‘One small step for man…’

I’ve had a very exciting day today

Inever thought I’d say this but the highlight of my week… so far, has been a walk to the post-box and back. Ever since lockdown has meant just that… being locked down. Wandering as far as the village grocer or to post a letter has elevated anticipatory excitement levels in my household to those previously experienced for a theatre crawl in London’s West End.

I did the: “I’m just going outside and I may be some time.” Captain Oates bit to my wife, before venturing forth. There are actually two mail boxes in close proximity to our house, but I usually prefer the one slightly further away. It gives me more exercise to walk there and back.

I didn’t see a single soul on my way to the post-box – and only one on the way back home. I’ll admit I wasn’t exactly scurrying along, but it’s very rare for so few people to be up and about, even in these disease-ridden times. Anyway, I had just slipped my envelope into the box and turned to return home, when I spotted one other person taking the air on the other side of the street. This was Mrs Giglio (not her real name; I’ll spare her the embarrassment of a name check), a village resident in late middle age, like myself.

I have known Mrs G or should I say I have known of Mrs G since we were both very much younger. I have never before today actually spoken to her because, ever since I have known she exists, each time I get anywhere near her she scurries away while ostentatiously averting her gaze. My wife explains this behaviour by saying: “She’s shy. She thinks strange men might… you know, molest her.” Oh really! Well let it be known henceforth, that if Mrs Giglio were to become the last female-woman on the planet, I would no more contemplate molesting her than I would making a play for Godzilla. It’s not that she’s particularly intimidating, it’s just that she’s just a leetle, teeny weeny bit… how shall I put it… repellent.

Unlike her husband Pawlu. He is a fairly tall, pleasant looking chap who works for the PWD, which means that he spends his days tidying up the highways and byways around our village. Pawlu and Mrs G (I think her first name is Maria… it usually is around here) have two kids, one of each – and the poor kids have both drawn the short straw. Yes, I’m afraid they both resemble Mrs Giglio, not her old man.

Anyway there she was, wandering along, minding her own business, when I did something on the spur of the moment and, for the first time ever, called out cheerily to her: “Good morning Mrs Giglio.” The effect was instantaneous. She momentarily stopped dead in her tracks, her face turned a rather frightening shade of post-office scarlet and, without replying, she looked dead ahead and took off at a rate of knots, so that by the time she reached the corner of the street, she was almost cantering along.

Poor Mrs Giglio, she ought to have been born back in the days when most village ladies covered their embarrassment with a faldetta. In fact, I think I’ll embark on a campaign to have them reintroduced… just for Mrs Giglio!