Spring in Tuscany

The usual chaos

So we are back in Italy. Right now I can hear a Hoopoe in the garden. (We used to think this was the sound of a vehicle reversing). We’ve tiptoed around the hot-tub and not been accosted by any two meter snakes. The wisteria is cascading over the pergola, the lemon trees starting to flower. Last night the fire flies started to flicker in the long grass on the back hill. In a few days the nightingales will start to sing, the scent of jasmine will hang heavy in warming air and I will start quoting Keats. The sun is warm, the breeze cool, the dappled shade a perfect compromise. It’s lunches of beef tomatoes and just peeled fava beans. It is spring time in Tuscany.

We have been playing the usual game of ‘spot the difference’ on return.

As I ran out of Schengen days last time and went (UK) home, Hugo was (Italy) home alone. He had invited his expert decorator from the rowing club to do a bit of decorating, with the gardener as back up for moral support. To be fair Hugo had flicked the colour chart at me before I left. I had protested loudly with the dangerous caveat that I’m all for expressing ones creativity, and to compromise is always bland.

Perhaps I should identify as bland. Afterall I’m a wishy- washy, tread-lightly, wild flowers, shades of white and light, dreamy, classical string music, not-quite-there kind of girl, easy on the spice and no onions, or peppers. Hugo, on the other hand, never does things by halves. He is the sort of chap who orders madras curries, when he cooks he adds our ‘teargas’ chilli flakes, laughs loudly, loves heavy rock and is the life and soul of a party and beloved by everyone.

Anyway. The gym has been painted in hell red. The downstairs loo has been painted in nightclub dark grey. The dining room is now in terracotta. I had forgotten that he had done our beloved bathroom (formerly a delicate shade of primrose) On first sight I reeled backwards with an ‘Oh my God’ as I was hit by an expanse of egg yolk yellow. I’m sure the shock will wear off in time.

Yesterday we went to visit the accountant to be roughed up. It’s safety in numbers, with me under strict instructions not to hijack the meeting.

Our accountants office has a wonderful work-life balance. On one side of her office is a caddy of golf clubs, sofa, and sculpture. We aren’t allowed in that bit. At the other end a couple of hard plastic chairs (for us) and a desk adorned with eclectic desk paraphernalia. I have never seen a gold plated paper punch. She was wearing a bright green jacket with oversized power-dressing jewellery, the sort of power jewellery that is intended to shock and awe so you don’t dare interrupt. If you do there is a risk she will stuff one of those plastic ornaments in your mouth like an adult pacifier. She doesn’t usually pause to draw breath but talks like a machine gun.

Visiting the accountant is always like being hauled in front of the headmistress for a right good berating but this time was worse than ever (we weren’t offered water let alone coffee). This was because in a moment of madness Hugo had threatened to instruct another accountant who had a differing view on his tax liability. It was a rash decision as accountant 2, whilst more favourable, can’t be reached and if you can reach him, speaks so fast there is no chance of understanding a single thing. This did not endear Accountant 1 to us.

Now, I’m a retired litigation solicitor and Hugo a successful businessman with an accountancy qualification in the mix so we don’t scare easily. But this does not command any respect from our assailant- accountant. Armed with case law, anecdote and the other accountant’s view we attempted to fight our corner to no avail. An hour later she put it in simple terms she thought even we numbskulls could understand.

‘Are you prepared to fight this in court?’

‘We’d rather not, but .. yes.’

‘What do you want me to say in your defence on- that you are stupid or that you did not understand?’

So, tails between our legs, we slunk out to lick our wounds. To save you a hauling from the accountant; no you cannot be resident in Italy, but tax resident in the UK even if you only spend a few days in Italy.

*

We have visitors arriving this afternoon at tea time. What to do? We decided on posh nibbles and pop so went off to the local supermarket for supplies. I thought it would be quite nice to have some local sheep’s cheese drizzled with honey. Our gardener’s squeeze has beehives so we have local honey, and there a shepherd who takes his goat-sheep beasts around so we were hoping to get his cheese. Of course my Italian completely let me down. There are three words which are similar- sheep (pecora), peaches (pesche), and fishermen (pescatori)

Suffice to say, I accidentally asked at the cheese counter if they had a local fisherman, meaning to ask for local goat-sheep cheese, rather than a hot date with a fisherman’s friend. They said no, he comes on Thursday’s and called the manager. Realising my mistake I tried to remember the word for sheep and failed. I then had to say, in my best Italian, I didn’t mean fisherman or fish, I meant sheep except I couldn’t remember the word for sheep so mimed small cows that were white and made a noise. Unfortunately my attempt at bleating was more of a strangled honk.

We were telling our now arrived guests this story with other anecdotes like when Hugo told the garden centre owner that his squid needed trimming (the words for squid and hedge being similar) and the time I confidently sent Hugo to the supermarket to ask for chicken tits, but they came up with the best one. A formal friend of theirs sent stiffy invitations for ‘Drinks and nipples’ What fun.

Finally, a few weeks ago we went skiing in Val d’Isere. Well, I didn’t as I was doing edits and am way too scaredy cat to go skiing with Hugo’s former partner who is a world championship skier twice over. But I joined the ski party to go to La Follie Deux, the après ski place with live shows and dancing on tables. There I finally succumbed to the Italian thing of having a puffa jacket. Unusually for me I bought it in jewel colours – green and yellow.

I wore it to collect my daughter from the airport.

‘What do you think?’ I said sashaying over with rare sartorial pride.

‘ You look like the Very Hungry Caterpillar’ she said

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