Flags

So it's that time again, and musicans and singers (maybe in a loose sense of the word) from the far flung corners of Europe, and beyond gather for the Eurovision Song Contest. This year the high campery and outrageous costumes are in Oslo. I caught the end of the first semi finals for the contest, and as I'd not seen all the acts can't comment on the songs, however the three girls whose dresses suddenly grew butterfly wings freaked me out. I did like the Icelandic entry, and chuckled wondering if she'd get home if the volcanisc ash cloud drifted over Norway.

One thing that struck me as a positive image was the audience and the acts, who were all proud to wave their country's flag. It was nice to see Estonian flags held aloft alongside Greek and Belgian in a sea of unity. But the same sadly cannot be said for the World Cup. We've already had reports of people complaining that the English flag is offensive. The police are actively asking people not to fly their country's flag for fear of upsetting immigrants to the country. I find the idea of flag flying being offensive as political tosh. This is surely a new phenomenon possibly dreamed up by some politically correct, cardigan wearing, tree hugger from Salisbury.

I'm sure if I walked down the streets of Paris and saw the French flag I'd not be offended by it, The same would go for flags from Pakistan, Romania, Canada and any other country. If I chose to move in another country I'd accept their flag as part of my new home, not an object designed to remind me of my previous home. I am moving to live in Italy, and when I do I shall not be popping over to my neighbours house to ask them at fiesta time to remove their green, white and red flag because it offends me, in fact I'll fly my own Italian flag and join in the spirit of things.

Odd week

It's been an odd week this week. Monday I woke up with the start of a sore throat, and the pain got gradually worse as the day progressed. I arrived at the office plug in trusty iPod and Placebo came on first with 'Plasticine'. The day progressed with nothing of great importance happening and as I was about to lock up and go home, Placebo shuffled forward again, this time with 'Protege Moi'.

The drive home was interesting, as weaving in and out of the traffic was a man in his twenties on a bicycle, drinking a can of Strongbow cider. I was worried when he swerved in front of me, nearly scraping the bonnet of my trusty, albeit already scratched and dented van. It's annoying though, he wont have any insurance and could cause just as much carnage as a car driver could.

Tuesday was awful, the illness was blazing like a vengeful wife. My head felt like it was being squeezed, my throat was swollen and burned, and the aches that wracked my body felt like tiny jaws taking a bite out of the skin that didn't feel as it it fitted me. I didn't half feel odd. I tried to go to work and lasted about an hour before going home and straight back to bed.

I feel better after a few hours, and make my way out to help Liz with her Weight Watchers class. On the way home Timbaland plays 'Ease Off The Liquour' from the Shock Value ii album, as I pull up at the local supermarket. I'm getting out of my car when a blue Fiat shoots past and pulls up in the disabled space outside the door. two Pakistani women get out chatting loudly, and walk into the store. They're obviously not in need of the space. Why do people do this, I often wish I had a pocketful of stickers that read - You have a disabled persons space, do you also want their disability? Wednesday very little happens, we rattle around the office and the fit bloke from another unit comes over to buy a desk from us. Thursday we wake up and it's sunny and warm. In fact it's so warm I drive to work without a jacket and with the car windows open. The iPod must know it's a nice day as I set off because it randomly selects sunny tunes, the first being The Bee Gee's, 'Stayin' Alive' which is then followed by Anita Ward's disco classic, 'Ring My Bell' and as I pull into the car park , the late, great Kirsty MacColl sings 'Us Amazonians'. It's Rachel's birthday tomorrow, so we had a little party at the local KFC to celebrate, we had to wear hats and sit in the party booth. Rachel had the princesses tiara, Grace had the Queen's head-dress, Lyndon was the jester and I opted for the cowboy hat, so as you can guess there was no theme. we're like a dyslexic Village People..... C. Y. A. M. I drive to the weekly drama classes with our gifted and talented kids from 'The Action Project', it's still warm and as Soft Cell play 'The Girl With The Patent Leather Face' I devise activities that they can do without running around and getting all hot and bothered. At the end of the session I'm chatting to one of our lads about the forthcoming weekly workshop. I tell him the weeks work is all about murder and mayhem. We're doing a murder mystery all in verse and Macbeth. He then comes up with agenius idea of underscoring the play with the themes from horror movies. Out of the mouths of babes eh?

Friday brings another sunny morning, I put my tomato plants out in the garden for a bask in the warmth; they'll be ready for potting on and putting in the greenhouse this weekend. The drive into the office is a nightmare, what's normally a 10-15 minute jouirney takes me 50 minutes today. Looks like the good weather's brought everyone out. Still trusty iPod is still blasting sunny tunes, I leave home as Paolo Nuttini sings, 'Pencil Full Of Lead' and pull into the car park as Tina Turner blasts out 'It's Only Love', the 1985 duet with Bryan Adams. I'm not in the mood for being messed around today, some teachers seem to think they can book things then just disappear into the ether. One was so desperate for a workshop today, she kept calling and said asking questions, I bent over backwards to help her and when I try to get her to confirm she doesn't return my calls. So first job of the day is a call to the school to complain about her rudeness. I put myself out for her and she didn't have the courtesy to say I've changed my mind or anything. Second moan is a teacher that has booked a show previously only to ring a day before the actors are due to visit and change the date. She's done this twice so now I'm on to her, she's got to pay up front before we'll give her a third date. I'll post this weeks blog now, as Kelly Rowland sings 'Past 12' from her debut solo album 'Simply Deep'. Kelly was always my favourite from Destiny's Child.

Mistaken Identity, Kindness and the Scrap Theives

11-05-10 – I never really thought about how intrinsically English I can be at times, but I guess it’s inherent in all of us to some degree. The reason I mention it is because of an incident that occurred today. I was out walking across a car park when a man came over to me and said “Hey up, John.” Now this is my point about being English, we don’t like to tell people when they are making a mistake, or put another way, if someone gets our name wrong, we just smile and don’t like making them feel stupid by correcting them. So this bloke says, “Hey up, John.” I respond by saying, “Sorry?” he says, “How’ve you been?” I answer honestly that I’ve been okay. He then asks me about the house sale. Now he obviously knows me; not too well as my name’s not John. So I smile thinking it must be my fault, I have forgotten who he is. Brief intercourse is over and he says, “See ya John,” and leaves. I swear I have no recollection of ever seeing the man before in my life. And I don’t think I look remotely like a John.

I drive off to Weight Watchers, to my see my girls; Lady Gaga is on the iPod, ‘Telephone’ with Beyoncé plays. It’s a remix from the recently released remix album. I do like Lady Gaga, she’s become an international phenomenon because of clever marketing. She knows that if she dresses in a bizarre fashion the press will be interested. Is she the new Madonna? Maybe, maybe not, but in my opinion is more entertaining.

So we have a new PM, David Cameron is now the UK’s prime minister, with the proposed cuts to school budgets, that doesn’t bode well for my business. Oh well I think at least he’s better looking than Gordon Brown, and that Nick Clegg, well he can come to my house anytime to canvass my opinion.

12-05-10 – I am woken up today by the sound of a squeegee being dragged across the bedroom window, it’s the window cleaner. Bugger me, he’s early I think as I drag myself from under the duvet. I think I’m safe as he’s doing the bedroom window so I step onto the landing, stark naked only to see him at the window. “Morning,” he mouths behind the glass, I smile back and nip back into the bedroom.

I drive to work as Fabri Fibra, the Italian rapper shuffles onto the iPod with ‘Non C’è Tempo’. I haven’t a clue what he’s saying, I catch the phrase Dolce and Gabbana, but I like to hear the rolling sound he makes as he spits out words at break-neck speed. In the office I look out of the window across at the patch of wasteland at the back. Three men, obviously up to no good walk across the patch of scruffy land and proceed to collect metal from the empty buildings. “Ooh,” I say to Rachel, “Look at these three here stealing scrap metal.” We watch them for a while wondering if they should be there, there’s a chubby one in a high vis vest and two gangly ones in joggers and hoodies. We decided they’re thieves and do our civil duty and call the police. I have a wander around the block and it turns out, said thieves are rag and bone men, helping themselves. I watch as two officers arrive and I leave them to it. I then spend the day putting together a new website for a new business idea I’ve had.

Good news day today, the house we love in Italy is a step closer to being ours, as the seller and myself have agreed a price. Watch this space.

13-05-10 – A day of meetings today, first one with a business advisory service, as I have to make a decision about the theatre company. The second one is with a barrister, about a legacy left in a will. I drive to the first meeting with iPod plugged in, Tilly and the Wall play, ‘Dust Me Off’. I’m not really listening as there are a hundred questions racing around my head. What will I do if I close the theatre?

My writing assignment still remains unwritten, I have done all the research and preparation, just need to get my finger out and write the bugger. That said I need to get some more work done on my novel, where does time go?

I have started to pack some things ready for the house move, CD’s are packed; in alphabetical order of course, but there’s so much more to moving house than just packing. We have so much stuff that we have to get rid of as there’s no room at the new house, as we’ve got a full set of brand new furniture coming from the insurance. What will we do with our stuff?

As I write this Siouxsie and the Banshee’s play ‘Preacher Man’ and I just realise that today’s entries I’ve written all end with pointless questions. So I guess it’s best to leave it there for today, to prevent any more appearing.

14-05-10 – Today I made an important decision. I have decided to close down my Theatre in Education business. Due to cutbacks in school budgets, it’s harder to get enough shows to make a tour viable. Schools want the service but say they just can’t afford to bring theatre into the school anymore. Most similar companies closed when the government cancelled year 9 sat’s, but we’ve soldiered on. Now it’s time to end it. To be honest I’m sick of dealing with actors, with the exception of some really nice ones we’ve worked with the majority are a pain in the ass. The last team we had were lovely people, but the schools didn’t think they were very professional, and we’ve had some poor reports about their behaviour. We shall still continue with our children’s’ acting lessons and weekly workshops.

I have been putting together a new business venture, which I’ll mention when all is finalised, but for now in the office Rachel is photographing everything to sell as much as we can on e-bay. The iPod is playing ‘Castaways’ by Toyah, from her third studio album, The Changeling.

15-05-10 – A lovely sunny Saturday, I nip up to the allotment in the morning to pick some rhubarb for my friend Jayne. Then after a trip to the shops, I chill out making soup (courgette and mint) and cannelloni for dinner later. Songs are shuffling along as I cook; ‘Rydeen’ from the Yellow Magic Orchestra follows ‘Weathered Wall’ by David Sylvian. I sit down to write some more towards my latest assignment, but am stuck; I just can’t seem to find the way to say the sentence I’ve reached deadlock with. I decide that I’ll have a bath and read a chapter of the book I’m currently reading, I’m halfway upstairs when the (boy) dog goes mental at the letterbox, as a hand pops a leaflet for the local curry house through the slit. Luckily the hand was removed before a set of sharp Jack Russell gnashers could make contact. The other dog (girl) makes a grab for the leaflet and it tears as she takes her half into the kitchen to rip into shreds, he just looks up me and wags his tail, as if to say. “Look daddy, I got you this.”

The evening is spent drinking (not much actually), chatting and laughing with old friends from school. The jokes aren’t very PC, and the topics can be irreverent at times, but we all enjoy these monthly get-togethers. To be honest, if Jayne didn’t keep on top of it we’d all end up losing touch. The evening ends and we all kiss, hug, and shake hands. Jayne leaves with her bunch of rhubarb, from my allotment. I leave with a promise to deliver some to my sister tomorrow.

16-05-10 – People can be so generous. Today I went to my allotment to plant my potatoes. As they were being dropped into the earth, Harry walks over and says, “Do you want some spinach?” and gives me 10 plants. Then John pops over and gives me 2 paraffin heaters for the greenhouse, 6 young swede and 5 cauliflowers. So I will have more vegetables come harvest time.

The iPod isn’t shuffling today, because yesterday I downloaded ‘The Defamation of Strickland-Banks’ by Plan B. It’s an amazing album, I just cannot stop listening to it, with it’s soul groove, hip-hop fusion. If you’re reading this now, go out and get yourself a copy.

I haven’t checked this edition, so apologies for any punctuation and spelling errors.

Overheard Conversations, Weeds and a Smack in the Face

02-05-10 – Having been away in Italy for the past two weeks I am dreading the state my allotment is in. I decided to get one a few months ago, and was lucky enough to get one with a private group, so it has security. For just £30 a year I inherited a patch left to its own devices. The man who had it before me just left it one day eight months before I took over full of vegetables and never returned. So it was left to me to sort it out. My two reasons for wanting an allotment are firstly to have the space to grow enough fruit and vegetables for home, thus saving the pennies. Secondly, because when I eventually move to Italy, I will want to grow most of the fruit and vegetables we shall be eating out there, as do most Italians. So I saw this as a training exercise. Now I don’t have one of those self sufficiency dreams, I’m not deluded into thinking I can move to Italy and enjoy the ‘Good Life’; besides I don’t know which ‘Good’ I’d be, Tom or Barbara – thinking about it I’m probably more a Margo. I know the challenges of growing will be different as will the produce, but I just wanted to get into the habit of cultivating.

So I arrive at my allotment, Harry who I share the space with has watered my sweet peas in my absence, and they’ll be ready to put out in a week or so. The brambles I cleared have started to come back, and the nicely dug over beds that were lovely patches of brown just two weeks ago, are peppered with tiny green shoots, not produce, but weeds. I set about hoeing between the onions and clearing them from my bed where today I shall be planting my cabbages. As I share the space I don’t usually take my iPod, as it would be rude to ignore Harry, besides he’s a wise old sage when it comes to tips on growing. Harry’s not here so I put on the music and start to wage war on the mares tail. Big Brovaz, comes on with ‘Breaking The Cycle’ I hum along as I continue with the never ending battle to get rid of this persistent weed, Marilyn Manson shuffles into the headphones with ‘Fundamentally Loathsome’, how apt for this back breaking job. 03.05.10 – Bank Holiday Monday. I wake at seven, have a couple of cups of tea and head off to the allotment. It’s not a bad day, there’s a threat of light showers, but that doesn’t concern me, today I want to tackle the brambles that have gone mad in my absence. So with thick gloves on I chop away at the prickly tentacles. No one else is around and the birdsong is lovely to hear. Once the brambles have been satisfactorily cut back I turn my attention to the spot I’m hoping to have my pumpkins. I’m digging it over and putting some slow release plant food into the patch when I hear Mr Have-We-Got and Mrs I-Don’t-Know, arrive. They have the allotment over the hedge from me, and do nothing but argue from the moment they arrive until the time they go home. I gave them their unusual surnames because they’re phrases they habitually use. For example, he’ll say, “Have we got any bin liners?” her response will be, “I don’t know.” This is usually the prelude to an argument. They’ve been on their land for little over five minutes when he asks, “Have we got any string?” she replies, “I don’t know.” To this he says, “Well didn’t you think to bring some?” Her response is, “Why didn’t you bring it?” and that’s if they’re off. I switch my iPod on and block them out. With Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, ’Get Ready For Love’

On my allotment there is the base of an old Victorian brick built greenhouse, sadly a year ago the wooden frame collapsed, so I’ve a large patch of land peppered with broken glass, as the previous renter didn’t bother to remove it. I spend the afternoon sat in the sunshine, sieving soil and picking out glass. It’s a laborious job but I want to put my potatoes in the greenhouse beds, so necessity dictates I get it done. A cheeky little robin joins me, he perches close by watching me with its black little eyes, every time I move away he swoops down and picks up the bugs my digging releases, filling his belly before flying off to watch me from his perch again.

After several hours I head off home, my car is parked next to a playing field where amateur football teams play games. Today three girls, two boys and a red bycycle have invaded the pitch. The boys are kicking a football to each other whilst the three girls try to balance on the bicycle; one on the seat another on the handlebars and the third standing on a pedal, of course they are unsuccessful. I watch when one of the boys kicks the ball to his friend, he misses it and it hits the girl on the handlebars. The boy runs forward to grab his ball as the angry girl jumps off the bike, she picks up a yellow plastic gold club and then proceeds to beat the boy about the body with it. He tries in vain to run away, but she’s so angry she keeps pace with him, whacking him all the way to the gate. Once through the gate he stops and faces her, she hits him with the golf club and he throws his ball at her, then punches her squarely in the face, flooring her. I laugh, thinking she deserved that, and drive away. IPod plugged into the car and Horse singing, ‘Hindsight, It’s a Wonderful Thing.’

04.05.10 – Don’t people say daft things? I was in the local Tesco today, having popped in for a couple of bottles of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo and as I passed the deli counter I overheard a woman ask the assistant for, “Five slices of your nice ham, the one with the orange crumbs on the edges.” Of course how often do you enter a shop and request the assistant serve you with a portion of their horrible produce. It’s like when someone says; “I’d like something really nice for dinner tonight.” Are they inferring that the previous evening they had something horrible? Maybe they rarely have anything nice for dinner, and getting back to Tesco, possibly the customer was really making a statement about their other hams not being so nice?

05.05.10 – I spend the day preparing the first lesson for the children’s acting classes that we have set up. There’s a selection of warm up exercises and then some characterisation work. We have some really talented kids in our 'Action Project’ group and to see them handle Shakespeare is marvellous. Rachel fills in an application for some lottery funding, which hopefully would enable us to offer the project, which runs in school holidays to more kids for free. I drive home via Tesco, more Montepulciano: Where does the wine go to, never seems to last? Overheard conversation 2: I’m stood at the checkout and behind me is a Pakistani gentleman, he’s having a conversation with another man about the forthcoming general election, it goes like this: M1, “Are you voting tomorrow?” M2, “Oh yes of course, you?” M1, “Oh yes but it doesn’t matter who gets in, immigration issues won’t be addressed.” M2, “I know, they’re let far too many bloody foreigners in don’t they.” I laugh inwardly, it’s obvious by their age and accents that neither of them where born in this country. I pay and head off home to make cannelloni for dinner, which I have to say was very nice.

06.05.10 – Election Day comes and with comes drizzle. I trudge off to the polling station at the school around the corner, Martha Wainwright sings ‘Factory’ from her first album, the iPod knocking against my right hip with each stride. I’m in a good mood today I fitted back into my favourite jeans, a pair I bought in Sorrento with impossibly long legs: Italian men are not very tall but all their jeans come with legs made fit for a giraffe, why’s that? I’m having a trendy Italian purple shirt day, topped with the jumper I got in Lanciano two weeks ago, even my pants also from Lanciano are purple – a plum trinity. Overheard conversation 3: I arrive at the school gate and a car pulls up and in front of me, abruptly a car door opens and onto the pavement tumble four senior citizens. I stop to allow the last woman to get out and follow them down the steps into the school playground. The conversation goes like this. SC1, “Look at all the chewing gum on the floor.” SC2, “Disgusting, isn’t it?” SC3, “Yes, it’s the young ones today, no respect.” SC2, “You can say that again, people today have no respect for anything or anyone.” I skirt around the shuffling quartet and walk towards the desk, I’m about to hand over my polling card when Senior Citizen 2 walks over, pushes in front of me and hands her card to the woman at the desk. Respect – it’s a two way street I think, ‘With Respect Comes Responsibility’ a poster on the wall says and for a minute I’m tempted to point it out to the woman, but am unable as the remaining three oldies shove past me to get their ballot papers, without so much of excuse me or sorry.

I have been in contact with the Italian lawyer that we are planning on using to purchase the house in Italy that we like. I have put in an offer and now it’s just a waiting game. Nothing moves quickly in Italy, (except the traffic).

07.05.10 – So we have a hung parliament, no clear winner. The sudden predicted surge in votes/popularity for the Lib Dem’s didn’t materialise. Echo and the Bunnymen seem to be the order of the day; the band has shuffled on the iPod at regular intervals today. They are just finishing with ‘My White Devil‘ from their third album (1983) ‘Porcupine’ as I unplug them lock up the office and head off home. Overheard Conversation 4: I’m walking through the car park when I hear a the following exchange between two young men – YM1, “How did you find out?” YM2, “By talking to odd people in the pub.” I think to myself, just who are these ‘odd’ people, what makes them anomalous, and where is this pub that’s frequented by these peculiar people?

I feel like spaghetti tonight: I could eat the stuff every day; I love it. I put on an apron and start making a tomato sauce. I have to wear an apron now as I have too may shirts with spotted fronts where bubbling sauce has leapt from the pan as I stir it. I’m wearing my favourite Italian jeans and keep tripping over the hems so I decide to do a Germaine Greer and prepare pasta sans clothing. It’s said, she once cooked in the nude, a pasta dish for friends. So I do my tribute to the nation's favourite feminist, in my own inimitable way. 08.05.10 – Well the weekend isn’t very promising, it’s overcast and I’m doing some research for an article that is my latest writing assignment. Sinead O’Connor sings ‘I Am Stretched On Your Grave’ as I wade through names, dates etc. At 11.00 the day brightens slightly and I decide to take the short drive to my allotment, to see if in my absence the weeds have flourished once more. As I step outside it starts to rain, typical. I go back inside and switch on the iPod and go back to my research. ‘Another Lover’ from the original reality TV ‘popstars’, Hear’Say comes on and I make myself a cup of coffee and go back to my research. The sun eventually comes out and I go to the allotment, tackle the never-ending war with the weeds and pick the first of my horticultural bounty. A few stems of tender young rhubarb. With a pan of stewed rhubarb on the stove and a small quantity languishing in the freezer, I set to making some rhubarb and mint jelly, and two jars of the said jelly sit cooling on the window sill as I upload this weeks instalment.

How Do You Capture A Moment?

26.04.10 – It’s a sunny afternoon in Piane d’Archi. The door is open and music spills out onto Via Castello. The iPod is not on random shuffle and is only selecting songs by the Italian singer, Tiziano Ferro. Mio Fratello is playing, the gentle track well suited to the mood on the street. The neighbours have carried chairs outside and are sitting in a circle talking. Every now and then a car travels down the steep strada, and bottoms are hurriedly lifted from seats and chairs pulled back to allow it passage, only to reform the circle once again. Our neighbour, a robust woman with a reddish tint added into her now greying hair, waves at us as we sit beside the front door. “Ciao, come stai?” I call as she walks past; we’ve passed many pleasantries over the past fourteen days, so it’s acceptable to use the informal exchange. “Va bene, grazie. Ciao, ciao.” She calls back over her shoulder as she drags a chair behind her on her way to join the neighbours. With an average age of around fifty-five, they are all traditionally dressed, ladies in black, some with their heads covered by scarves. The men all wear trousers, shirts and jumpers, despite the warmth, two wear jackets. (April is far to early for Italians to consider summer attire).

An elderly chap, well into his eighties I guess, and supported by two walking sticks very slowly walks uphill to join the group. He glances across towards me, I nod my head in greeting, “Sera, sera,” he responds. I toast him with my glass, a gin and tonic – how English. A young novice priest arrives, cassock billowing behind him as he half walks, half skips up the steps. He walks towards our front door, pops his head inside and calls for someone. Our neighbour tells him he has the wrong address; he apologises and skips off next door. One of the men says something that causes the women to cackle like witches. I can assume it’s some remark about the young holy man.

Tutti, the little tabby has appeared and is rolling around at our feet, exposing her belly to the warm sunshine. The song changes to the more upbeat Rosso Relativo, the young priest re-appears and skips off down the steps turning right he heads downhill. Once again the man says something and the women laugh loudly. The aroma of cooking wafts out onto the street, I go into the kitchen where I have a pot of ragu simmering away for dinner: It’s always better to cook twice for a richer flavour. Tiziano now sings Ti Voglio Bene, as I turn the pot off and pour myself another G&T and go back outside.

It’s so peaceful this high up, a gentle breeze occasionally disturbs the warmth and the Majella, icing sugar topped is clear, no hint of mist today. Absent-minded I begin to count the tiles on the roof of the house opposite, I get to fifty-six before I give up, on such a tranquil afternoon, counting is just too much like hard work. Between the two houses opposite is a narrow opening, looking through you can see the valley below, the swathes of poppies that are bloom give the impression that the earth is bleeding. Stitches of borage, eye shadow blue sew their way through the grass. The heady aroma of lilac rides on the warm air and in the distance a battalion of bamboo, tall and slender rattles in the breeze. In the little alley is a blue plastic crate, the sunlight picking out the white lettering. A butterfly dances in the cool air between the two properties before landing on the crate, giving the blue box some majesty. Ants, oblivious to our leisurely afternoon go about their business, little black beads rushing about. The song changes again, now it’s Il Sole e Per Tutti.

The feral friend, mews expecting food, I hold out my hand and she sniffs at my fingers, then with the trust you can only get from an animal she allows me to stroke her. She purrs, a deep guttural vibration. Then just to make sure we know she’s wild and in control, she walks away, tail held erect. The cat is the epitome of Abruzzo, in places it’s untamed and uninviting, then without warning it’s calm and serene, just a hint of birdsong on a lilac ether. Life on via Castello is generally slow, the steep incline of the road dictating the pace. There has to be something about spending every day walking up such an abrupt gradient that has health benefits. The exercise alone must account for the longevity of its residents. Our octogenarian, leaves the group and carefully balanced on his sticks heads downhill, “Sera,” he calls to me as he passes. To my right is the garden, I look through the gaps in the gates ironwork and can see two butterflies dancing. An ignored patch of land beside the garden has that unordered look that only nature can craft. Lazy grass, lanky green blades protest as the breeze forces it to move. Three new people join us, drawn I think by the music, three ladies that look like they could be sisters. I don’t think they are but they are so alike, but I think that’s a result of a tight community and tradition. One of the woman smiles at me, a wide, broad open-mouthed grin, I smile back and she waves, then wiggles her hips to Tiziano who is now singing Stop, Dimentica. I imagine the others must think her actions improper, but she obviously doesn’t care, and as one of her friend tuts, she laughs. I say hello, she responds, saying something in dialect that I cannot understand. It would be futile to try to have a conversation with my pidgin Italian. We don’t need words, not this afternoon.

This is not a typical afternoon on via Castello, but a moment we have been privileged to be a part of. So how do you capture a moment like this? You can’t, you just have to be able to recognise it when it happens.