Saturday 23rd April 2011

I can’t think here: I’m in the Gay Mother’s local town, in a café, in an outfit – Prada pink shirt, Lindberg black waxed jeans and the suede jacket that had to be air-lifted back to Japan for cleaning, Prada bootees, five years old and broken inside, but don’t tell anyone.  There are people in flip-flops making a noise. At least I’ve managed to get the right cut of lamb. You remember last year the Gay Mother, now 87 (as we speak doing the flowers in the church), took against the cutlets from the organic butcher. Now I’ve got Best End, French-trimmed. Let’s hope it will recall at least remotely those never-to-be-forgotten lamb exquisions she took in Cortona in ’94.

She has tried to get broadband and failed.  A crane passed in the lane as soon as it was switched on and tore it down.

For the Good Friday fish penance yesterday she offered raie à l’orange. She condemns the present hot weather: ‘Quite wrong for April. I’m against it.’

So no let up in the country.

Come back later for my rare sight-seeing in Rome. I’ve had to Google for hours to check the spelling. I’ve such thoughts…