Some Italians still ask me why I moved from England when it's such a beautiful place, they say. More work and opportunities. The schools are better and always have a swimming pool, and I'm fairly sure that most Italians believe that Hogwarts is the standard by which all U.K schools have to adhere too. It appears that the Italians love the idea of England nearly as much as the English do Italy.

The transition from primary school to middle school is a major change for kids everywhere, not only in Italy. Awaiting a pretty much complete governmental overhaul, the middle school system here hasn't changed in a very long time. And in comparison with the other exemplary grades of schooling here, it stands out like a sore thumb. Naturally for the pupils, it comes as a shock when they are expected to jump from molly-coddled babies to mini world class academics.

That's the impression we have during the first year of Simon's 'scuola media', in 2018. However, as usual, a lot depends on the teacher's enthusiasm for both the subject and the pupils.

Simon is lucky enough to have been allocated to classes with stable, experienced and capable teachers. Whom I find very easy and helpful to talk to. All but one.

She's sitting opposite Jack and I now, in a small bleak room which can only be described as a walk-in closet. A tall, large woman, not much older than myself, black hair scraped back into a fetching ponytail which whips from side to side as she emphasises her point of view on Simon's apparent defects to us.

"It is a problem for me to understand if he can fully comprehend the Italian language. You only use English at home I take it?"

I can follow the majority of her words. Jack and I look at each other and shrug acceptance. Jack translating my non-verbal communication for me.

"Yes, the majority of the time." He replies, while tapping his fingers on the edge of the plastic-coated school desk. Rattling out some song's drumbeat that's floating in his head.

"Then I want to bring it to your attention that he is not a team player in class. It is unusual for him to get involved in group work and he tends to prefer staying alone at break times, completely detached from his peers."

As parents we only get to see the Simon we know from home and out of school. But this solitary child doesn't ring true somehow.

Jack stops tapping and plays with a pencil that's been left on the table, avoiding the teacher's stare. His voice is quiet and reserved. "Simon has a couple of friends he goes to the 'oratorio' with, Saturday afternoon and Sunday. He's always out there playing football or whatever with them."

"And are these boys in the same class?"

Jack checks with me, reading my face. "No, but they've been friends since nursery school. He can't be that isolated surely?"

"From what I can see, and from how he is in the classroom, I believe that it would be a good idea to involve the school psychologist, to observe if, as I believe, that being bi-lingual is behind the problem."

"How come it's never been a problem before then?" Jack's staring directly at her now, "He's lived here since he was two years old and has only been to Italian schools, never private English ones, besides, his Italian is probably better than mine!"

"Are there any other problems at home that I should know about? That you think could be upsetting Simon?"

Checking in with me again, I shrug and answer myself, in my broken language. "I don't think so, he is always happy at home. And we are all fine." That was the truth at this point in time at least.

The teacher looked from me to Jack, seemingly satisfied with my poor attempt at the country's language as confirmation of her diagnosis to our son's dilemma.

"Well then. I will arrange for the doctor to observe Simon in class and at breaktimes and we shall see. Do I have your agreement?"

"Yes, I suppose so." Is Jack's reply.

It takes about a month for the next meeting to be arranged between the three of us and the expert. Back in the same closet, this time more claustrophobic with four of us sharing the air.

I feel like a naughty student brought before the headmaster and I'm starting to perspire. Jack on the other hand is not in the least bit amused.

"So, did you find that bilingualism is not the problem then?"

The small, dark haired woman, next to the teacher blinked behind red-framed glasses and went through her findings, giving nothing away with her expression, apart from the occasional glance to her colleague. When she speaks her tone is forceful and monotone. "It certainly doesn't seem to be the issue..."

"Ah ha!" Jack can't contain himself.

"However, the report I've sent you does describe the lack of interactivity on Simon's part with his companions. He tends to hold back from joint games or class groupwork and chooses only a few classmates to talk to. The only class he is forthcoming in is, obviously, English."

"He has said to me that he only likes three other children in the class. Is that really so abnormal? I never liked any of them in my class for two years. They were a right bunch of idiots." This is Jack's forensic analysis, delivered in a tight-lipped way.

"It is something that we need to keep watching. I will be coming back in the spring term to reassess the situation."

We agree on another date and have to be content with prising information from our boy, day after day, to try and get him to open up more about his school life with us. It's like squeezing water from a stone. Our usual conversation goes something like this:

"Did you have a good day, Simon?"

"Yes."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Anything unusual happen?"

"No."

"Anyone say or do anything strange?"

"No."

"Is there anything you want to talk to me about?"

"No."

Teacher's meetings aren't the only torment we have to regularly go through. The most time consuming and by far the most painful is the dreaded condominium apartment owner's meeting.

I'm waiting for one to start now, with Angelica keeping me company, after her shift one dark October evening. As per usual the meeting is held in a neutral location. This time in Paola's café, at the acceptable hour (to all but me) of 21.30. By this time of the evening my brain is running on empty after the workday and family necessities. Everyone else in the café is fully revved up and energetic to bursting point and I think I'm beginning to understand why.

Espresso.

This coffee is a constant talking point between my red-headed lady friend and I, and we are drinking and discussing it once again while we wait for the late arrivals.

"It's not just coffee though..." Angelica is explaining. "It's part of the social system. You have to be ready to meet your colleagues at work around the coffee machine at least three times a day, or they think you are unsociable."

"But what if I don't like the stuff? Or I only want to drink one a day rather than twenty-five? Am I going to be shunted away from the important chatter that's being done over coffee?"

"It's likely that you will be the last person to know what's really happening in a company, or even hospital department, if you stay away from coffee breaks."

"That's ridiculous. You mean to tell me that you have to be caffeined up to the eyeballs to get ahead in a job? I don't believe it, Angie."

"It's true." She's laughing at my ignorance now. "And why do you think Italians drive the way we do?"

"Coffee."

"Coffee. Exactly. You boring old tea drinkers carefully go along the road - yawn. Steady away old boy - yawn. Oh, but look out! Who's this fast red ferrari man? Yes, he's fully charged, coffee taken. And guess what? You're overtaken. Ha ha ha!"

"You're bonkers, Angie."

I see that the administrator has arrived, he takes off his jacket in the doorway and brushes the autumn leaves from his flat cap, while shuffling his shoes clean on the doormat.

"Buona sera tutti."

I say my goodbyes to Angie and order myself a large measure of brandy in preparation for the coming ordeal.

Damn you, Jack.

I'd got out of coming to the last two meetings by agreeing to cook dinner for a whole month and do all the washing up, as a suitable agreed payment for him accepting to go through it once more than our previously agreed turn-taking.

Under the electric lights, we owners rearrange the square bar tables, creating a barrier of seats opposite the administrator and his secretary, who has also finally arrived, seated with their backs to the bar, and us conveniently within reach of the door.

It always reminds me of a very famous scene from a Fantozzi film, basically the comedian is Italy's answer to Benny Hill, it's a sketch of a large condominium meeting. As the neighbours meet at the entrance to the meeting, they smile, shake hands, kiss cheeks, enquire as to the health of relatives ect, ect. Then the door shuts behind them and battle helmets and knuckle dusters are put on, the congenial people transformed in an instant into a roar of fighting and cursing animals.

That's pretty similar to the reality, without the exaggerated violence of course, well, not this evening at least.

The first floor apartment owner kicks things off. "I want to talk about the parking."

Second floor apartment speaks up; "Not that old chestnut again? Can we move straight to something important please, Aldo."

Aldo is the 'head' of our building's residents, a thankless job that is only taken on and appreciated by a naturally nosy neighbour.

"Ok, thank you, Carlo. Administrator, can you put up a sign for the front door with 'please do not let your dog piss here' written on it?"

Aldo glares in my direction. "Some people do not care where they take their dogs, especially foreigners."

Shaking my head, fortified by the brandy, I say a bit too loudly; "It is not my dog Aldo! Possibly the hundreds of Milanese who bring their dogs up here in the evenings."

Rumbles of agreement comfort my jangled nerves.

"Moving on..." Carlo always attempts to keep us all on track, probably so he can get back to watching sports on his tv once more. "What's happening with the roof repairs? When do we have to pay for that?"

Mumbles of discontent.

"I still want to get the parking assigned to each apartment." Aldo from the first floor is off again. "It's not fair that I have to park down the hill, when there's a perfectly good place full of boxes and rubbish, just needs to be..."

"It's mine."

This is Pietro. He's a retired builder and still works on the side to keep himself busy and out of the way of his constantly nagging wife. He owns the attic apartment.

"Since when do you use it?" Aldo says, you can tell they have a history.

"Since I need it to put the materials I bought to renovate upstairs."

Pietro is a big, big, man. He spills out over his wooden seat, beer in hand, clothes forever dirty with dust and paint. "You can give me a hand with it if you're in such a hurry, Aldo."

Aldo snorts, hands waving incessantly; "Oh, come on, Pietro, we all know you'll never get it finished, it's an excuse to get more tax back from the government. We know what you're all about."

"How can you say that?" Pietro is on his feet, waving hands back at Aldo. "I'm not the one who never pays his bills on time. You said that next time you...."

And so it continues. I finish my drink, making sure not to be brought into any of the 'discussions' and wait for the reasonable amount of time to pass before I can make my escape.

********

Time passes and it's the prettiest season of all once more. Spring. Blossom is bursting on trees and bushes, daffodils nodding happily in the fresh breeze and I am washing the windows of the shop from the street.

A regular customer, a lovely old local lady, is browsing contentedly in the shop, going through the new arrival of silk scarves behind the window display. Not a likely candidate for shoplifting, so she's happy to look unaided while she directs me to finish my job.

I bob down to get the sponge soapy and wet again, then stand back up to find a man standing beside me. He looks at my reflection in the sparkling window. I look back at him through his reflection. Neither of us turn to face the other in reality.

It's crazy customer guy.

The James Bond double, growls like a dog for a moment. Then he puts on that maniacal theatre smile and speaks so quietly that I have to strain to hear him, even as close beside him as I am.

"Apples and pears, golden ones are the best, love."

He goes away, taking his reflection with him and I'm left looking into the shop at my nice customer.

I thought that the poor lady would obviously be confused. Instead she's smiling and nodding her head.

I mouth my words silently through the glass, "Do you know him?"

She nods in response.

"Who is he?"

The old lady mouths her reply back to me; "English teacher at high school."