Being a Holidaymaker and a Matchstick Man

Sunday 11 September 2011 –  Today I have breakfast with Gary Puckett and the Union Gap playing that 1968 classic, ‘Young Girl’. I wash the dishes used, and pack a bag for the beach. Today I’m in holidaymaker mode. Gloria and Pete join me and we drive to Le Morge. We slip straight into a parking space, and after checking that no one has parking tickets in their windscreens, I assume the parking is free now August has passed.

There’s still quite a few people on the beach, but it’s not as crowded as it will have been for the last four weeks. We find a spot and set up camp. I can’t resist the lure of the sea and within minutes I’m in the warm waters off the shoreline. I walk out and really enjoy the contrast of warm water that is replaced with swirls of colder water the further out I go.

The three of us spend the morning dividing our time between, sunbathing and swimming. At lunchtime we pop into the cafe and order pizza and a bowl of chips, and of course a beer. We pay and wait, and wait, and wait, and wait, and..you get the idea. I go up to ask where our food is and the boy that served us gets a clip around the ear, he’s forgotten to tell the kitchen Eventually we get our pizza, and a pathetic portion of tepid – almost cold chips. But our spirits are no dampened.

Back on the beach, a man in white speedos walks along the sands, I laugh as Pete says the man could be like George Michael in the Wham video, ‘Club Tropicana.’ I point out a rather rotund gentleman, also in speedos, but he’s got quite a large rear, so the logo on his rear reads: SPEEEEEEEDOOOOOOS.

I pop back into the sea for a final swim; I love swimming in the sea. When I return, Pete says I’m like a swan vesta, not because of my slender frame, but because my body is white and my head is red, like a match.

Don’t Touch the Fruit and the Bullying Insect

Friday 09.09.2011 – The alarm rings and rouses me. The only day I use the darned thing is Friday, so I get up in time to meet Christine at the market in Casoli. I drink my morning cuppa as Usher sings ‘Can U Handle It?’ – Yes is my response, it’s only a mug of Yorkshire tea.

It’s hot again, and I find myself acting like a local, without realising. I walk up the stairs on the shady side, and when at the market stay on the right hand side under the stall awnings. We stop and chat to our friend Whispering Mick. We decide to get some veg from a store, and are promptly choosing some mushrooms. The stall holder is frantic and comes over with plastic bags for us to put them in to. It’s only after he’s managed to serve us that we notice the sign, which reads; DO NOT TOUCH ANY OF THE MERCHANDISE------Oops.

Mid morning sees me send a pitch to the Observer magazine, as I’m doing this Cherry Ghost play ‘Kissing Strangers’, and I’m being pestered by a fly. It keeps dive bombing me, it’s like being harassed by a tiny bully. I grab the fly spray and take up position; it’s like a scene from ‘Predator’. I’m armed with killer spray, standing stationary waiting for the flying menace. I spot it, but it stays out of aerosol distance. I move towards the fly, it moves away, until for five minutes I’m chasing this insect around the room like a complete loon. Needless to say I gave up in the end, and leave the door open, it flies out eventually. But only after one last fly past in defiance – I hate bullies.

Later, I take the coast road and pick up my friends Gloria and Pete at the airport. (I like the newly opened arrivals hall.) We get back have a few drinks and before you know it the time reads 02.00. Time for bed methinks. I take the glasses into the kitchen, press stop on the iPod, and the Boomtown Rats are silenced mid ‘Mary of the 4th Form’.

Condoms and Clattering

Thursday 8 September 2011 – Surprise, surprise, it’s hot and sunny once more; where this promised rain is I don’t know, even the locals are beginning to complain. Now it might seem a bit remiss to be moaning about hot sunny weather, when it’s occurring in a country I’ve chosen to come and live in, but it’s not like a two week holiday. When you’re on holiday, you sip cocktails by the pool, lie in the sun for a little, swim in the sea etc. Okay I can do all these things here, but if I did I’d never get any work done. And today’s job is my laundry, so with sheets, pillowcases and my white ‘Primark’ trousers, sloshing in the washer, I make my breakfast. (Yes I own a pair of white trousers)

Breakfast dishes washed up and Tears For Fears playing ‘Broken’, I set about looking at which features I shall be pitching today. I opt for one about choosing the right size condom, for Attitude magazine. The more I look into it, more I realise I know very little about what makes and sizes of condoms are out there.

Suddenly I hear a terrible clattering sound coming from the utility room, I rush to find that it’s coming from the washer – first thought is, ‘Oh hell, I’ve broken the washer’. The spin cycle stops, and the sound stops with it. I breathe again, then as the spinning starts again, what sounds like crunching cogs and a mad monkey with a tin can full of peanuts fills the room. I close the door and return to my e-mail account and press send, hoping the editor likes the pitch. But, no. I get it returned saying undeliverable, I check the address, that’s correct, so I try again. No joy, so after a failed third attempt, I send it to the sub editor. The clattering from the washing machine isn’t helping my now fraught nerves.

I send a quick e-mail to Max, he says there’s no problem at the magazine, so can I send it to him, I try and once again nothing happens, I get a failed delivery message. I give up and go, with trepidation to empty the washing machine. I pull the laundry from within, only to discover lots of coins inside the drum. Turns out this numpty, left a pocket full of euro’s in his trouser pocket. Relief.

Sheets hanging in the stillness of a hot midday sun, I return to my laptop, set up the e-mail once more, press send and, hey presto, (Now there’s a saying – wonder where it came from?) the electronic letter is delivered – technology, huh!

How a Simple Vowel Could Get You into Trouble

Wednesday 7 September 2011 – Today has had an ‘Eighties’ edge to it, I think my iPod is having retro-day, it started with Spandau Ballet and ‘Lifeline’ as I drank my morning cuppa, then came King, with ‘Love and Pride’ and as I gave Benito his breakfast we had ‘Oblivious’ by Aztec Camera.

It takes four loads to get all the used laundry downstairs washed, the thankful thing is that it literally takes minutes out on the line to dry in this heat. I spend the afternoon sweeping floors and cleaning the bathroom with music shuffling in the background.

In the evening I meet Chris at the Borgo, and we have a couple of beers, we don’t plan on making a night of it, just have a little break in the coolness of the evening. Now just as we are about to leave, Maria shows up, grabs a seat and sits with us. We chat for a while, and I tell her my bed is calling me. Now I have been known to crack the odd joke in my time, but I’m confused by what has Maria in stitches, maybe it’s the crossover into Italian that makes it funny? Perplexed, I rise and say good bye, Maria hugs me and gives me a rather enthusiastic kiss on the cheek, well actually several kisses in rapid succession.

I drive home, check my e-mails, pour myself a glass of wine and turn on the iPod, ‘Ice Machine’ by Depeche Mode plays, when it hits me. – Wallop! A great big ball of realisation hurtles towards me, Of course because I said chiamata when I spoke to Maria, what I actually told her was, “ My bed is calling you.”-------Oops.

Aftermath

Tuesday 6 September 2011 – I venture into the apartment and am welcomed by the aftermath of the guests recent stay. The living room is okay, they’ve reassembled the sofa, and taken up the bed sheets off the floor. The kitchen however is a complete mess, the sink is overflowing with what can only be described as every single piece of crockery in the apartment. Food is mixed in with this mêlée of pots and pans, drink cartons have been drained then tossed onto the work surface.

The bin is overflowing, and there’s a mountain of empty plastic bottles; I suspect they never once took a walk up to the bin outside. I pick up all the towels that have been left on the bathroom floor, strip the beds and pile all the laundry in the main bedroom.

If I’m going to tackle this I need music, I collect all the rubbish and take it up the lane to the communal bin, grab my iPod and as ‘21 Days’ by Dave Gahan plays, I empty the fridge, which is filthy – spilled orange has not been mopped up, and the uncovered food smells bad. After another trip to the bin in the lane I start washing the dishes.

The act of washing up finishes after one and a half hours, and five fresh bowls of water. That’s enough for today, I think I’ve deserved a glass of something fizzy, and I don’t mean water.

Yes, Yes, Yes and the Public Convenience

Monday 5 September 2011 – I wake at 05.00 and hear suitcases being wheeled along the lane, the guests downstairs gun their cars engine and I hear them drive away, en route to Rome.

Today I have breakfast  listening to a new barking dog. This morning the ‘hello’ dog is replaced by one that sounds like it’s doing a Meg Ryan impression, its bark sounds like, ‘Yes, Yes, Yes’.

Bauhaus play ‘The Man with X-Ray Eyes’ as I sort out what magazines I shall be pitching features to, I downloaded an all singing all dancing PC planner, so I can keep track of who I’ve e-mailed, and when I need to chase them for answers. Can’t believe I’m getting organised.

I pop into Casoli and have dinner with Chris, before leaving with yet another bag of goodies from her house clearance. I walk down to the car park near the Borgo and I get a sharp pain, that tells me all is not well in my gut. – Now before I continue, I think I have learned a valuable lesson when it comes to defrosting meat in Italy. That lesson is don’t leave it out to defrost. The chicken I defrosted yesterday was warm when I went to cook it a few hours later. – To get back to my rather unpleasant story, I dropped off the goodies in my car, and grabbed the loo roll that was in the car door, and headed up the steps to the public conveniences I’ve often walked past.

I went inside and discovered it was one of those continental, stand, stoop, squat ones. By now the rumblings in my gut are loud enough for the whole town to hear, and all I’m thinking is ‘how the bloody hell do you do this’. Urgency was of the essence so it’s shorts off, and go for it – keeping shoes well clear. Suffice to say I must have looked very undignified, but it served a purpose, and made me feel so much better.

Apologies to all for this poo posting.

We is in the Borgo Hood, Innit

Sunday 4 September 2011 -  Today I get confirmation of the dates I need, to go back to the UK to finish a job I’m under contract to complete. I really don’t want to go back, even though a touch of rain and wind would be very welcome at the moment. I do very little today, of course I listen to music; as usual; as I type this Kate Nash is singing ‘Skeleton song’.

In the afternoon my friend Adam calls me on Skype and we have a chat, then David calls me with his news, and after a shower I head off the 5.5 miles to Casoli for beers with Christine.

The bar is full of young men; all dressed in shorts and t-shirts, they are sat at the tables playing cards. Behind us is a 20 something who is always here; he looks like he could be Freddie Mercury’s love-child, and he’s the widest mouth I’ve ever seen on another human being. The fact that it’s edged by immaculately trimmed facial hair just emphasis it’s size. (The trimmed beard makes him look like a singing minstrel in reverse). Some one cracks a joke, he laughs and I’m certain the waitress, Simona could set up another table and four chairs in there.

It’s almost 7.30pm, the young lads all leave en-masse, leaving me and Christine alone; we know we wont be alone for long, this is Italy and quite a lot of what happens follows a certain pattern. Simona walks over to our table, pops two bowls of nibbles before us and takes away the two empty Nastro bottles.

At 8.30 the lads come back, this time they’ve all changed their clothes, t-shirts are replaced by smart shirts and shorts by jeans: Freddie’s love-child has even changed his watch. What are they all dressed up for you ask – I’ll tell you – To play cards, yes play cards. Exactly as before but this time without a baseball cap in sight.

We see Maria, she joins us and before long we’re laughing and joking with her, albeit in pigeon Italian. The bar is lively, the boys playing cards are laughing too, as is the couple in the corner, how lovely it is to be a part of a small but happy community. Only one thing sullies our evening, for the very first time we’ve not seen the silver stalker; Christine is quite worried, I think he’s broken into her place and as we drink beer he’s rifling her knicker drawer for a trophy.

Halfway Through

Saturday 3 September 2011 – I eat breakfast with the fan on. The rain that the weather people keep predicting fails to appear. There are a few lazy clouds in the sky, where the past weeks they’ve been non existent, but there’s no breeze; nothing moves, even this early in the day next door’s cats are sleeping in the shade.

I wash the dishes up, and turn off the iPod as Basia finishes singing ‘Time and Tide’, and start to finish off the work I started yesterday. I’m feeling motivated today and three hours later it’s completed. I put it to one side and switch on the iPod once again, and as Professor Green launches into ‘City of Gold’, I begin a few hours of mindless internet activity.

At 5 o’clock I double check my assignment, correct a few errors, and hit the send button and it’s on its way to my tutor. That’s my cue to open a bottle of fizz, a solitary celebration, but I feel good.

I am now halfway through my writing course.

Simple Pleasures

Friday 2 September 2011 – I wake up in agony today, my back really aches, and It hurts getting out of bed. Now this isn’t an affliction I normally suffer from, so I assume I’ve slept in a funny position. I hobble into the living room, switch on the iPod, press shuffle and first song of the day is the 1978 top ten Johnny Mathis, Deniece Williams duet, ‘Too Much, Too Little, Too Late’.

I check my e-mails, and my tutor has returned my latest assignment with an ‘A’ and superb comments, I just wish I could get more magazine editors to take notice, but hey, perseverance they say will pay off.

I turn off the iPod, stopping Meatloaf telling anyone who’ll listen that Cher’s a ‘Dead Ringer For love’. I start work on another module of my course, completion of this one will mean I’m halfway through. I have to come up with a non-fiction book idea, and put together all the components for a sales pitch; synopsis, chapters, proposed length etc. I think a bottle of fizz is in the offing when I cross that halfway point.

In the evening, it’s beers at the Borgo with Chris, I ask her if she’s seen her silver surfer today, and as the words are let loose he appears around the corner. No one else in the bar can understand why the two English folks have burst into spontaneous laughter. We’ve started to be accepted by the locals, more and more say hello, especially those in their early twenties. Maria drops by and we chat, she’s becoming more tactile each time we see her, and Chris laughs, saying she’s got a new dress on just for me.

It’s very atmospheric later in the evening, as darkness covers the town, the streets are lit by ancient looking streetlights, I take a couple of photographs, sadly they cannot truly catch the mood.

At the end of the evening I walk back to my car slowly, just absorbing everything around me, A family passing on their way home bid me good night, I return the greeting, before driving home. After parking the car, I take a slow stroll down the lane in the darkness, listening to the sounds of nature all around; a thought pops into my head, and it’s – I love my life.

Pepsi, Pasta and Phantom Phone Calls

Thursday 1 September 2011 – So September is upon us, and to welcome me into the new month is my ringtone. My telephone has rung four times today with a number I don’t know, I answer and there’s some indiscernible noises on the line before it goes dead.The only indication of who my caller is, is that the screen reads, – Northern Los Angeles Area, – The only person I know out there is my Italian friend Paolo, but I can’t see why he’d call, he usually sends e-mails. It rings for the fifth time as Scouting For Girls play their hidden track off the first album, ‘Michaela Strachan’, Once again the connection is bad and the line goes dead.

I take Chris to Eurospin so she can do her shopping, and on the way back we stop off at the Borgo for a well deserved cold drink. Now in the Pepsi – Coke debate, people who know me personally know I prefer Pepsi to its rival; and diet Pepsi is my preference. There’s only one shop I’ve found that sells cans of my choice, but at the bar they sell Pepsi with lemon, which on a hot day like today is very welcoming, so much so that I tend to have two cans.

As Chris is getting ready to move back to the UK, I leave with a trolley on wheels laden with odds and ends she doesn’t want, everything from a torch to a shower head, and cans of beer and a tub of Bolognese. Back home and as Marc Almond sings the infectious ‘Jacky’, pasta boils and the Bolognese, that tastes darn fine, is heated up and presto I have lunch – albeit at 3pm. As usual I’ve a little pasta over, so it’s put outside for the cats, who wolf the stuff down.

I decide on a evening in with a DVD, and watch Shaun of the Dead, which to be honest is better second time around – or am I starved for entertainment? My phone rings again, it’s my phantom caller from LA. Three more attempts to connect with me are made, before fed up of hearing my Dynasty ringtone, I switch it off, and torture myself with a truly dreadful film called ‘Brotherhood of Justice’, starring a very young Keanu Reeves and Keifer Sutherland.

Olive Wi-Fi and the Satellite Expert

Wednesday 31 August 2011 – Today begins really well, ‘Bones’ by Editors plays, Tom Smith’s distinctive voice fills the living room with dark broodiness; that’s an amalgamation of moody and brooding. There’s a slight breeze bringing with it a welcoming coolness,and I enjoy a nice cup of good old strong English tea. I even fashion myself; as best I can with Italian ingredients, an English breakfast. I am about to sit down to eat when I hear my name being called, it’s the guests from downstairs.

I resist the temptation to say, “Have you ever thought of knocking on the door?” and smile nicely. He’s come to tell me he’s not happy as there was dirt under the sofa – why he’s looking under the sofa I don’t know? He also says he’s seen two scorpions and there’s been some little ants that have come into the house. I try to explain that we’re in rural Italy and if you choose to live here you must accept the local wild things. I give him some ant powder, he looks at it, wrinkles his nose, then says, “This is toxic,” Oh how I so wanted to make a flippant Britney Spears remark, I was restrained and just replied, “Yes it is, kills them stone dead.”

His next remark is, “I’m finding it difficult to find Wi-Fi hotspots out and about, once more I restrain myself from reiterating the fact that this is rural Italy: I don’t think the old guy who comes over on his tractor has much use for a wireless iPad while he’s tending his olive trees, but you never know. Oh and he can’t get the satellite decoder to work, and he’s apparently highly qualified in all matters technical regarding these type of systems.

They guests leave and I settle down to doing some work, I break for lunch and then notice my workstation has an Italian feel to it – how quickly we adapt to new practices. I drink the whole pot of coffee, then go down to water the plants in the bases of the gazebo, (for ‘water the plants’ please read – have a nosey through the windows). The place is a mess, there’s dishes everywhere, I can see towels on the floor outside the bathroom, and the bedroom doesn’t fare any better.

After a few hours working; with music to keep me company, the guests arrive home. I pop down to see if I can help with the satellite. He opens the door dressed only in his underpants and beckons me inside – I’m dying to say, “Thanks, but you’re not my type shorty”. – The spare sheets that I spent my time and sweat over ironing are strewn on the floor, and all the sofa cushions are on the floor too; if this is what they’re like in a holiday rental, I’d hate to see how they live at home. II look at the plug at the back of the TV, it’s not in fully, I push it back into its socket and hey presto it works. – Does this mean I’m now highly qualified in all matters technical regarding these type of systems?

Aniseed Eggs and Propaganda

Tuesday 30 August 2011 – I wake slowly, enjoying the morning breeze that’s whispering through the room. 07.00 and the dreadful screeching bird is exercising its lungs: I don’t know what it looks like, as I’ve never seen it just heard it; if its plumage is anything like its voice, it must be ugly.

I decide on scrambled eggs for breakfast, the iPod shuffles and Wrongkong begin the day with ‘Real Boy’, I’m whisking eggs adding seasoning and without looking reach into the cupboard which houses a plethora of herbs and spices. I grab a bottle and shake a sprinkling of what I think is dried mint into the egg mixture. As it cooks the aroma it gives off is not minty, so I check and discover I’ve added aniseed – oh well too late now. The result was aniseed flavoured scramble egg, and very nice it was too; methinks I’ll be having that again.

I have to write a 250-500 piece news story today and despite doing the prep for it, I just can’t muster the enthusiasm; I know I have to do it but surfing the internet becomes my mode of procrastination. As the Gibson Brother’s bounce around the room with their Latin inspired disco tune, ‘Que Sera, Mi Vida (If Ever You Should Go)’, I make myself a cup of chamomile tea; (a taste recently acquired) and unplug the laptop from the internet.

I finish my work, switch on the iPod and shower as it shuffles away in the background; I emerge from the cool water as ‘Immigrant Dreams’ by Sandii and the Sunsetz fades out. I drive to pick up Chris, however the quick road up to Casoli is closed, so I take the long route, only to discover the road up to the piazza is also closed; a quick look around confirms there’s no police around, so I move the bollards and scoot through.

We visit Richard and Annie in nearby Palombaro, their house is a real treasure, art deco staircases, oodles of hidden rooms with vaulted ceilings, a fabulous view, not mention the cantina, attached shop and prison cell. They are hoping to eventually open up a spa B&B, but for now are just enjoying cleaning the place up. My favourite thing is the piece of fading Mussolini propaganda painted on the wall. which reads: The class (?) is the power the (?) hope the certainty of the future of Italy - (?) indicates words indiscernible/missing

We meet new people at the local bar and enjoy a few beers, and are joined by Glenn Murphy, the actor who was in the ITV drama, London’s Burning. I take Chris home and she tells me she hates me for making her walk up the hill; as she does every time – we laugh and I set off home, only to discover both roads out of Casoli are now closed, the reason being so people try the new one that’s just opened, which is steep and winds like a coil. (No change there then).

Pedestrian Sandwiches and the Hello Dog

Monday 29 August 2011 – The temperature is lower this morning, so I strip the bed and wash the sheets, In the distance the ‘hello’ dog is barking; I hear him every day. In this rural area the sound of farm dogs barking is part and parcel of life here. This dog is very distinctive because his bark sounds like he’s shouting hello, sort of sounds like wet-wo.

Today marks the next two weeks of ‘gigantic savings’ at the local supermarket; a shop that already has low prices. I decide to pop down to check them out and am very soon leaving with a couple of bags of shopping. Some of the bargains I come away with are 6 x 1.5 litre bottles of sparkling spring water for 99 cents, 5 litres of Montipulciano red wine for €4, 6 x cartons of peach juice for 75 cents and an amazing cheese I’ve never tasted before because it’s always quite expensive, but today I got a 500g block of Quartirolo Lombardo DOP for just €1,75 and a bottle of spumante brut for 75 cents – BARGAIN!

After lunch; tasty arosticini, the American’s arrive who are staying in the apartment downstairs, they don’t knock on the door, they go straight downstairs and then shout my name until they get my attention. They tell me they came over last night at 01.30, saw my car and banged on the door, but I must have been out; I smile and say, “Yes”, reminding them about the festa last night. Truth was I was asleep, and didn’t hear them, for goodness sake who tells you they’re coming at 2.00pm then turns up, twelve and a half hours early, on the off chance in the early hours of the morning.

I’m doing a little writing, nothing that needs my considered attention when I am sure I miss hear a lyric in the Siouxsie and the Banshee’s song, ‘Halloween’ -  for some reason I hear ‘I wandered through your sandwich’ – obviously this is incorrect.

I escape the American’s and pop into town for a drink with Christine, Richard and Annie. Richard and Annie have purchased an old jailhouse in the nearby town of Palombaro – More about that though tomorrow.

Part way through the evening and Christine’s silver stalker walks past us closely followed by Maria. Now it’s very hard to miss Maria, not only is she a lady of large proportions, and quite tall for an Italian signora, she wears what can only be described as quite vocal. Despite being a widow, there’s no black dresses for Maria and tonight she’s in her tangerine one. She comes to say hello, I chat to her and establish she’s lived in the town for twenty years, and her husband passed away in September, two years ago. She asks if I live there, I tell her no, but not far away. I also joke that I’m here looking for a new wife, her eyes light up, we have more flirtatious banter before she leaves with a jolly, “Buona Notte.” The others laugh saying that I’m now betrothed to Maria, and I have a vision in my head of WWE wrestler Johnny Curtis in a tangerine wedding dress.

Yorkshire Pudding and the Pizza Sucking Granny

Sunday 28 August 2011 – I wake and am happy, there’s a breeze today, a small one but a breeze non the less. Despite getting back in the early hours, I only slept briefly, and I find myself at a loose end at 06.30. I take advantage of the coolness, and slip into the garden to eradicate a few weeds, before breakfast.

Eartha Kitt sings ‘C’est Si Bon’ as my egg poaches and my bacon sizzles in the pan. There’s a few things, that when they appear in the shops that fall into my basket without thinking, and one of those things is bacon. Okay it’s sliced so thin you could take a photograph through it, and it’s nothing like the middle bacon back in the UK, but it’s not pumped full of water and when crispy is divine.

The morning is taken up with mindless internet surfing, Facebook watching and email writing. Benito, a cat with dreadful facial injuries a few weeks ago comes in for his lunch; I’ve been feeding the feral moggy up, hoping some regular food will help the healing, and it seems to have done the trick.

I shower and head off to Christine’s for dinner. Upon arrival she warns me she’s made a Yorkshire Pudding for the first time, and if it’s a disaster I can’t laugh or tell anyone on Facebook. We watch a little TV as we wait for the potatoes to roast and the YP to do its thing in the oven.

The moment of truth arrives and it’s a whopper, Christine is so pleased, and it merits a photograph – watch out Facebookers.

Stuffed after eating, we are watching TV and in that general state of repose post lunch, when we are shaken by the sound of a cannon going off, then another followed by another, the town shakes with the vibrations. We guess it’s a precursor to tonight’s festa, and Saint’s procession.

We have a beer later down at the festa, (costs twice as much here), a band plays as the locals follow four men carrying a Saint’s effigy. The religious ceremony is quite upbeat, with the jolly sound of the band playing what I can only describe as Catholic Ragtime.

Now it’s not the sight of locals in their devotion that catches our eye, nor is our interest taken by the male compere who bears a striking resemblance Eamonn Holmes, for us it’s the old lady that is purchasing a slab of pizza. She looks to be in her late seventies, and doesn’t have a single tooth in her head: I suspect they’re in her handbag. We are transfixed as she tears off the corner, pops it into her mouth, gums the tomato and cheese topped foccacia for a while, then sucks the living daylights out of it. Each mouthful follows the same ritual – tear, pop, gum, suck – and it’s a long slow process. After ten minutes she’s only an eighth of the way through, by my calculations it’s going to take her at least an hour and half to eat her slice, taking in sips of water and jaw resting.

We leave the event and stroll up to the small corner bar, where we sit and watch as the town winds down, before the evening draws to a close. Because the roads are closed off, the only way home is through the snaking side streets only wide enough for one vehicle at a time. So with Britney Spears singing ‘Big Fat Bass’, featuring Will.i.Am, I hold my breath, put the car into gear and hope no one is coming in the opposite direction. I didn’t meet any other cars, just streams of pedestrians that didn’t care if they were walking in the middle of the road – Who could blame them though, they’d all had a good time out, just like me.

But part of me wonders if there’s still a little old lady, sat on a plastic chair, and gumming a piece of pizza?