Monday I stepped onto a zebra crossing to discover a car coming towards me, literally. The driver decided to make a U turn and drove between the two bollards either side of the crossing and was driving down the black and white lines towards me.
Tuesday I stopped my car to allow a lady to come out of her drive only for her to wind her window down and complain, I asked her what the problem was and she said she wanted to drive behind me not in front.
Wednesday I’m pootling to the supermarket with our small terrier on the front seat beside me when an old man in a Fiat Panda pulls out of a side road without looking, hence an emergency stop from me that results in a small dog in the foot well.
Thursday passes with no car related incidents.
Friday and the most bonkers incident occurs. There’s a bridge nearby that’s very narrow and cars cannot pass each other on it. I was behind two other cars as we crossed the bridge, when I was about 4 metres from the end a young woman decided to enter and squeeze past me, which she obviously couldn’t. I shrugged my shoulders in disbelief that she couldn’t have waited another three or four seconds and she just mouthed something obscene before I drove off the bridge so she could squeeze past.
Saturday I park my car in Lanciano where I’ve parked it many times before and go into work to meet my clients. We go out to view houses in their car as mine has a problem with the cooling system and is awaiting spare parts to repair it. We return back at the car park and my car is no longer where I left it. A couple of frantic phone calls reveals an overzealous police woman had it towed away as despite there being no markings on the ground and no signs to indicate it, the place where I and many others have been parking for years is a no parking zone. So I’ll be paying a €60 fine on Monday to get it back.
I drive down into the valley as The Skids, coincidentally, play Into the Valley, I notice that I need fuel, so pull into a petrol station. I like the fact that the petrol stations here have staff that fill up your car for you: it’s good old fashioned service. I’ve not been to this little side-road one before and a large man saunters out of what can only be described as a portacabin. “Good morning,” he says, before asking, “You German?” I shake my head; having not been asked this for a long time, I assumed everyone had been informed by the gossip mill that the blond* man up on the hill is English. He asks me what I want and I tell him I’d like twenty Euro of unleaded. I watch as he unscrews my petrol cap, inserts the nozzle and presses the button to release the fuel. He then proceeds to take out his cigarettes and lights one.
The pump shudders to a stop and without removing the cigarette from his lips he puts the nozzle back in its holster and accepts the €20 note I pass him through the window. “Have a good day,” he says as another car pulls in and he wanders off, ash dropping from his cigarette as he asks the driver what they want. I drive away smiling as the iPod shuffles and Sirens, by The Temper Trap plays. Only in Italy could you be served with petrol by a man who is smoking, yet another quirk to file away in my memory.
*Just to point out why the word, blond is flagged up. A while back I was messaged by an American girl who said “You mustn’t be a very good writer if you carn’t [sic] spell blonde.” Obviously I had to reply correcting her spelling of, can’t and informing her that girls are blonde with an e and that boys are blond without the e.