The plumber

Our plumber seems to be our most frequent visitor. We have certainly had our fair share of water challenges here and he has been invaluable in helping us deal with them. He is a 30 or 40 something Italian who works at a frenetic pace and enjoys torturing us in our ignorance. When I text a water problem to him (I worry about phoning him in case my Italian fails me!), he instantly phones me back. You call this attention? I call it harrassment. When he arrives at our place, he calls out “Stoo-art!?” for no apparent reason other than to call Stu to panicked attention. After a few such “Stoo-arts!?”, Stu skulks away to hide in his workshop, leaving me at the plumbers beck and call. And beck and call he does! “Caterina, aprire la doccia!”, “Caterina, chiudere la vasca!”, “Caterina…”, “Caterina’…”, “Caterina…”. I run from pillar to post turning everything on and off, opening doors, closing doors, running up stairs, flying downstairs, holding his tools, reminding him where he left his tools, all the while trying to understand Italian plumber-talk. I am utterly trashed by the time the plumber leaves. I stand at the gate waving goodbye, legs trembling, shoulders drooping, head lolling under the weight of confused language. I feel like a crazy woman. It is usually then that Stu emerges from his workshop. “Stoo-art! Ciao!” yells the plumber on his way down the track.



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