The bridge that crosses the Borgo to the Comune has become a gibbet. Carnival figures, caged by cruel railings and anchored by hand and foot are torn by wind and rooks (and pigeons too but they are not so grand), their finery shredded, stripped, their hats and wigs askew. Unmasked they look so frightened, up there in the cold, exposed between the towers.
Lent has begun and still they stand, forced to continue their challenge through Ash Wednesday and on to who knows when. Perhaps the carnival organisers will send out a search and rescue mission soon for their creatures, before the forces of disorder are publicly overthrown.
They'd better have them down before Sunday or the priest will have a fit and I won't let them use the bridge next year.
Thursday 26 February 2009
Tuesday 24 February 2009
Leaving Them To It
Collecting a repeat prescription at the doctor's surgery was a lesson in the effects of recession. As people have less disposable income they become more than ever determined to consume 'free' state provision of things like health services. A mob of aggressive mothers accompanied by suitably wailing infants surrounded the nurse. Taking a seat in the empty waiting room it was soon clear why there was near fisticuffs going on in the corridor. Sit in the waiting room and wait for ever.
'Might I make an enquiry on whether there is an envelope waiting for collection? '
Request refused by phalanx of health consuming, well, consumers.
Hat raised to harried nurse over seething peasantry. Two hours later the phone rings, heartfelt apologies - not at all, merely a repeat prescription, can be put in the post, happened to be passing and thought to collect it.
But even a year ago there was courtesy, recognition, reasonable acquiescence to the friendly and efficient conduct of the doctor's business. Rationing, even by time availability is reducing patients to competitors. And to the wholesale abandonment of the state health service by those whose presence made it formerly truly universal.
Update
Now the doctor has called (twice) although it isn't her fault, consulting times have been cut, ancillary staff have been cut, heads have rolled (no, actually, she didn't say the last). Arrangements have been made with the pharmacy for supplies to be collected without further prescription; yes, indeed. The pharmacist was the next port of call and handed over without a murmur. Memo: avoid falling down the stairs and doing your knee in (not to mention collar bone and shoulder, though those are better now). Medical services can no longer cope with civilised demand.
'Might I make an enquiry on whether there is an envelope waiting for collection? '
Request refused by phalanx of health consuming, well, consumers.
Hat raised to harried nurse over seething peasantry. Two hours later the phone rings, heartfelt apologies - not at all, merely a repeat prescription, can be put in the post, happened to be passing and thought to collect it.
But even a year ago there was courtesy, recognition, reasonable acquiescence to the friendly and efficient conduct of the doctor's business. Rationing, even by time availability is reducing patients to competitors. And to the wholesale abandonment of the state health service by those whose presence made it formerly truly universal.
Update
Now the doctor has called (twice) although it isn't her fault, consulting times have been cut, ancillary staff have been cut, heads have rolled (no, actually, she didn't say the last). Arrangements have been made with the pharmacy for supplies to be collected without further prescription; yes, indeed. The pharmacist was the next port of call and handed over without a murmur. Memo: avoid falling down the stairs and doing your knee in (not to mention collar bone and shoulder, though those are better now). Medical services can no longer cope with civilised demand.
Sunday 22 February 2009
By God They Frighten Me
I shall die of cold out on the big terrace but the drums are not to be denied. In tights and doublet and hose, velvet snoods and beribboned, they swagger past - the drummers from ages past throbbing out the rhythms heard in every Tuscan city and town as they lead the alfieri. What is less obvious but just as scary is the whoomf, Whoomf, WHOOMF of the flags as they are furled and unwound, hurled into the air, thrown from on flag-bearer to another as if they are as light as the air they fly through. Getting womped by a flying flag could be a mortal blow.
I've never seen a modern military parade passing quite so close, but this lot exude testosterone and battle, up close and personal, like the paintings show death by head-cleft-in-two or lance-right-through-your-armour, or even trodden-on-by-passing-charger.
The carneval figures they lead, twice the height of humans, wholly masked and very beautiful, are not reassuring either. Representing the world turned upside down, time reversed, all categories disturbed, they bow silently to applauding spectators. I'm glad I'm up here. I wouldn't like them to turn their gaze on me.
Lent will restore order to the world - won't it?
I've never seen a modern military parade passing quite so close, but this lot exude testosterone and battle, up close and personal, like the paintings show death by head-cleft-in-two or lance-right-through-your-armour, or even trodden-on-by-passing-charger.
The carneval figures they lead, twice the height of humans, wholly masked and very beautiful, are not reassuring either. Representing the world turned upside down, time reversed, all categories disturbed, they bow silently to applauding spectators. I'm glad I'm up here. I wouldn't like them to turn their gaze on me.
Lent will restore order to the world - won't it?
Saturday 21 February 2009
Wining-Up
The Valdarno wine co-operative has been offering a third off - and even more on various wines. The Landie has just left to pick up as much as it can carry of Dovizio (white) and local chiantis, including some of the grander ones.
There is nothing like a month of being subjected to WC1 wine prices under the collapsed pound regime to realise the priority of cellar restocking when the iron is hot (so to speak).
We used to have vineyards but the Years of Abandonment led to their collapse and then the English made a fuss about wine lakes (what is the matter with them? What could be nicer than a lakeful of wine?), and we lost the right to grow more than a hectare's worth. Honestly it's preferable to put in the effort elsewhere, like at the keyboard, and benefit from other people's expertise and low prices. The trouble with the ecology movement is it tends to denigrate the worth of the division of labour.
There is nothing like a month of being subjected to WC1 wine prices under the collapsed pound regime to realise the priority of cellar restocking when the iron is hot (so to speak).
We used to have vineyards but the Years of Abandonment led to their collapse and then the English made a fuss about wine lakes (what is the matter with them? What could be nicer than a lakeful of wine?), and we lost the right to grow more than a hectare's worth. Honestly it's preferable to put in the effort elsewhere, like at the keyboard, and benefit from other people's expertise and low prices. The trouble with the ecology movement is it tends to denigrate the worth of the division of labour.
Thursday 19 February 2009
A Perfect Gift
The gates are nearly finished. Before giving the impression that there is an 18th century-style enclosure going on around the ecohouse's land, these are the kind of gates that stand about in the middle of fields and woodland looking civilised and often beautiful but can be walked round as they are not attached to fences. You can see lots of examples in Ireland, as well as in Tuscany.
What they do is send a message: Welcome guest, is what they say. We don't want vehicles inside the inner area of the farm, though people and animals on foot are free to roam. The gates can close the road if we choose, though everyone is in a half-track (all right, four wheel drive) so roads are messages too: drive here, not anywhere.
The builder has made such a kind gesture, apart from the gate pillars themselves being a work of art, built from the worked stones that remained after the village house was restored. He has had a stone carved with the name of the farm and with Mr HG's initials in the corner, and incorporated it into the pillars. This is his gift, organised and secretly prepared, and delights us.
Everywhere on the ecohouse the initials of the earlier-generations owners are carved, together with the date of building works and restorations. The earliest we have found is 1629 - same intials of course; so it's lovely to have the current bearer's efforts recorded on the gateposts.
What they do is send a message: Welcome guest, is what they say. We don't want vehicles inside the inner area of the farm, though people and animals on foot are free to roam. The gates can close the road if we choose, though everyone is in a half-track (all right, four wheel drive) so roads are messages too: drive here, not anywhere.
The builder has made such a kind gesture, apart from the gate pillars themselves being a work of art, built from the worked stones that remained after the village house was restored. He has had a stone carved with the name of the farm and with Mr HG's initials in the corner, and incorporated it into the pillars. This is his gift, organised and secretly prepared, and delights us.
Everywhere on the ecohouse the initials of the earlier-generations owners are carved, together with the date of building works and restorations. The earliest we have found is 1629 - same intials of course; so it's lovely to have the current bearer's efforts recorded on the gateposts.
Sunday 15 February 2009
Dancing With Cars
'I'll nip down and put the cars inside the garden then. it was 11 they needed them off the streets by wasn't it?' Bright sunshine suggested no coat - it would only take a couple of minutes.
In the garden a long file of pots holding unidentifiable and apparently dead twigs had appeared on the paved area. Moved those to similarly exposed position - dead twigs are very susceptible to light and shadow, shelter and frost exposure. Find large gates have rooted themselves to the ground since last opened on both sides. Fetch hammer and wallop the fixing thing at the bottom. Get gates to move. Drive little red car into garden and park so snugly I have to crawl out through the passenger side where I discover I have run over tendrils of ground cover particularly beloved of Mr HG. Hastily snip away evidence and hide in compost bin.
Locate landrover behind a Mass-goer's gleamingly polished Audi but heroic manoeuvres with one of the widest turning circles in any vehicle short of a tank gets me free and into the piazza, where the only way into the garden is in reverse as the landie is now facing the wrong way and more Mass-goers have closed down the options.
Having been away for some weeks I must now greet and be welcomed back by everyone on their way to church in their Sunday best while I am coatless and dressed for drinking coffee and reading the papers while desultorily putting the lunch on (fortunately I had taken off my pinny). The cold is biting through as well. Everyone directs the reversing of the landrover up the narrow, deceptively straight when actually curving vicolo, and a small party gather in the garden to gesticulate instructions about the gate posts. They are all waiting for me to hit something (or I am paranoid, or both). Once inside the only way out is through the cantine as the vehicles are now blocking the way. Small party is led through the house and waved off to church. Back in the piazza I get the Panda and drive it up to the gates ready for an early departure tomorrow morning. It is immediately blocked in by yet more intent on communicating with the Almighty and each other.
Finally get back into the kitchen frozen to the marrow, arms aching from heaving on steering wheels and plant pots, after nearly an hour. What a way to spend Sunday morning. I should have gone to Mass.
In the garden a long file of pots holding unidentifiable and apparently dead twigs had appeared on the paved area. Moved those to similarly exposed position - dead twigs are very susceptible to light and shadow, shelter and frost exposure. Find large gates have rooted themselves to the ground since last opened on both sides. Fetch hammer and wallop the fixing thing at the bottom. Get gates to move. Drive little red car into garden and park so snugly I have to crawl out through the passenger side where I discover I have run over tendrils of ground cover particularly beloved of Mr HG. Hastily snip away evidence and hide in compost bin.
Locate landrover behind a Mass-goer's gleamingly polished Audi but heroic manoeuvres with one of the widest turning circles in any vehicle short of a tank gets me free and into the piazza, where the only way into the garden is in reverse as the landie is now facing the wrong way and more Mass-goers have closed down the options.
Having been away for some weeks I must now greet and be welcomed back by everyone on their way to church in their Sunday best while I am coatless and dressed for drinking coffee and reading the papers while desultorily putting the lunch on (fortunately I had taken off my pinny). The cold is biting through as well. Everyone directs the reversing of the landrover up the narrow, deceptively straight when actually curving vicolo, and a small party gather in the garden to gesticulate instructions about the gate posts. They are all waiting for me to hit something (or I am paranoid, or both). Once inside the only way out is through the cantine as the vehicles are now blocking the way. Small party is led through the house and waved off to church. Back in the piazza I get the Panda and drive it up to the gates ready for an early departure tomorrow morning. It is immediately blocked in by yet more intent on communicating with the Almighty and each other.
Finally get back into the kitchen frozen to the marrow, arms aching from heaving on steering wheels and plant pots, after nearly an hour. What a way to spend Sunday morning. I should have gone to Mass.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
