Poste Italiane

Depending on your point of view today was either a very bad day, or a good day for learning Italian. The day started with a standard Italian lesson or coffee with my mums’ as I prefer to call it. Today was quite a short lesson, finishing soon after the coffee, which had also started early on account of the bad weather driving us indoors to the coffee shop before the seemingly obligatory 20 minutes standing in the cold talking before repairing to the said coffee shop to continue said conversation. So from ten past nine I was free.
My little task of the day was to find where some parcels were. I knew that they had arrived in Magenta courtesy of a little post office note put through the door. I also knew that 3 parcels had been posted before Christmas so had been awaiting a note for some time. Off to the Post Office I went. Having collected my correct queuing ticket I was informed the parcels were not at the Post Office. They were giro and sinestra and other Italian type directions I couldn’t quite get but gamely I left the post office and walked around the building. The only thing I could understand on the little note was 31. It was obviously at no. 31 somewhere and the post office was no. 29 so I was close. Well obviously I was wrong. Having giroed and sinestraed for longer I found the post office DEPOT. Not the post office. Obviously. So armed with my little note clearly on show I wandered purposely into the depot. One of the phrases I remembered from my instructions to get to the depot was a small window to speak through, so I slowed upon reaching the sorting office complete with big plastic NOT PUBLIC type doors, but I had the foresight to Buon Guornio the post lady I recognised.
In the UK, there is a place for the public to collect the parcels the post office have been (through obviously no fault of their own) unable to deliver. Not so here. Why would anyone expect a place for the public in the sorting office.
The post lady also recognised me, which given I have never spoken to her and I only see her from my balcony delivering post to the posh block behind me, is impressive.
‘Signora McManoos?’ ‘Si’ and I hand out my card. ‘Iononavutoblablablablabla’ as she strode off at a firm pace, towards the big plastic doors. ‘Prego’ and I was in a sorting office. Complete with little compartments for every house in Magneta. How exciting. I smiled my ‘Hi I am friendly, but completely at a loss as to what’s going on’ smile and ‘Si a veróed’ a couple of remarks from the other posties in the warehouse. Two minutes later I was the proud owner of 4 parcels from dear old Blighty. That were posted last year, before Christmas, for Christmas. It’s the 19th of January today.
So far, so normal a day. I have had my bit of excitement. I have a dentist appointment booked for later for a filling. I have learned the corresponding filling, injection, ow words in Italian for the appointment.
I make Secret Ingredient Tomato Soup for lunch (carrots) and complete with new presents await the arrival of my dearly beloved boy home from school for lunch.
Cutting bread is normally such an innocuous activity, not normally one to get excited about. But when you have a new set of proper grown up kitchen knives it is lovely. Until you end up half slicing your left index finger off.
Being very British I don’t have the right sort of plaster or gauze or whatever it is you need for a deep cut, but kitchen roll sees me though lunch. But an hour and a half later when it is still bleeding and having put in a phonecall to my emergency backup /critical incident/first aid trained sister in law I decide to go to hospital for a stitch. I have visions of being there for hours on the grounds that it is completely minor, but having organised 11year old boy to pick up 8 year old daughter from school and get husband on route home so the children aren’t abandoned I set off.
Well, I’m out in 20 minutes having seen a lovely doctor with gorgeous eyes and a fabulous bedside manner and 3 stitches and a comedy bandage on my finger. And the ability to say ‘I have cut my finger with a bread knife and its’ been bleeding for an hour and a half’ in Italian. Allora.
Only the dentist to go, where I dutifully explain that I have cut my finger on a bread knife and it bled (I may have got the tense wrong in translation) for an hour and a half, and no I am not on any medication because of it and yes I will be fine. So then I end up with a huge filling and a numb mouth to cap off my day.
I’ve had 2 bits of toast and a very very large brandy for tea tonight. And an Ibuprofen. It’s probably not a recommended diet. But my finger and tooth don’t hurt anymore. And I have learnt some new words.