My real birthday

So here I am at 68 slowly recovering from a flu- like attack that laid me out as the movers took the third load to storage. We contrived to leave ourselves without sheets to the beds we are leaving. I got to the co-op today in a fierce downpour to buy two and a large frozen tiramisu and seafood sauce for pasta and the eponymous and ubiquitous cure-all extra brut Prosecco from the Valdobbiadene. J returns later through mist and rain from an overnight in Fiesole.

They- the exasperated Italians - say, ‘Only in Italy’ as another impediment flops up from the legal mud to delay our house sale by 15 days. Having ascertained that the house passed from agricultural use to civic use in 1973 enquiries showed we had no tax on this score to pay ( the tax liability following the property rather than past owners) but given that there is no document listing the change of use we need now wait for the local authority to confirm or at least not contest this conclusion.

At this point one hesitates to give vent to frustrations. These things happen and we have no option but to sit them out with a semblance of grace hoping that momentum and goodwill will have their, eventual, day.