tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50902692252904224002012-02-09T16:14:11.255+01:00Motherhood has never been so much funMelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.comBlogger671100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-89523036301196991372012-02-08T11:44:00.003+01:002012-02-09T16:14:11.264+01:00

It's so cold in our flat that when I shake my head it feels like my teeth are rattling. The Esselunga guy just delivered my supermarket shopping and asked me if I'm wearing a scarf in the house because I have a cold. Don't tell G, but I just caved and put the heating on. A couple of days ago, we got a gas bill for the last quarter and he still isn't talking to me. Consequently, I'm making an

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-66045251090313924982012-02-04T00:16:00.002+01:002012-02-04T00:38:38.416+01:00

1) a teething toddler2) a teething toddler with a temperature 3) a teething, sneezing toddler who's simply desperate to spend time with mummy between 4am and 7am4) a teething, sneezing, non-sleeping toddler who gives mummy their cold. Not what I had in mind as a parent when I talked about hoping to instil a sense of generosity5) looking after said teething, sneezing, non-sleeping toddler with a

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-8894145413395606812012-01-27T09:44:00.008+01:002012-01-27T12:55:09.757+01:00

Doctor: 'Can you just jump on the scales for me then?'Me: 'No problem' (Ha, I've never worried about my weight in my life, ever.. pah.) Doctor: 'Hmmm. 72kg. Hmmm.'Me: 'Is that, umm, not good?' (This was my weight at 9 months pregnant with Isabel. I'm now less than 6 months pregnant. Gulp.)Doctor: 'I'm going to refer you to a dietician who specialises in pregnancy.'Me: Silence. I'm too busy dying

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-22066944691774643692012-01-16T14:56:00.002+01:002012-01-16T15:18:08.712+01:00

I'm more or less resigned to the fact that constantly worrying about being a good enough mum goes with the territory - along with enough guilt to fill a year's worth of maxi nappies and an overpowering fear that I may be raising the next Adolf Hitler. Sometimes, however, I do something so monumentally stupid that even I wonder if I shouldn't just call Childline myself and have Isabel taken far

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-11020481869411680202011-12-13T01:03:00.002+01:002011-12-13T01:04:54.015+01:00

You know you ought to start worrying when you discover that your daughter's nursery school teachers have nicknamed her la peste (the pest/plague), la tempesta (the storm) and Attila (umm, that one's just plain embarrassing). 'Do you think she was just born that way?' I hesitantly asked them one day, 'or have I done something to make her slightly, um, livelier than the others?'. I don't know if

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-79258637605453291352011-12-07T00:33:00.008+01:002011-12-07T01:54:21.763+01:00

I've officially been living in Italy for 11 years, hurray. I celebrated by diving head first into the bureaucratic jungle that is the Italian health authority offices. Of course, my first attempt to re-register with my GP was rebuffed, but I defied the odds, went back home on the tube, got the seven hundred zillion documents allegedly required plus a few extra for good luck, back on the tube,

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-44326248858095163882011-11-17T10:38:00.003+01:002011-11-17T11:44:19.080+01:00

I promised I'd never lower myself to blogging about the state of Italian toilets but I'm afraid I've lowered myself over one too many holes in the ground to hold back any longer. And that's part of the problem: being pregnant means that (a) I always need to pee and (b) I CAN'T hold back. Take note: a hole in the ground with two handily marked foot prints is absolutely not more hygenic and, as

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-3351943983292036082011-11-10T10:00:00.006+01:002011-11-10T11:28:16.263+01:00

It must be so easy being a man. Why should I be a little nervous of taking my quote unquote 'spirited' toddler on a 2 hour train ride to Florence on my own while 4 months pregnant? Nothing easier. Anyone who's travelled on public transport with a small child knows exactly what an enormous pleasure it is. I simply dream of spending time with Isabel in confined spaces. Of course, I won't actually

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-77055263968137708562011-10-17T11:02:00.005+02:002011-10-17T12:14:21.098+02:00

I'm thinking of changing the name of this blog from Daily Mel to Annual Mel. Apparently, being a mum gets easier at some point (when child leaves home?) at which point I might have time for activities like making tea, washing my face and, somewhere down the line after cutting my finger nails and thinking about dinner, blogging. Right now, it's a case of daily survival- which definitely wouldn't

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-89810272834234263392011-05-24T22:22:00.006+02:002011-05-24T23:46:52.895+02:00

Ah, England. The fields of carpet and rivers of tea. And coffee which has apparently become a luxury foodstuff. I had this conversation in a cafè last week:'One latte, please''That'll be £2.60.' Thump. (Sound of me fainting)Actually, I didn't faint, I said:'That better be one hell of a latte'. Spotty cafè boy = not amused. Isabel rather predictably woke up as soon as I sat down and put my head

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-5098916834235644072011-05-19T11:41:00.009+02:002011-05-19T14:15:29.216+02:00

If I had the energy I'd kick myself. Imagine what a beautifully chiseled stomach I'd have if I'd just done 20 sit-ups everyday for the last month. This falls into the same category as 'if only I'd saved £1 every week since I was 16' etc etc. Doh. Everyday I think, ok, I'll start today. Clean slate. Be positive. You can do it. You moved to Italy on your own with just a few quid in your pocket. You

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-19619362224553481492011-02-23T21:17:00.004+01:002011-02-23T22:54:01.073+01:00

I'm drowning in a day-time TV soup of makeover shows and cookery programmes. The makeover shows make me feel fat and the cookery programmes are just making me fat. I've been so busy trying to claw my way out from underneath a mountain of poo-encrusted laundry, that I failed to notice when aliens came in the night and swapped my normal body for something much squidgier. I'm only 4 kilos over my

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-32614407811466804262011-02-16T15:44:00.004+01:002011-02-16T17:20:09.998+01:00

I haven't been posting this week because nothing's really been happening. That is, unless you count that yesterday I had a row in the street with an Eismann rep, I think I may have arthritis, I've bought a Kindle and for the last five days Isabel has been producing more poo than a cow pat factory. The Eismann rep approached me while I was running late to the doctor's in the pouring rain,

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-82090407383107888132011-01-31T16:08:00.011+01:002011-02-02T15:15:26.966+01:00

It's beginning to dawn on me that being a mother actually means (a) being in a constant state of anxiety and (b) not being able to go to the loo without waving my arms around while singing The Grand Old Duke Of York. The anxiety part comes from suddenly seeing danger everywhere (get that massive baby-munching hound away from my pushchair, punk) and God help me if I think any further into her

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-28836636773276114492011-01-24T15:49:00.017+01:002011-02-01T22:51:10.015+01:00

The Baby Whisperer has changed my life. I'm a The Baby Whisperer convert. Thanks to The Baby Whisperer, I knew to put Isabel down for a nap 10 minutes ago. Unfortunately, Isabel hasn't read The Baby Whisperer and so she doesn't realise that she's tired. If she had read it, she'd know that yawning, eye rubbing and a short concentration span are all clear signs of fatigue. How do babies have the

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-5908292960676765022010-12-21T13:34:00.005+01:002010-12-21T14:53:43.879+01:00

Do you think it's weird that the 70 year old mechanic in my street asked me if I'm breastfeeding? Welcome to Italy. Your breasts are no longer your own once you have a baby here. People I've never met before (male and female) just stick their heads in the pram, wipe their hands all over Izzy's fingers and face and demand to know whether she gets bottle or boob. I can see their brains ticking over

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-90387567693025024442010-11-29T10:16:00.004+01:002010-11-29T10:25:20.820+01:00

The chick is out of the basket and in the big cot STOPThe chick looks v small STOP Repeat: the chick looks v small STOPMother hen is hovering STOPCluck STOP

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-13321815174790318222010-11-18T17:51:00.009+01:002010-11-22T10:36:15.317+01:00

Only in Italy can you find yourself in the middle of labour, writhing in agony in the delivery room, and have your husband comment on how pretty all the midwives are. The worst thing is that he was right: they were a bunch of dewy skinned, bright eyed, twenty-something, SKINNY bitches. For those of you who've not had the experience of giving birth, you don't exactly feel at your best. You're

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-55031337204331096182010-10-03T13:15:00.003+02:002010-10-03T13:25:57.179+02:00

So after 300 hours of pushing, my little Isabel Florence was born on 27th August! No time for blogging as I am now a walking milk bar. Baby is an absolute stunner, obviously incredibly intelligent and alert as well as utterly beautiful (although that's not what I'd tell you at 4am in the middle of a five hour screaming session or when she's just done such a mega-galatic poo that it's all over my

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-61468428893440145892010-07-08T18:04:00.003+02:002010-07-19T12:47:44.660+02:00

I swear to God, if I have to make one more decision during this preganacy, I'm going to go crazy. I'm a bit of an elephant when it comes to making choices, just the colour of the baby's room would have done me for the whole nine months. But no. Now we have to decide whether or not to save the blood and tissue (yum) from the baby's umbilical cord. Turns out that we can't simply donate it to the

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-15641995625973789662010-07-08T18:00:00.004+02:002010-07-14T11:18:40.692+02:00

I just saw an advert on TV for an anti-ageing toothpaste. Is it possible that we now have to worry about our teeth ageing?? Isn't it traumatic enough to have to prepare ourselves for sagging wrinkly bottoms, bingo wings and chicken necks? (Not to mention the horrific - sorry, marvellous - things pregnancy does to your body. More on that later). I saw this toothpaste ad on our new TV - the

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-62670735601308088192010-07-07T12:26:00.004+02:002010-07-07T12:31:09.919+02:00

Seven Month Itch'Well Signora, 10 kilos is quite a significant weight gain I'm afraid,' frowned the nurse. I couldn't help glaring at the sweaty rolls of flesh jiggling on her arms as she fiddled with the weights on the scales. 'I'm seven months pregnant fatty, what's your excuse?' I replied. Of course, I said no such thing - but I wanted too. Bloody cheek.Then the gynaecologist did a quick

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-92113888187340056582010-06-29T11:05:00.003+02:002010-06-29T11:08:04.061+02:00

Why is watching England play football like spending 90 minutes slowly peeling a plaster off your arm? At one point during Sunday's match, Germany had so many goals that they just seemed a bit embarrased, not sure whether to score again or just kick the ball around amonst themselves. Lampard's disallowed goal might have turned things around, after all, nothing gets us Brits going more than a bit

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-15246714757276262132010-05-04T14:19:00.007+02:002010-05-04T15:52:10.071+02:00

I'd like to say that I've become older and wiser since my last post, but that just wouldn't be true. What has happened and what has kept me away from my blog is that I am pregnant. Yup, I'm in the club, got a panino in the oven, in the family way, or, as they are so fond of saying here in Italy, I'm in an 'interesting' state. The first few months were not, however, particularly interesting, which

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-72093112946054058842010-01-13T09:41:00.010+01:002010-01-13T11:59:08.218+01:00

Don't be fooled into thinking that it's always hot and sunny in Tuscany; it's been raining for so long here that the plants in my garden are actually rotting. Walking across my lawn is like walking on a three foot deep muddy sponge and my neighbour has a pump going 24/7 to try to clear our flooded cellar. It's also pretty chilly and I've got into the very old lady habit of always taking a hot

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-15190385404822031242009-11-20T09:34:00.012+01:002009-11-21T10:29:32.279+01:00

I'm currently in the middle of a bureaucratic nightmare. For once though, it's entirely of my own making. In a stubborn English way, I decided to take my husband's surname. Before you start waving burning bras in my face, let me make a few things clear: (a) it wasn't his idea, (b) it doesn't mean that I'm bowing down to him in any way and (c) I believe it's what you do in your life that shows

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-85264352636460731792009-10-06T13:10:00.012+02:002009-10-07T11:13:15.216+02:00

I'd like to throw a quick question out to any expat readers. There are a few posters around Florence advertising language classes with the slogan 'chi parla due lingue vive due vite', meaning 'people who speak two languages live two lives'. Am I the only one to find this a disturbing concept? I often have the nagging feeling that when I speak Italian, I'm not quite the same person as when I speak

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-90257201083254313582009-09-22T13:31:00.011+02:002009-09-23T11:26:19.904+02:00

What a bizarre, random and wonderful morning yesterday. G and I got up at 6.30am (yikes) and dragged our sleepy selves to viale dei Mille to give out free chocolates to complete strangers on bikes. As I said, bizarre and random. You could be forgiven for not knowing that yesterday was European Car Free Day. Of course, Florence was as grid-locked and smog-filled as ever. The avenues were playing

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-84739506125175998182009-09-04T08:50:00.015+02:002009-09-06T18:22:58.936+02:00

The first couple of weeks of September are known in Italy as the period of rientro, or re-entry, referring to the fact that the whole nation returns home to work after the August holidays. The word rientro somehow brings to mind astronauts re-entering the earth's atmosphere. The sudden force gravity burns up their space ship and nearly tears them limb from limb which, funnily enough, is almost as

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-22282962493453772222009-07-22T09:10:00.005+02:002009-07-22T10:58:41.892+02:00

I just lost a toe nail. The second one from the left on my right foot. It had a long and bravely fought battle with my walking boot on a recent three-day hike. I almost thought it might hang on, but alas, it came off at the beach on Sunday near San Vincenzo where we were camping for the weekend. We gave it a full sea burial in the Mediterranean - nail varnish and all.San Vincenzo is an hour South

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-5638710239420490332009-07-15T12:00:00.011+02:002009-07-15T12:48:43.410+02:00

I nearly choked on my falafel the other night in the kebab shop when, during a popular quiz show on channel 5, the camera zoomed in on the very pert rear end a 'show girl' climbing some stairs in a bikini. It was gynaecological. Viewers were treated to alternating shots of the girl's highly waxed private parts and the sweaty faces of young men ogling and applauding her from the studio audience.

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-21524944578141553532009-06-18T21:54:00.009+02:002009-06-18T22:24:34.412+02:00

Just a quick update on the bicycle helmet. This evening, as I panted home on my bike with my helmet firmly clamped to my head, a guy on a scooter asked me out. Without stopping. He slowed down next to me and introduced himself.'My name is Salvatore,' he grinned. 'I'm an Engineer' (Italians have this thing about formal titles and announcing their qualifications - apparently even when crawling up

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-75483577835811113742009-06-13T10:26:00.000+02:002009-06-13T11:54:44.865+02:00

Enough people tried to kill me on my bike ride home on Thursday evening to make me completely lose faith in mankind. There's something about the sight of a cyclist that turns ordinarily calm drivers into lunatics who swerve all over the road, ignore give-ways and stop indicating. Oh, I forgot, that's just normal Italian driving. What I meant to say is that 'normal' drivers become mysteriously

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-2074438872941431872009-05-20T23:05:00.000+02:002009-05-24T17:21:13.966+02:00

I fell over two days ago. I actually properly fell over, in the street and all by myself. I was pushing my bike backwards on the pavement (don't ask) and managed to get both feet caught on the pedal. My bike, which weighs about twice as much as me, lurched out of my hands and I went crashing down on top of it - on my back. Right in the middle of town. Do you remember me mentioning that I'd like

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-76463762383864808092009-05-08T22:24:00.000+02:002009-05-20T23:03:23.835+02:00

Check out my new eco-friendly page in The Florentine and keep your eyes peeled for more in future issues! Let me know if you are aware of any interesting environmental initiatives in Florence, or if there's anything you'd like to see in the column. Let's make Florence greener!http://www.theflorentine.net/articles/article-view.asp?issuetocId=4488(By the way, under this sentence is says Read more!

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-578317137326040472009-04-28T13:29:00.001+02:002009-04-29T09:13:30.044+02:00

I don't know how to break it to him, but I think my brother may have been switched at birth. The red hair and blue eyes in an otherwise brown-haired and green-eyed family should have been enough of a sign, but last Sunday I got the final confirmation. Not only did he run in the London Marathon with one day's notice and no training, but he also managed to finish in 4 and a half hours. Actually,

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-6410308226298031572009-03-31T13:16:00.000+02:002009-03-31T13:29:06.109+02:00

My other-half is himself split into two halves, English and Italian. Half cold, damp drizzle and orderly queues, and half fiery Ferrari and wild hand gestures. People often ask me if he’s more English or Italian. This blog posting is dedicated to him.He drives like a lunatic and likes his steak still moo-ing (Italian), but takes milk in his tea and says ‘whoops-a-daisy’ when he drops something (

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-34855178463327323532009-03-26T20:47:00.000+01:002009-03-29T20:52:49.205+02:00

This week has been all about exploring uncharted territory. Firstly, there's the bottom of the dirty washing basket, which I haven't seen for over a year. Very satisfying to find all those odd socks. Secondly, I've got to know the inside of my local beauty salon. Thirdly, my new friend Valentina, the beautician, has got to know an awful lot of me. Like every Spring, I decided to start getting my

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-88094524657834657292009-03-14T12:28:00.000+01:002009-03-17T21:23:41.532+01:00

So it turns out that I can do the splits. Both ways. I just got back from a white week* skiing in the Dolomites where I wowed everyone with my stylish snow plough and creative ways of crashing to the ground, despite not ever exceeding 2 miles per hour. To have an idea of what I looked like, imagine an ostrich on skis wearing someone else's badly-fitting clothes. We were staying just outside

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-64483682116631843652009-02-22T14:38:00.000+01:002009-02-22T14:49:35.539+01:00

Hold onto your seats because I’m going to shatter a myth: not all ex-pats living in Tuscany live in bougainvillea covered mansions on olive oil producing country estates. I know this is upsetting and difficult to understand but for most of us, there is no olive grove, no hunky local gardener getting his hands dirty in our herb garden and no Martini sunset overlooking the gently rolling hills.

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-84851297900947316352009-01-06T21:15:00.000+01:002009-01-06T21:26:03.628+01:00

Sheer joy aboard the number twenty eightWhen schools are closed for two-week Christmas break.No squarking gangly boys in gobbling flocksAnd no teen stink of ancient mouldy socks.

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-47988481030143796912008-12-20T14:22:00.000+01:002008-12-20T14:28:46.534+01:00

(translated into English from the Italian daily newspaper ‘Il Telegrafo’)Italian police are currently searching for 30 year old English woman, Melissa Morozzo, after she exploded a home made bomb in the Via Alamanni branch of the Post Office Bank in Florence yesterday morning. Nobody was seriously hurt in the blast although several Post Office employees suffered paper cuts after the piles of

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-43315015066951359912008-11-18T09:25:00.000+01:002008-11-18T09:26:28.134+01:00

‘A saint is just a sinner who fell down and got back up again!’, yelled the gospel choir master, an American with a voice like an oak tree and a smile like a grand piano. ‘Pick yourselves up, brush yourselves off and just keep on going. Oh yeah!’. I had a mini religious conversion at that gospel concert in Villa Strozzi two weekends ago. I could see the Italians around me having a hard time

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-34437911579906305072008-10-15T00:17:00.000+02:002008-11-01T15:59:37.984+01:00

The end of the world is nigh. They said so on the evening news. Well, not in so many words but nearly the whole programme yesterday was given over to that America correspondant with too many teeth, while in the studio the presenter had put her cleavage away and tied back her hair for once. We have to stop being snooty about poisonous chemicals in Chinese food because we're all going to be

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-1245743842428834632008-10-06T11:17:00.000+02:002008-11-01T16:00:29.683+01:00

So I thought I lived in a quiet area of Florence. Predictable. Boring even. There’s the fishmonger who’s been here since the dawn of time, he’s so old and knarled I suspect it was him that provided the fishes that fed the five thousand. There’s the owner of the bar on the corner who asks me daily if I still have a job (she wants me to quit my steady job to be able to teach her grandson

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-56723317648019548702008-09-25T12:52:00.000+02:002008-11-01T16:00:59.613+01:00

Most of us Florentines (adopted or otherwise) like to think we’re above the city’s charms. We don’t swoon over the Duomo or pant in awe of the Ponte Vecchio. We guffaw at the tourists who pay €3 for a bottle of water and we would rather be seen dead than be caught so much as glancing at the leather jackets in San Lorenzo. History just screams down at us from the city’s crumbling stone work but we

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-72669651428126258742008-09-17T12:44:00.000+02:002008-11-01T16:01:27.080+01:00

I’m in love. I’m in love with a hundred-year-old fictional vampire named Edward. It’s an impossible love affair, doomed from the start because (a) he doesn’t know I exist and (b) he actually doesn’t exist. This small fact doesn’t stop me from dreaming about him at night though and from comparing my unfortunate other half’s actions with Edward’s. I’m too terrified of my own over-active imagination

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-60901203242426418192008-09-04T12:56:00.000+02:002008-11-01T16:01:42.647+01:00

Would you like to start a collection of kitchen utensils featuring the Loony Tunes characters? Or if you’re of a more religious bent, perhaps you’d prefer to collect the saints-on-cards, a different saint featured each week. Jesus must be thrilled, I’m sure that is just what he had in mind in terms of saving humanity. Failing that, what about the prestigious collection of the works of Jules Verne

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-60698667912134442222008-08-28T10:15:00.000+02:002008-08-28T10:21:20.954+02:00

I don’t think I can touch the bottom. I scuttle back andpeer down fretting, cowardly toes clenched crab-like on the jetty.What if there’s a lurking shark or jelly fish?I wish I was braver. Then you wave from the sea and I feel safer.Lean forward and bend your knees. Now,tuck your head below your arms. You show me how. Again.I tell a clever joke which makes you chuckle andforget for a second what

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-16074912301046316552008-07-31T15:12:00.000+02:002008-11-01T16:04:40.120+01:00

Looks like I owe an apology to dear old England. We’ve just come back from 4 startlingly hot and sunny days camping on the Isle of Wight. It was so hot that I’ve come back to Italy with more of a tan than when I left, which is slightly confusing. My gorgeous other half is as red as a Ventnor lobster (‘The sun’s not so strong here you know’ he scoffed and then, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be brown tomorrow

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-50987145671925953942008-07-14T10:47:00.000+02:002008-09-05T11:05:04.488+02:00

1.It’s actually hot in the summer. You know how when you were a kid the summers were all long and hazy and warm? Well, if you grew up in England then what you are remembering is actually ONE DAY of your summer holiday. You have blocked out the thirteen other rainy days you spent sheltering from the hail in a grotty tea rooms in Newquay. Last August I went to England for a week and it rained the

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-26239353648319954792008-06-25T10:52:00.000+02:002008-06-25T11:25:48.827+02:00

Do I look old? Don't think so. I've got those lines around my eyes but every has them, don't they? Ha ha, yes, of course, but seriously, think about it, there are people born in the ninties who look as old as I think I look, which I fear can't be possible. I was born in the seventies and people talk about the seventies like it's some kind of distant historical era these days. Am I crossing over

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-33299699552836508382008-06-17T10:47:00.000+02:002008-06-17T10:58:28.638+02:00

We sang Wonderwall down the pub, arms linked,Sticky, sickly rum and coke, glass after glass chinked.We were truly invincible, the most beautiful, the best,that summer was a huge wave and we were riding the crest.‘Whose turn to drive tonight?’ ‘Mum lent me her car!’A gaggle of girls, lip gloss reflecting the stars.We were breathlessly racing towards the rest of our lives,terrified, exhilarated and

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-31712704020670644272008-06-10T09:45:00.000+02:002008-06-10T09:56:51.356+02:00

We’re having crazy weather right now in Italy. Two weeks ago it was so hot that I nearly fainted on the bus, I only managed to cool myself down by fishing two ancient Tic Tacs out of my bag and sucking on them madly. I had smugly sat on the shady side of the bus, but of course it soon swung round a bend and plunged me into the sun’s full glare. Within two minutes I had gone from English rose to

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-88539471762428933462008-06-04T13:56:00.000+02:002008-06-04T13:57:40.502+02:00

Where are you? Not in your house whereI’ve seen a fancy car there in your drive and newcurtains. Not at the church vying to make cups of tea andslicing jammy Victoria sponge for the vicar. Not poppingto June’s for a loaf and some stamps, or down at Jan’s.Not at bowls (‘They’re all so old,’ you used to say,‘don’t know why I play. Last week a man died on thebench and we didn’t realise till the

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-67631477026568920812008-06-04T12:11:00.000+02:002008-06-04T12:47:24.119+02:00

Mr Finch was a quiet, mole-like man. His mother told him to be careful of girls as they were only ever looking for a fool to take care of them. Secretly though, he longed to be someone’s galloping knight. As it turned out, he spent much of his adult life looking after his mother and was too worn out to practice rescuing damsels.One day after his mother's funeral when he was shuffling home from

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-25539333645013593102008-05-21T11:30:00.000+02:002008-06-04T14:00:13.192+02:00

The Meaning Of AntsI asked some ants where they were going in such a hurry,but they didn’t have time to respond. ‘Must dash, busy, busy!’they chimed, all of a flurry in their matching black suits.To and fro, it made me dizzy, the patio’s like rush hour at Piccadilly,each going as fast as he can, each with his own grand taskand individually tailored pension plan.After this initial hitch, I tried

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-60476083295938800192008-05-13T10:18:00.000+02:002008-06-10T09:53:50.797+02:00

Two weeks ago, for the first time in my life, I had to buy a toilet seat. There’s a small shop round the corner that sells everything you might need for your bathroom so naturally I headed there, thinking that while I was at it I might pick up a new shower curtain and toilet brush too. The word Italians commonly use for toilet seat is ‘ciambella’ which also means doughnut. Not wanting to make a

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-32702531910303913062008-05-12T11:25:00.000+02:002008-05-12T11:46:15.023+02:00

I see you Giovanni, frowning behind the Sunday paper.Pages are scattered across the duvet that’s rumpled and crumpledinto the mountains and valleys of our private kingdom.You tussle with the paper as you turn the page andrecount some story you’ve read. We shake our headsin amazement, safe in our remote island bed.You shift mountains as you wrap your long strong legs aroundmine. You're warm like

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-75909730464387330472008-05-06T10:42:00.000+02:002008-05-06T12:54:24.715+02:00

There's a bomb ticking in the bottom of my fridge,behind the potatoes and next to the parmesan wedge.If the diet police come knocking I'll have to come cleanand admit to possessing a dangerous quantity of cream.

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-87239283809277277752008-05-06T09:35:00.000+02:002008-05-06T10:46:52.768+02:00

Why did I do it? I was lonely. It gets to me, just hanging out in the forest, no other wolves to pick fleas off. I know what you’re thinking. It all goes back to when I saw my mother killed by that woodcutter when I was a cub. Whatever. Just to set the record straight, I did not gobble up the girl’s dotty grandma, my emotions may be flattened by Prozac but I’m not a complete monster, I just

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-82328061902816205132008-05-06T09:22:00.001+02:002008-12-09T00:16:03.196+01:00

OrtigiaOrtigia, mille foglie di stucco,Rifatta bella da mille voglie.Tempeste tolgono suo trucco,Il tempo porta rughe e crepe.Galanti i suoi corteggiatori,Il mare quell'unico costante.Aspetta vestita da storia,Ortigia la sposa paziente.Rara sua aria distinta,Tant'è vero lo sguardo sereno.Illuminata, l'anima brilla,Grintosa e di rispetto degna.Io m'inchino, mi sento poveraAccanto a questa vera

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-62327939915057633062008-05-04T15:52:00.000+02:002008-06-10T09:54:40.313+02:00

After months of endlessly grey weather ('You should be used to this, Signora!' they chortle in the bakery), the sun is finally shining here in Tuscany. Hallelulia. It's also that briefest period of time when it's hot enough to sit out but when the mosquitos haven't hatched yet and begun their relentless attack. In short, it's BBQ weather.There's nothing more guaranteed to bring people out of

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-26754639619550896522008-04-29T10:16:00.000+02:002008-05-06T10:46:06.087+02:00

A rhyming cutlet is easy to prepare,It should be well-done and never rare.Just pop it in a pan with salt and pepper on it,and serve with a hefty side order of sonnet.

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-29160367535582321512008-04-29T09:55:00.001+02:002008-04-29T10:10:00.141+02:00

So, you know that I love tea and I'm married but you don't know much else about me. I'm in my twenties (I can only say that for the next 58 days so I'm milking it) and I live in Italy where fortunately, you're still considered a kid until you're about forty five which makes me a baby. I don't want to use this blog to write what I do everyday because, to be frank, it's often dull enough while I'm

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-19070614811887346472008-04-26T21:09:00.000+02:002008-05-06T10:45:51.076+02:00

Our tea, who art in the pot,Delicious be thy name.Thy crockery come,Thy will be done,With loose leaves as it is with tea bags.Pour us this day our daily brew,And forgive us our cappuccinos,As we forgive those who sip cappuccinos in front of us.Lead us not into Starbucks,But deliver us to the nearest tearooms,For thine is the cuppa,The comfort and the flavour,Forever and ever. Our Char.

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5090269225290422400.post-63735508681731362322008-04-26T17:51:00.000+02:002008-04-26T17:52:31.617+02:00

So my lovely husband has finally put me on the net .... he's such a nice guy I really love him.Where would I be without him.

Melhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11119449107757504041noreply@blogger.com1