I detect some improvement in my physical state this morning, but I don’t trust it. I will stay here the rest of the day, I will not risk going down the mountain and back up again with a heavy grocery sack.
Now, a few days ago while I was in bed writhing in agony, fearing I was about to become permanently disabled and a despised ward of the Italian socialist state, I heard construction noises from the courtyard. Every now and again I took a peek through the curtains of my front door window, and watched my landlord, his brother, and two other young men hard at work sawing logs and cutting fronds from the big palm tree at the corner of the terrace. Two days later, temporarily back on my feet, I inspected their work.
They had, to my surprise and gratitude, formally carved out between the grape vines a little Astroturf-covered spot for my deck chair, on which during the summer months I love to lie and take the healing rays of the bright Mediterranean sun.
Things are looking up.