Outsiders

We immigrants in Monculi are doing quite well. We own our own houses, are employed, and make a stab at speaking the local language (and it is very local) as well as classical Italian, though the Albanians are much better at it than the rest of us as they benefit still from their excellent classical education back home under Mr Hoxa's regime.

Of course we all know our place. An example, from an in-law, in my kitchen, "Here, we don't chop onions like that, let me show you." That time, I had a knife in my hand. No-one could fault them for foolhardy risk-taking.

The intra- and infra-familial murders that go on in Italy are at such levels that I assumed that while personal it was merely a particular aim being taken at a foreign in-marrier, rather than a serious expression of cultural aggression; had I been Italian no doubt the aggressing would have taken a different form.

But when the Italians as a people and country are feeling threatened, it is clear that they will have not the slightest concern in expressing their fear and distress in a racialism that will both shake people from more politically correct environments, and provide an unwelcome model for those who have been restrained by social and legal constraints.

The immigrants in Monculi are accepted because we pay our way and try our best to cope with not being Italian. The poor, the weak, the excluded are going to have a bad time.

Fascism is Yet to be Defeated

Everyone has a nickname - at least the real Monculi all have nicknames, I don't know about the people in Monculi di Sotto.

Testa Gloriosa, who is 82, was quite desperate when he ran into Mr HG in the grocer's. "I have given my life to the Party (the Communist Party of Italy, Ed.), and we haven't a single representative in the Chamber of Deputies or the Senate. I used to be asked to call on people after dark, so others would not know who were Party supporters. I fought with the partisans. We are wholly unrepresented in our own country's Parliament." His whole face was anguished, jaw trembling as he clutched Mr HG's arm and appealed to him to Do Something.

There is nothing to be done. And for the brave and decent people who literally risked their lives to overthrow Fascism, I weep.

Incoming

The swallows have arrived at last. No sign of summer though. We've burned all the wood, eaten all the winter vegetables, the price of greenery in the shops will cause an outbreak of scurvy soon which will add to the seasonal affective disorder being displayed by the entire country. Or perhaps that is due to having Berlusconi back and dodging his various indictments.

Jumpers

Buying basil plants, though lacking the heads necessary for the pots he was advised to keep them in until warmer weather, Mr HG asked the nurseryman when the lemons might go out (they're still in and quite desperate for air and more light).

'When you take off your jumper, then they can go out; and if you feel the need to put it back on, then bring them in again'. Mr HG developed a very English sweater habit in his English years; Italians wear only thin cashmere under a sports coat, not the fancy knitwear that determines lemons-out season.

From Monday

HG, we are drinking too much wine.

Right, shall we stop from, say, now?

The Pope says there will be no more pedophile priests from next Monday, according to La Repubblica. Let's start from then too.

We drank to that.

No Swallows

There are small holes dotted under the length of the eaves where the swallows nest. Conveniently, inside the rooms on the other side of the east-facing walls are little doors to open and grab a swallow or two for dinner.

If they don't turn up soon I shall have to go out and slaughter some other innocent creature nesting, or trotting, or otherwise gambolling through the landscape.

(Actually I had the plasterers seal up the little doors; it's not that I'm vegetarian or soft-hearted, I just didn't want to put my handy in and get pecked.)

Monculi Does It Again!

The Monculi voted en masse for Veltroni and the Democratic Party. The rest of Italy gave Berlusconi and the Northern Leagues a five year mandate.

Oranges and Lemons

Chap: 'It's winter still.'
Mr HG: 'I'd thought to put out the lemons.'
Chap: 'Put them out and they'll be ruined.'

Mr HG repaired to the lemon expert of Monculi. And he said:

'Candelora dall'inverno semo fora ' - by Candlemass we are out of winter - used to be the case. Not any more. 'Sole solicello, torna l'inverno'. - which means, more or less, - 'weak sun, winter returns'.

The last old sage delivery finished him off: 'the weather of 3 April lasts always for 40 days.'

Some global warming when the whole of Monculi is discussing the collapse of the lemon's year in the bar. It is getting colder.

Where are the sunny uplands of our youth?

Vote Berlusconi in Monculi di Sopra

Monculi is contrary. This makes it a bellwether voting district. Whenever Monculi votes for something you can be sure the whole of the rest of Italy has voted the other way.

In the Red Belt, Monculi has a right of centre administration (it is actually a Christian Democrat administration in full bloom, so it is also something of an anachronism); Berlusconi is thought a bit 'ruvido', a bit rough and untutored in all respects for the Monculi, who lean towards the Andreottian ways of right wing politics, rather than the criminally obvious.

When Italy voted for unity and sang Va Pensiero at the top of its considerable operatic lungs, Monculi voted for 'il regno separato' and the maintenance of campanilismo. When Italy voted for the end of monarchy and instituted the post War Republic, Monculi voted for the May King and the Savoia.

Worryingly, the word is out that Monculi is not voting for Berlusconi. The word is always out early in Monculi, there are the Families, and they vote predictably, according to their allegiances and their wont. I was down as being a Family vote for the Left, foreign or not wives vote with their husbands - till I took residence in Florence to get a car-pass to drive into the city centre. But the rest of our Family remains counted as Left. When I am very old I shall retake my residence here and vote Fascist - that will throw them.

In the meantime, just this once, it would be wonderful if Monculi could choose Berlusconi.

Out, Out, Out!

Lenin and Rosa are covered in mud but blinking dark eyes again at their garden. Rosa has managed a stroll through the acanthus, taking a bite here and a bite there, so is looking cleaner but, as usual, meaner. Lenin ate a fresh dandelion and leaf bouquet I offered then edged out from under the stone bench in the grotto formed by the church apse and the garden wall.

The garden in Monculi is tortoise paradise: stone-walled, protected from winds, sunny but with trees to shade, paths of beaten earth and gravel where dandelions are allowed to grow - the tortoises keep them neatly trimmed, obstacle courses of trimmed hedges for them to play through for no tortoise ever deviates from a straight line, that I have ever seen, as they munch down herbs, salad, and Mr HG looks on indulgently while they eat our rocket.

At the end of the garden is a pretty little sort of wilderness with violets and cyclamens under the trees (there are bluebells and daffodils and all the other plants harmful to tortoises, but they're not stupid, they don't touch those); they eat the wild strawberries until they are dizzy and Lenin has been seen trampling down the raspberry canes from the base to reach his favourite of all; and then the falling fruit, greengages, apricots, giuggiole, peaches, cherries, persimmons.

Imagine no rushing, no enemies, great intelligence, a long rest in the cold and dark months every year, the perfect diet,long life, and being so beautiful in their fashion.

In my next incarnation I am aiming for tortoisehood.

We Need a Shilling in the Meter

The covered skies are not giving the panels a fair go. Usually staying in the city until Easter is a sensible thing to do as nothing is worse than gloomy countryside. But this year we were misled by enthusiasm and the earliest Easter for absolutely ages into expecting March and early April to be like late April and early May.

So it's back to proper pavements, and something to do when it pours with rain, and tights.

In Monculi the death bells ring day after day - people who thought that if they could make it to Easter they might have one more summer have been defeated too.

Someone put some money in.

Lost

Well-upholstered, well-dressed, well made-up woman speaking into her mobile:

"Listen; I've no idea where I am. It's an enormous piazza with some buildings."

Brunelleschi's dome swelled over her shoulder, Giotto's pink and blue dream reached upwards, the Gates of Paradise gleamed golden on the Baptistry.