MR GORGEOUS GROWS A GOATEE

I've written before that one of the advantages of ageing is that I can put my sunglasses on and people-watch from a café terrace without anyone taking a blind bit of notice: In another district of Modica where I sometimes go to shop, there is an undertaker's, the employees of which spend each day sitting around in the various nearby cafés, mobile phones at the ready, waiting for someone to pop off. It seems a strange kind of job, akin, perhaps, to that of being the heir to the British throne. One of these men is - well- gorgeous, in a way that only Italian men can be and his manner suggests that he knows it! Unusually tall for a Sicilian [my friend Gina is convinced God made Sicilians short so that they'd be further away from the hot sun!] dark and swarthy , he strolls along, white t-shirt pulled tightly across his muscular chest, spotless designer jeans fitting perfectly and sporting a loosely cut, open black jacket. Gucci sunglasses complete the look. Most of the time I am beneath his notice but occasionally, if he is feeling gracious, he will deign to say "buongiorno". I saw him this morning and noticed - oh, no! - he has grown a goatee! Now, I've nothing against goatees; but this one just doesn't look right on Mr Gorgeous!

[I have written this post in the full knowledge that I couldn't get away with it if I were a man writing about a woman.]