SOME BOOKS ABOUT SICILY

I am taking a leaf out of jmb's book [doing book reviews] and have swallowed some Gracchi pills!

This evening I thought I would share with you some of my favourite reading about Sicily – not travel guides, and certainly not tomes of the“how I rebuilt a castle then lorded it like an Englishman and never learnt the local lingo” genre, but well-written, informative works by people who have made their homes here and committed themselves to Sicily; people whose love for the island shines through in every word they write.

The first book is A House in Sicily by Daphne Phelps. In 1947 Phelps inherited, then surprised herself by deciding to remain in Sicily and maintain, the beautiful Casa Cuseni in Taormina. She had to struggle to hold on to the house in the early days and I can identify with her brushes with Italian bureaucracy at that time. Phelps tells us of the ups and downs of running the property, the characters who work for her, the townsfolk she meets and regales us with tales of some of the people she entertained at Casa Cuseni, among them Bertrand Russell, Caitlin Thomas and Roald Dahl. And all the time you can sense her falling in love with Sicily. There is also an hilarious chapter detailing her encounters with the head of the local Mafia! Daphne Phelps died in 2005 at the age of 94.

Regular readers will know that I regard Mary Taylor Simeti’s Sicilian Food as the most authoritative work available on the subject but she is also the author of another favourite of mine: it is On Persephone’s Island, a journal which takes us through the seasons in Sicily. Simeti brings to life the harvesting of crops, fauna, festivals and the island’s history and, like me, she is fascinated by the myth of Persephone and feels the latter’s presence in her everyday life:
“ Perhaps it was my growing interest in calendars: the story of Persephone’s descent into the Underworld each winter and her return four months later was perhaps the earliest attempt to divide the year into seasons and to explain its rhythms.”
Simeti explains the Italian – and especially Sicilian – love of the festa thus:
“The Italian words [for eating plentifully] have behind them centuries of hunger interrupted only by famine. To eat all one wants and more, in one glorious and wasteful feed, is to consecrate the feast day by distinguishing it from the careful measuring out of the daily bread.”
I am now reading this book for the third time, so that is an indication of how much I value it.

Finally, I have just read another Simeti: In 1185 Constance d’Hauteville, daughter of Roger 11 of Sicily and heiress to the Sicilian throne in her own right, set out, with her entourage and the greatest dowry ever seen in Europe, for Germany where she was to be married to Henry, son of Frederick Barbarossa. Travels with a Medieval Queen is the story of Simeti’s attempt to retrace Constance’s year-long last journey home to Sicily in 1195. Aged 40 at the time and childless, Constance discovered, en route, that she was pregnant and gave birth to the future Frederick 11 in Jesi [Ancona]. Now, much of the book is conjecture, as Simeti freely admits, for very little was documented about this journey; sometimes, in my reading, I felt I was being bumped along slowly in a litter, like Constance. Yet here and there Simeti gives us fascinating glimpses of the medieval world and, having recently read Italy – The Enduring Culture by Jonathan White , I am convinced that the Renaissance was no historical “accident”: its foundations were already laid in the 11th, 12th and 13th centuries. In this book Simeti is well aware of the dangers of interpreting a medieval character through modern eyes and among fascinating questions which she raises are: Was there any concept of “self”, as post-Renaissance man understands it? How attached were mothers to their children? Were they afraid to love them because the infant mortality rate was so high? How was colour perceived? It was, Simeti says, an “urban phenomenon” and mostly available only to the rich, as dyes were expensive. Ordinary folk saw bright colours only in church. How did Constance feel in the muted light of Germany after being brought up in the magnificence of Palermo? How did she feel as the landscape changed as she reached the south once more? Here, too, I found echoes of my own cultural ambivalences, and began to ask myself whether a northern person is ever truly at home in a hot land and conversely whether, having lived in the Mediterranean, one can ever settle happily in the north again? And I was interested in the way that Constance's status changed once the precious heir was born. For childless women are still often made to feel , if not inferior, “different”, even in western cultures. I came to rather like Constance and am glad that Dante puts her in Paradise:

Quest'è la luce de la gran Costanza

che del secondo vento di Soave

generò 'l terzo e l'ultima possanza.

This is the splendour of the great Constance

who from the Swabians' second gust engendered

the one who was their third and final power.

- Paradiso, Canto 111, 119-120

She is buried in this tomb in Palermo Cathedral. Next time I am there I will do what Simeti has vowed to do: I will take the Empress some flowers.

AN ALTERCATION

"You had better leave your impeccable English manners at home if you want to be a social success in Italy. Half tones will not take you even half way; understatements are taken at even less than their face value. If you are deeply worried about something , it is no good remarking softly, 'I'm a little peturbed.' If, on the contrary, you run about the room berserk, beat the walls with your fists, froth at the mouth, turn purple and scream for half an hour then people may gather that you are slightly irritated though not annoyed."

- Thus wrote George Mikes in Italy for Beginners in 1956.

I was just strolling along the street with Simi, wondering what to post about this evening, when I witnessed the most magnificent argument about a parking space: My neighbour, Mr N... was arriving home in his car and the car in front of him was about to manoeuvre into Mr N's personal parking space. Mr N beeped and made a "No, no" gesture. The other driver made frantic hand signals and pointed to the nearby ATM that he wanted to use. There ensued a lot of shouting and gesticulating , with the would-be parking space usurper marching over to Mr N and asking what was the matter with him - anybody could see he only wanted to park there for a minute to get some money, to which Mr N responded loudly that this was HIS parking space, he'd had a hard day and all he wanted to do was park and go to his apartment. [The other guy could have withdrawn his money and driven to the next town in the time that this took.] Meanwhile, all the other traffic in the street had come to a standstill and Simi and I just stood and watched [ along with many others, including several shopkeepers who had come outside to see the fun]. We couldn't have passed the two cars and we couldn't use the pavement either, as it is being repaired. Finally Mr N threw his hands in the air and uttered "Pazienza" to himself, the other driver ran to the ATM and got his money and at last there was movement again in the street.

Half a century on from George Mikes the English no longer have "impeccable manners" and probably the whole episode would have ended in a "road rage" punch-up in Britain these days. But here it all ended in smiles, thanks and even a handshake!

On Saturday I'll have been here two years and I still occasionally forget myself and indulge in the odd British understatement. Mikes is right about that: here people will take it literally or, as he says, at "less than its face value."

DRUGS POLICE IN SCHOOLS?

Two weeks ago a 15-year-old boy died at school in Milan after smoking a joint which appears to have contained traces of crack cocaine. Now the Mayor of Milan has offered drugs test kits to parents who want them and the Health Minister wants to send the "health police" [Nas] into schools to check for drugs. The latter move has caused uproar , with parents and teachers saying they are perfectly capable of monitoring the situation themselves. What do you think?

You can read more here.

SHRINKING FEET

All my adult life my shoe size has been a British 5, which is continental size 38. Whenever I came to Italy before settling here I would buy one or two pairs to take back - for who could come to Italy and not buy shoes? - and every time the 38 would fit perfectly. But lately I seem to need the 37 more often than not. What is going on?

The shoes pictured are the nearest I get to "sensible" footwear. [Are you there, Sally in Norfolk?] I've been looking ever since I arrived here for a casual navy pair to wear with navy trousers and the colour has been very difficult to find. So when I spotted these yesterday I decided to grab them [37 again].

It's all very well having shrinking feet: I want the rest of me to follow suit!

YES! WE HAVE SOME POTATOES

New potatoes on sale this morning, Sicilian style.

Buying from these lorries is cheap but you have to purchase the amounts that they want to sell - by the bag or crate, usually - and I can't always carry that much.

MY TWO CENTESIMI-WORTH

Shall I use the magic word "Diana" in the title of this post and get lots of hits? - No, I don't think I will.

Almost a year ago, when an Italian magazine published photos of the dying Diana, I wrote this post and received more hits than I had ever had before, though only one comment. [I’d been blogging since April 2006.] In my naivety, I didn’t realise that what a lot of these visitors were looking for was a copy of the magazine. I was amazed when I found out that copies were being sold on ebay.

Now British Channel 4 TV is planning to show a documentary containing video footage of the Princess’s last moments and I gather there is a public outcry. As one commenter wrote to the Telegraph, how long will it be before the Mercedes is sold on ebay?

Here the film The Queen has been available for a couple of months on DVD and friends who have borrowed my copy ask if the situation was really as portrayed in the film. I tell them that it’s an interpretation . They also express, as they expressed in 1997, their amazement at the way the British people “let themselves go” emotionally at that time. I was convinced then , and am convinced now, that this behaviour can be partly explained by the fact that, for the first time, it had become possible to reach middle age without having known bereavement. So for many, the “loss” of this person they had never met was their only experience of it. There were other factors, of course: our collective guilt; our fascination with celebrity, even in death; and if many had not known bereavement, who had not been betrayed in love? We identified with Diana in this, at least.

My opinion is that no one deserves to have their dying moments paraded as entertainment – unless you were Allen Ginsberg and wanted it that way – and , whatever you think of the woman, she has sons, a brother and sisters still living. Please, channel 4, spare a thought for them.

Here is something I wrote in the early days of September 1997. I have not edited it:

DIANA - THOUGHTS OF A REPUBLICAN

Like most people in the country, I switched the radio on last Sunday morning and began to go about my routine. Then I realised that these were not normal programmes. At first, I could not work out who they were talking about. When I did, I thought for a moment that they were going to say that she had topped herself. However, the manner of Diana’s death was so arbitrary as to have been absurd had it not been so tragic. As I listened, I hoped that she had not, at any stage, been conscious.

Then I sat, mesmerised, in front of the television for the rest of the day - something I never do. A week before, we were laughing at her over her denial of what she was supposed to have said to “Le Monde”. Now her funeral was being planned and no one mentioned “Le Monde”.

Of course it is sad. Yet thousands all over the kingdom will have suffered their own tragic losses this week, and they, unlike royalty, do have to worry about how to pay for their little funerals or whether the floral tributes received for their loved ones will be sufficient.

I have never been able to comprehend the mass purchasing of flowers on these royal occasions. If you wish to pay a tribute, why not take flowers to the old, the lonely or the sick? Perhaps, as one newspaper suggested, these improvised shrines are taking the place of religion in the land.

And how does a republican feel about the woman in question?

Let’s face it - we all coveted her looks, her figure and her style. Charitable she certainly was and she showed a genuine warmth towards those she met. But there is a dichotomy in attending a ball to raise money for charity and spending thousands on the dress you wear to it; in campaigning for funds for the underprivileged when what you spend on tights in a week would keep a third world family for thrice as long. But she did her best in the circumstances in which she found herself and the world in which she moved.

As to the rest of the royal family, I think that the judgement of history will be “too late”: Too late, the flag at Buckingham Palace; too late, the viewing of the tributes by the royals; too late came the realisation that they had to be seen to be responding to the situation by the people.

And how did they look at Balmoral, Charles and the Duke? - Like relics of a bygone age, in their silly, and, to our eyes, inappropriate, kilts. And there was the Queen, outside the Palace yesterday. Whoever goes just outside their own home with their hat on and a handbag? Diana, hatless, tightless in summer, gloveless, blew all that away.

For all the respect that the Establishment claims to feel, and although the coffin has been draped, since last Sunday, in the royal standard, the HRH has not been posthumously restored to the Princess. That says it all.

Going back to the lady herself, I truly hope that she did find some happiness with Dodi. However, had she lived, would this hypocritical and deeply racist nation have allowed her to marry a Muslim without comment? I doubt it.

For hypocrites we all are. It is inevitable that someone, somewhere will one day publish a photograph of the dying Princess. When they do, we will all go out and buy the papers. Ghouls to a man, we are too fascinated by her not to do so.

I watched the solemn procession to Kensington Palace last night and honestly felt that anyone with a camera should have been arrested. Hypocrisy, again. After all, I was watching.

I watched again today, in between bouts of working. As the touching cortège passes, you want the young Princes not to hurt so much. You want Diana to know that she was appreciated in a way that she could never have imagined. Most of all, you want it to be last Saturday night and you want to say to her, “Don’t get in the car”. But the reality is all too clear now.

Whatever the Queen says, I do not believe that the royal family will learn from these few days. I think that without Diana they will revert to being the stuffed shirts that they always were. You cannot tell me that, with the exception of William and Harry, they have not collectively breathed a guilty and secretive sigh of relief, now that the force for change has gone.

If the monarchy is to survive at all, perhaps they should declare a regency under Anne until William comes of age. Then Charles can marry the detested Camilla instead of conducting the affair, as we all know he will, behind the drawbridges of his dreary castles.

The royals have come through this week, but only just. It was the closest call they have had. Now, as shock and grief subside, the anger may well resurge.

The kings and queens of Britain live lives of enormous privilege and owe their continued existence to the will of the people. The House of Windsor would do well to remember it.

6.9.97

INVOLTINI DI MAIALE

This is another dish from the cookbook that never lets me down, Marcella Cucina - pork bundles containing smoked pancetta and slices of gherkin, cooked with garlic, sage and tomatoes. I didn't use to have much success cooking involtini in Britain as the cuts of meat were either that little bit too thick and didn't brown properly, or else too thin and they would break up during cooking. But here if you tell the butcher you are going to prepare involtini he will know exactly what you need. This is a dish which is on my "Italian comfort food" list.

Chicken, veal and aubergines can also be used to make types of involtini.

THE OX'S HEART - 2

Liz and James wanted to know what the tomatoes tasted like: I can report that they are delicious, tasting very ripe, of the sun and even a bit winey. Now, I think that an Italian caprese salad of tomatoes, mozzarella, basil and, of course, olive oil is a very fine thing indeed, but I am also of the opinion that excellent tomatoes make a good salad in their own right; they do not have to be buried under mounds of lettuce or anything else. Here's what I do:

Slice the tomatoes, lay in a dish and season with fine seasalt and black pepper. Pour over a little red wine vinegar and add some very finely chopped shallots and garlic. Then add some torn basil leaves and mix everything gently. Leave in the fridge for at least an hour and drizzle with good olive oil just before serving. Simplicity itself.

My friend Anne has found a website giving the history of the cuore di bue. While you're over there, do take a look at Anne's lovely pottery!

THE OX'S HEART

What a voyage of discovery a trip to the greengrocer's still is! I had never seen this variety of tomato - cuore di bue - before. I am assured that they will make a fine tomato salad. They smell very - well - tomatoey!

FINALMENTE..

.. I have acquired some summer plants for my balcony. The geraniums and other balcony plants have been "arriving" in the shop domani for three weeks and, when they did come on Thursday, I had got distracted with clothes shopping, as you know. Yesterday morning the plant shop owner said that if I went along there in the afternoon he would give me a lift home and deliver them. By the time I got there, though, he was busy, so the plants didn't arrive until this morning. I brought my Bill and Ben planters from Britain - I just couldn't bear to leave them behind - and Ben's pot was the only thing that got broken during the move. I have now stuck another one onto him and it's nice to see both Bill and Ben filled with blooms again. It's good that shopkeepers here will deliver, very willingly and without charge, whether your purchase is large or small. I remember having a terrible row in a Debenhams store in Britain once because they wanted to charge an outrageous price to deliver a small item of furniture.

I'm not much of a gardener - I hate it, in fact - so I have to have plants that can cope with benign neglect. But could that be a flower that is appearing on my one and only fico d'India [prickly pear plant]?

WELL, YOU DID ASK!

This is for Sally, pinkacorn, Liz and Ruthie, who have asked for photos of the clothes bargains I bought on Thursday. They don't look much there on the hangers, I admit, and do bear in mind that linen creases as soon as you look at it, but believe me when I say that the neck detail on the white dress is really pretty and there is lace detail at the neck and hem of the turquoise number, which has quite a swingy shape. I'll need something to relieve the pure white and the blue earrings are a favourite pair which I bought for about 20p on the Charles Bridge in Prague four years ago. [I also have a dark green pair like this and wish I'd gone back and purchased all the other colours the vendor had, too!] I'm thinking if I wear these with the white plus another item that matches them [perhaps a bracelet] then that will clinch the look. Now there's the matter of the correct biancheria intima to wear under each of these, especially with the effect of the sun! [And that could cost more than the clothes, here!]

IN THE RED

A touch of red in my hair colour was what I needed, decided Raffaele the hairdresser this morning so here I am, folks! Sorry about the pile of chairs behind me - the Altro Posto were making more room on their terrace - and I didn't like to ask a busy waiter to attempt another shot. When I asked him to take the photo and explained it was because of my new hair colour [they already think I am mad because I am constantly snapping the food there] he decided to try his English: "Yes, please, please - hair - good, good".

Raffaele has been on a course in Napoli and has come back brimming with new ideas. He is very pleased because his certificate is in English and says "Get the Look" and now he wants me to have one of those new "messy" cuts. "Not till you show me a picture of what it will look like", said I. So now we await what he calls "Il Look Book", which the course organisers are sending him. Watch this space!

"WINTER"

My friend Lee recently wrote about her first love and, for no particular reason, tonight I thought I'd tell you about mine:

It seems odd to be writing about him at the beginning of a Sicilian summer, for it is usually winter when I think of “Winter”. I don’t know why; I was too young for the time of year to have really registered in my mind; but I think it must have been winter when I knew him, as I remember him in long, woolly socks, short , dark trousers and a grey, rough-textured coat that would scratch my face as he hugged me in the playground.

Everyone wore drab clothes then, mostly grey or a very dull green. Some women used to try to brighten things up by wearing red lipstick and dead foxes round their necks [which used to terrify me] but mostly the dreariness was unrelieved. People of my parents’ generation were still in shock from the war and certain items remained on ration. Interiors were dark, too [though people were shortly to rebel against this], there were still bombsites in Bristol and the streets seemed grey and cold. There was a lot of poverty and it was so normal for children to wear threadbare old clothes to school that no one remarked upon it.

I could only have been about five and school was St Gabriel’s Cof E, at the top of Twinnel Road in Bristol. [It was one of the roads leading off Stapleton Road, where our shop was.] I can’t remember a sunny day in that playground, though there must have been some! I can only visualise it as dark and dismal..

“Winter”’s name was actually Gunther, but there was no way I could pronounce it. He used to spend ages trying to get me to say it properly, but his tuition was of no avail to the future linguist! I can hear him now: “My name is Gunther, not ‘Winter’. Say it: G-U-N-T-H-E-R”. “Winter”, I would diligently reply. [I honestly could not understand why he would laugh and I used to get quite upset about it!] Then he would kiss me and tell me that he loved me and I would feel a warm glow for the rest of the day. It was a lovely, all-enveloping feeling of knowing that you are loved and I’m not sure if I have ever recaptured it.

I don’t know what his nationality was or what tragedy his family had escaped; he always talked about his mother, never his father. There were so many families from Central and Eastern Europe pouring into the country then and there were a lot of Poles in Bristol; but obviously his name was not Polish.

“Winter” had ash-blond hair, worn with a long fringe flopping over his forehead, large, smiling blue eyes which I can picture even now and I don’t think I ever saw him without that overcoat on.

He must, I think, have been bullied because I can remember one day telling a teacher, “Winter’s crying”. Then I was pushed aside while this Miss Adams [whom I hated with a vengeance from that moment on] dealt with whatever it was that had upset him. [It was my job to comfort Winter, not hers!]

Breaks were the highlight of my little life, because I knew Winter would come and find me and we’d stand in a corner of the playground cuddling and exchanging chaste kisses while he told me that we were going to get married when we grew up. Winter had it all planned; he was going to buy the shop from Dad! I didn’t see him at lunchtimes; most women didn’t work then , so the majority of children went home for lunch. In fact the “dinner children” were regarded as something of an oddity. I couldn’t wait to get back to school in those days!

One day he just wasn’t there. “Gunther’s gone”, said Miss Adams when I enquired and that was that. Winter certainly hadn’t known about any move or he would have told me and I’m sure he would have cried! I suppose the family were suddenly rehoused in the cold, efficient, unfeeling manner of the time; or perhaps he was taken out of school because of the bullying; or maybe his father reappeared; I just don’t know. The sense of loss was overwhelming and suddenly the world grew cold.

We all need fantasies to keep us alive and one of mine is that one of these days I’ll be strolling along a street in Modica, Catania or Palermo, I’ll suddenly stop and there he’ll be – Winter!

THE BEST-LAID SCHEMES...

I went out to buy some balcony geraniums this morning, but got distracted by a sale in a fashion store which I would not normally enter, staffed, as it is, by ultra-thin young lovelies who make me want to climb into the nearest binbag. However, today in I went and 86 euros bought me two pure linen dresses, one white and the other in the colour that I have come to call "Mediterranean turquoise" [the exact shade of the turquoise gemstone] plus a long, flouncy, white cotton skirt. Nature will have to wait! Now I'm thinking accessories, girls!

THE REAL THING

This is especially for my commenter begonia, who is homesick for Italy. [I can't get into her blog to link to it.]

The parmesan cheese here looks, tastes and smells very different from that available in Britain, though the latter has improved greatly in quality in recent years. I just couldn't resist buying this perfectly coloured, crumbly chunk this morning. I expect it tastes even better if you are lucky enough to be able to buy it in Parma itself for even a short journey has an effect on it, so the deli owner round the corner tells me. He says that the same is true of the Parma ham, which changes its texture during the trip down here and this must be true as a friend whose daughter is studying there makes her bring supplies of it every time she comes home; she won't buy it in Sicily!

DRUNK IN THE STREET

No, not me after a few gin and tonics but the name of this cheese - ubriaco sul pavé - because it is flavoured with wine. On June 2nd I'll have been in Sicily two years but I still delight in finding new food items.

AND TODAY'S DESSERT WAS...

... this fresh fruit salad topped with lemon granita.

FLYING THE FLAG

Working on "was / were" with a student yesterday, we were asking each other questions such as:"Where were you at 6pm yesterday?" /"What day was it yesterday?"/"Were you on holiday last week?" and so on. Then my student had to ask me, "Were you in England in 2000?" She looked astounded when I replied, "No, I wasn't." When she got over her astonishment, she managed to put together the question, "But where were you in 2000?" "I was in WALES!" I replied, clapping my hands and adding a "hurrah!" Italians have constantly to be reminded that Wales is not England or in it and that a Welsh person is British but not English. You see, reader, that I do my bit.

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.]

A STRAW POLL

Many of you will know that I am a fan of the BBC Radio 4 series The Archers and that I listen to it here on the internet. In Britain I wouldn't even answer the phone if it rang during the sacred 15 minutes of the programme's duration, figuring that anyone who knew me would not ring at that time. Here I'm now a bit more selective about which episodes I listen to: I read the online synopsis and if the episode has consisted mostly of the Adam character droning on about his strawberry growing, or Nigel and Lizzie [who used to be fun but has turned into a corporate bore] discussing how to make even more money from their stately pile, I don't bother listening as well. But if the episode has featured the Brian - Siobhan - Jenny triangle, my headphones are on straightaway and the world can wait! I know Liz has written about this so apologies to you, Liz, for repeating the tale and sorry if you've read it on her blog. If you haven't, the situation is as follows: Brian Aldridge, a rich farmer married to Jenny "dahling" had an affair with flighty Siobhan Hathaway some years ago. They had a child, Ruari, Jenny found out and hit the roof and, though tempted to go off and start a new life with Siobhan, Brian decided to go back to wifey. [Typical.] He has, however, been seeing Siobhan and his son on the quiet over the years. Now Siobhan is dying of cancer and has asked Brian and Jenny to look after Ruari. This Jenny has categorically refused to do but, as Brian has made it clear that he will take the boy on in any case, she is now wavering and looks set to cave in. She doesn't want to lose Brian but she also doesn't want to lose her lifestyle. There is a poll on the programme's website about what she should do and 55% say she will have to take the boy now.

I thought I'd conduct my own poll among women friends here to see if their reactions say anything about cultural differences and I have asked women aged from 18 to 60. Not one of them can see any dilemma; all they would be concerned about is the child, so they believe that Jenny has a duty to look after him. Me? I'd probably cave in, too, partly because Brian, for all his philandering, is quite a charming character who has a very sexy speaking voice! "Meglio un uomo che ti mette le corna ma che può darti qualcosa" [="Better a man who is unfaithful but can give you something"], says Irma. But I think it would make much better radio drama if Jenny and Brian were to divorce with Jenny taking him for everything he's got and then finding herself a nice gigolo. Brian, of course, would soon find himself some long-legged young trophy, as men in their 50s and 60s do, but she would not satisfy him for long. Then we'd see how he manages without his Jenny "dahling" ministering to his every need.

When I first came to Italy, a man told me that for Italian men there is "a woman of the bed" and "a woman of the heart" or some such nonsense. In my touching romantic naivety of the time I suggested that the roles should be combined in one and the same woman. You live and learn.