, no pleading for listeners' opinions via SMS/Twitter/email. No dumbing down. Just a terribly formal annnouncer who details the music in a wonderful deadpan voice and then they play the bloody stuff without telling you <i>alla BBC Radio 3 </i>with Rob sodding Cowan giggling that Bruckner never wrote anything worthwhile after his 9th because his piles got to him.<br />
This is presuming that you like classical music of course.<br />
Lord I am getting old and grumpy.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-64920697809581327142012-03-04T20:39:00.002+01:002012-03-05T09:16:07.826+01:00Ghastly ExPat MusingsClearly, it is wonderful to live in Italy. No Nick Clegg, no wide-boy Cameron, no licensing laws and an abundance of the whole food and wine thingy.<br />
However it is not all sweetness and light. I have nothing else to write about, differently abled as I am. So, as I survey* my horribly swollen knee**, here are the things I miss most about Blighty. They are not in order of importance.<br />
1. Boots the Chemist<br />
2. County cricket<br />
3. Evensong at St Mary Abbots, Kensington...<br />
4. ...and going to The Elephant afterwards<br />
5. Going to the theatre, darling<br />
6. Mates<br />
7. Decent ale<br />
8. London<br />
9. Horse racing<br />
10. Devonshire<br />
11. Manners (behavioural attitude, not some apocryphal butler)<br />
12. Fevertree tonic water<br />
13. My sister<br />
14. Gordon's Wine Bar<br />
<br />
*Actually, it's not that bad now<br />
** Re-reading the last knee-related post, it does now seem a little tragic. Apologies.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-57531153150968778242012-02-10T16:45:00.000+01:002012-02-10T16:45:28.301+01:00And the next one please!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2zuoYYaYNL_T4HiETXQ9EbieJahmh7-TUz2ubr68YV8c1JPd4rNVCyZagUvYXI5nDzb9sL3QVGRhGfzwcajC8QFtowomPOtXA-dJGf7a6T8saGWy0QMj3VnURZcDQeXIul2Unkm3-RtY/s1600/P1010772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2zuoYYaYNL_T4HiETXQ9EbieJahmh7-TUz2ubr68YV8c1JPd4rNVCyZagUvYXI5nDzb9sL3QVGRhGfzwcajC8QFtowomPOtXA-dJGf7a6T8saGWy0QMj3VnURZcDQeXIul2Unkm3-RtY/s320/P1010772.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Just three minutes after taking this on the road that connects Combo Towers with what passes for civilisation here, I went down like a sack of you-know-what and did my knee. Just where you can see the sign in the distance which, with black humour, reminds motorist to fit snow chains before descending the hill. As I lay in the middle of the road, nearly a mile from home, with both dogs licking my face, I seriously wondered how I was going to get back. No mobile, even the snow plough wasn't due past for a few hours. You hardly see anyone here in the high summer, let alone when it's -5º and snowing. The riiiiiiiiip of something tearing in my leg still echoed around the empty frozen hills. How long oh Lord, I thought, how long?<br />
At the hospital (under three hours for A&E, radiology, orthopedics, A&E again to be dismissed) they said that immediately after an injury like this and when the limb is warm it can work for a while without there being too much pain.<br />
Now the offending leg is wrapped up in one of those Velcro® festooned braces which runs from thigh to foot and which some High Court judges would pay good money to be forced to wear. Next week a scan to see the extent of the damage.<br />
This is the latest in a regular series of visits to the local hospital. Falling off the roof was probably the most spectacular but the rest...metal splinters from splitting logs with an iron wedge that required surgery (twice), dog bites, braining myself on a door lintel (5 stitches), the vegetable slicer (3 stitches), the eye injury clearing a path (machete)....if anyone knows anyone who is more wearily accident-prone than your humble correspondent please do get in touch.<br />
The next visit to A&E could be tomorrow because I will have done my very own personal 40 days of Lent with nary a drop passing my lips so Saturday night will be marked by the consumption of industrial quantities of red wine.<br />
With a bit of luck.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-76724393468032391552012-01-17T19:20:00.001+01:002012-01-22T10:41:25.498+01:00Gun Ho!I hope you like this one.<br />
I have to get rid of some vermin. So I decided to buy an air rifle, nothing too serious, just a decent make that I'd heard about.<br />
So off I tootle to a specialist hunting shop about 20 miles from here. I open the door, ding-a-ling goes the little bell and I enter the empty shop, its silent walls lined with gun cabinets, decoys, fishing rods and camouflaged hunting jackets, each with around 160 pockets. Nothing. I stand and wait. Eventually the person who is presumably the owner comes out from the back room. He is about 45 and thick set. Now Piedmont folk aren't exactly known for their spontaneity and <i>joie de vivre</i>. His salutation was an almost imperceptible raising of his eyebrows. Not a grunt escaped his lips, greasy from the salami he had presumably been snacking on in the back.<br />
I asked him if he had a Weihrauch 577 in stock. I had barely finished forming the question before his face was wreathed in the sort of broad smile that you might see on a lottery winner's face. He raised his arms heavenwards. "Such a good choice my friend, such a good choice!" For a terrible moment I thought he was going to vault the counter and allow me to taste the salami second-hand. "Such a rifle! Such German engineering! Buying a Weihrauch is an investment! You'll have to wait until the middle of February when the next shipment arrives. But the wait will be more than worth your while, my friend! A wonderful rifle!"<br />
I asked him how much this particular rifle cost. He laid both hands on the glass-topped counter and his head dropped, as if he was examining his nails. "These German rifles just fly off the shelves my friend. They fly off the shelves! The 577 is a beauty, one of their flagship models!" He looked up at me, the smile hadn't left him. "It costs €340. I can maybe give you a little discount but...I don't know..maybe €5? Here's our card. Ring me at the end of January and I'll put your Weihrauch to one side my friend!" Ding-a-ling went the little bell as I left the shop.<br />
What the bastard doesn't know is that Mrs Combo's cousin went to the same shop towards the end of last year, bought the same rifle, didn't ask for a discount, got a rifle case thrown in and paid €260.<br />
It's my accent you see. I have the most dreadful English pronunciation so that some shopkeepers wet themselves either with joy and/or laughter as soon as I open my trap. Think of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sFacWGBJ_cs">this bloke</a>, in reverse.<br />
Anyhoo, I'm buying my rifle via mail order from a shop in Blackpool. So there.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-81683593909429477112012-01-08T09:49:00.001+01:002012-01-10T07:40:54.713+01:00My Old Cock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtPCazm1dOPUgDF8C_CHnda7NPdFMPicZ-QleV-F3exfMwjU_umVtF7vA95mqx1AbJGmBALQ3DKA_4yL6nXGgkssks9SvU_T0Fz9rjapPnrGYAxMOrH-y92MBIF3CpEBne4yA8aELmJ8/s1600/IMG_0031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtPCazm1dOPUgDF8C_CHnda7NPdFMPicZ-QleV-F3exfMwjU_umVtF7vA95mqx1AbJGmBALQ3DKA_4yL6nXGgkssks9SvU_T0Fz9rjapPnrGYAxMOrH-y92MBIF3CpEBne4yA8aELmJ8/s320/IMG_0031.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I ate some cockerel last night. It was greeted at the table with unbridled joy amongst the assembled diners. Once an uncastrated rooster was fairly standard fare here but even in Italy, the capon (the castrated cockerel) is now more common. This old bird came from a local farm where it had been scratching around and generally ruling the roost for a couple of years. I don't know how much the kind hosts paid for it, but probably a premium. We had half of the fowl boiled and served with a parsley and garlic sauce and the other half roasted. It was quite delicious and surprisingly tender. They had probably cooked it for about three days. Going for seconds I was served the Parson's Nose which took some getting down I can tell you. All washed down with bottles and bottles of Barbera and Dolcetto.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9tqc-MsckV8IVONizfqRZqmFUVCIwijcJgxvsaabrFm57ycfVFP0spkiFQ8zurjn_PLpLKvzO6zorb1ipC4mu0hHYMPivOZ2MnTw3KEkTF0FYkmXMHr2YRXyERv8sMMhp8_-JbHIAiEE/s1600/IMG_0028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9tqc-MsckV8IVONizfqRZqmFUVCIwijcJgxvsaabrFm57ycfVFP0spkiFQ8zurjn_PLpLKvzO6zorb1ipC4mu0hHYMPivOZ2MnTw3KEkTF0FYkmXMHr2YRXyERv8sMMhp8_-JbHIAiEE/s320/IMG_0028.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Although as your correspondent is doing January yet again, I stayed on fizzy water. How many years is it now Mr Unmitigated? The January on-the-wagon thing does seem to be awfully popular now doesn't it? The only slight upside is that I felt like a spring chicken this morning.</div>Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-31642775661926953262011-12-23T14:15:00.001+01:002011-12-23T21:46:39.924+01:00On the Lash in Genoa<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxROopE4igkmXHfldsXZqWhR2nse8OShyZpvx4H9ONdcRNA4ZNrQ3ZiEGBGkQkBUkLCKR-TsIhY6NwlIrMvaw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>An old chum from Blighty came out for a Christmas dinner and Genoa was chosen as the activity centre for the event. At one of (the several) bars that enjoyed our custom prior to sitting at table, the above moment of reasonably spontaneous dancing took place in a narrow alley, so typical of the old town, graffiti an' all. Wonderful. You wouldn't see that in Plymouth or Portsmouth I'd wager.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-73398558598916609532011-11-29T20:35:00.001+01:002011-11-30T08:53:06.273+01:00My Italian Bank<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVkWnIzvx9gRXDghD4BbNapzoZIeD0EAUIL9WiiBkHqk3tqNNCVJ-HS_oyBA7jJohUYijVZjHDu2WC7_YMuZBcHVsG4oZVzdSSWTTacoPaK75lpdidl310npPLxUiWk-TionKZuwVNn7U/s1600/2194104391_ae2fea6593.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVkWnIzvx9gRXDghD4BbNapzoZIeD0EAUIL9WiiBkHqk3tqNNCVJ-HS_oyBA7jJohUYijVZjHDu2WC7_YMuZBcHVsG4oZVzdSSWTTacoPaK75lpdidl310npPLxUiWk-TionKZuwVNn7U/s320/2194104391_ae2fea6593.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Life in Italy is usually OK. Despite fragile governments, endemic corruption, a sclerotic and bloated public sector and undoubtedly the worst drivers in the world (Somalia and Burkina Faso included), there is a steady unchanging rhythm to life here that is in sharp contrast to the frenzied change that seems, to me at least, Blighty's hallmark.<br />
But the banks. Oh, the bloody, sodding banks. <br />
The first thing to understand is that, even by Italian standards, they are amongst the most unionised workforces in the land. They are unsackable. A teller can defraud a gentle, white-haired 91 year old widow of her life savings and the worst punishment they will receive is a transfer to another branch. You can tell it's unionised by the complete and utter lack of customer service. And the stupid opening hours. Monday, Tuesday and Friday 9.15 - 12.20 and 2.10 - 4.15; Wednesday and Thursday 8.50 - 12.00 and 1.55 - 4.05*<br />
Let me tell you about yesterday. My bank card stopped working. I just couldn't get it into the sodding machine. The first hurdle is the bank entry system. Because tooled-up robbers are quite common in Italy there are some of the most astonishing door entry mechanisms. The one at my bank resembles something out of an early Star Trek episode, with a glass cylinder that swallows you up on the street and spits you out into the bank foyer.<br />
I go to the Customer Service Counter, an oxymoron if ever there was one. No one there. I go to a teller. He is straining over an intermediate level Sudoku in the local paper. I stand there. He looks up. I can tell he is a filthy communist because he bristles at the sight of a well-fed customer who pays his bloody wages. Not a word of greeting. I explain my problem. He bristles further because it is even worse; I am a foreigner. Monosyllabically, he tells me to go back to the Customer Service counter. Behind a screen around the corner from the counter is the sound of stern, one-way conversation. I poke my head around. A young couple are staring with a mixture of fear and incomprehension at the Bank's Customer Service Manager who is in turn staring at me with a mixture of contempt and disbelief. I weakly wave my bank card in the air and try and explain the problem. "I shall be occupied here for at least half an hour." I see the young couple sag visibly, like animals taking a bullet. "I suggest you see a teller" "But he..." "Good afternoon."<br />
I go back to the teller. There is now a 69 year ex-railway worker who retired 21 years ago trying to cash in some 1944 War Bonds he found in his great uncle's attic. After about twenty minutes it is my turn. The teller smirks as he tells me to go upstairs to see <i>the other</i> Customer Service representative. This has probably made his week, even although it is only Monday. He has won and what's better he knows that I know he has won. The ocean going bastard.<br />
But this is <b>big news</b>! Ten years with this bank and I didn't know there was (a) an upstairs or (b) another person responsible for Customer Service. I go up the stairs in an almost jaunty manner, feeling I have been allowed into a special place.<br />
It is another, surreal world up there, a series of modern, expensively-curtained offices with a monastery-like silence untainted by the sound of any labour. I find my target, one Signora Rivetti. She looks as it she could open a beer bottle at 20 yards just by looking at it. She happens to be on the telephone, talking about her sister's piles. I knock gingerly on the glass window. "Wait, please! No, those rubber rings are worse than useless. And I should know!" She motions me into her office. She has a big fluffy monkey fixed to the top of her computer screen. He is looking over his shoulder at me and smiling. I flick him a V just to let him know who's boss.<br />
Twenty five minutes later I leave. She has scissored my old bank card, stapled it to a piece of paper and told me in no uncertain terms that I should have a new card in a week. If it doesn't arrive I am to ring and make an appointment and come back. In some manner that she can't possibly imagine I contrived to de-magnetise it, oaf that I am. I should ensure to keep the new one away from any sources of heat. I signed seven separate forms, some of them twice on the same page. <br />
I leave the bank, ejected by the cylinder onto a damp, misty <i>piazza. </i>Somewhere nearby is the sound of laughter. I head for the nearest bar.<br />
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*except for the third Wednesday in every month when it closes at 3.00 for staff training<br />
<br />Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-4764390359041643232011-11-27T11:03:00.001+01:002011-11-27T11:15:21.925+01:00Bar Basso, Milan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Meet Maurizio, the Anglophile owner of <a href="http://www.barbasso.com/">Bar Basso in Milan</a>, one of the city's most traditional bars. He invented the <i>Negroni Sbagliato</i> in the 60s, replacing the standard measure of gin with Prosecco thus making it slightly less of an alcohol bomb. Needless to say I had a genuine <i>Negroni</i>, and it was superb. We had a chat, Maurizio and I, and I said I was from Devonshire and he said he liked to stay in Sidmouth. Sidmouth! Next to Budleigh Salterton it's probably the place I'd like to spend my last days in. Which may well not be that far off, if things carry on as they are. This is later on the same evening.<br />
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It's got to stop. I'm 57 FFS!Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-59278946168347384002011-11-06T21:33:00.002+01:002011-11-06T21:37:06.052+01:00The Great War<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've just finished reading <b>Tommy</b> by <b>Richard Holmes</b>, published by Harper Perennial. It tells the story of the British soldier on the Western Front from 1914 to 1918. I cannot recommend it highly enough. It is comprehensive but never boring. It tells of the (for us) unimaginable horror in an almost impersonal way, which somehow makes the words even more harrowing. But it is also packed with fascinating background material. Like how the army found itself so desperately short of horses in 1914 that they sent vets around the farms and smallholdings of Britain to requisition horses, many of which were more family pets than working animals. Off they were taken, the majority to die horribly in the Flanders mud. How the War saw previously unseen advances in medicine and the treatment of wounds. At the astonishment of hearing newly-arrived American soldiers describing Germans as "motherfucking cocksuckers", a particular lexical coupling that was entirely new to the average Tommy. Of particular interest is the <i>issue </i>(here used in its original sense if you please) of leave. Many soldiers found going on leave unpleasant and depressing, finding people in Blighty ignorant and dismissive of what was actually going on at the front ("What do you get up to in your spare time when you're not fighting? Go to a dance hall or the cinema?"), or that the pain of leaving their loved ones again was just not worth the candle, or actually missing the comradeship of the trench and returning to find out who had been killed or who had survived more important than being at home.<br />
And then of course Armistice Day on November 11th 1918. In British cities it was marked with church bells pealing, with noisy celebrations and parties throughout the land.<br />
The soldiers in France and Belgium noticed more than anything else the extraordinary, all-embracing silence, still to be found in the exquisitely tidy CWGC cemeteries, like the <a href="http://www.ww1battlefields.co.uk/somme/guillemont.html">Guillemont Road </a>Cemetery above, to be found near the Somme.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-585474239128250932011-10-27T22:58:00.000+02:002011-10-28T10:52:17.797+02:00God Spede the Plow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was chatting to the horribly young Valerio after he had delivered our wood for the winter when he happened to point out that he and his brother were responsible for clearing the snow from our roads (see above, that is him last winter). "Lordy" I said, "what a wonderful job, all that power and effect, master of all that you see, clearing a path for us humble peasants" in effect the usual nonsense.<br />
"Don't you believe it" he said, "it's a bag of shit" and this from an utterly charming young man to whom you would only be too glad to introduce your panting, hormone-crazed daughter.<br />
"So what's the problem Valerio?" I asked tentatively, expecting another volley of foul language.<br />
"It's the others" he replied, looking over his shoulder. "It's dog eat dog in this business. We get €24 for every kilometer we clear. There are 28 kilometers in your parish and that sounds a lot but if we hit an obstacle, given that half the time we can't see where the road is, that can damage the blade. It's all hydraulics you see. Expensive stuff. Chains for our tractor tyres cost a fortune and we have to have them because the hills are so steep. Then there are the other bastards, one evening last year I tried to start the tractor but it wouldn't go because someone had poured a load of sand into the fuel tank. They want to steal our business you see. I'll swing before anyone takes this work off me. Bastards, all of them"<br />
By then his lip had started to quiver. I paid him for the wood and wished him well. <br />
Serious stuff, being a snowplough driver.<br />
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<br />Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-82789067257147346882011-10-14T02:00:00.000+02:002011-10-14T02:00:02.881+02:00A couple of pre-dinner drinks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ah, the changing seasons of life. Once an <i>aperitif</i> was four pints of London Pride and two bags of KP Nuts.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2133802230513064516.post-71036036468615889962011-10-05T09:31:00.001+02:002011-10-05T09:31:25.380+02:00The Upside of a Drought<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For the first time EVER the seriously dry weather this year has meant that I have been able to get the three vegetable plots ploughed before the winter kicks in. The soil here is very heavy so once the rain (when oh when?) comes it is pretty unworkable until the spring and it dries out.<br />
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Anyhoo, my mate Alessandro pitched up with his trusty Fiat and a single share plough and got stuck in. An hour saw the job finished. I shall dress the plots with some serious manure in the spring and then harrow and Robert will be my father's brother. I vow that there will not be a repeat of this year's tomato nightmare.Ron Combohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05270358674385406494noreply@blogger.com5