So, long time since last post, but life has been rather fine. Florence was amazing, art, food, wine, shoes, bags, Italian men - oh come on ......... cheesy yes, but so good for the ego. I didn't disgrace myself by sobbing in the Uffizi (caused something of a stir by blubbing in the Prado in front of a Durer some years ago) although there was a slight footstamp as a Uccello was "in restaurio" and the view from my room window ? Now I'm not Helena/Lucy but I reckon this is ok ? Yup, the bestest baggery in the world !
I was also rather pleased with how my Italian seemed to be going, even if I wasn't sure about how to say things (bastard daughter of Miles Kington for those of you who remember Franglais) I understood most of the conversations I had, or rather, were had with me. A small triumph for a woman with few linguistic skills, and fascinating how helpful 1 year of Latin in 1970 could be !
The shopping was kept firmly in check - sadly, but of necessity. Alessandra in Furla worked very hard, by reminding me that altho I already had a cream bag, the one I was lusting after but denying myself, was "chalk", therefore not cream, and so a totally acceptable expenditure in a well ordered wardrobe. Ladies, or metrosexuals, I demand a round of applause.
What else ? Well, on my first evening, on my way to supper I saw a beautiful hat...... mentally noted but then ....never found again. Am I the person who doesn't have the magical adventure ? was it waiting for someone else ? The shop disappeared ! I trailed around every jitty, alley, ginnel, cut, lane, calle, via (suspect we have enough now - ed) and never found it. I began to feel as if I was auditioning for "The Ship that Flew" or an E.Nesbit story.
Now, back in real life, catching up with friends and blogs, plotting my next escape and repairing the disasters wrought in my absence, which include......... kittens crapping in the laundry basket, daughter cutting her own hair and signing up for a major tattoo ( should I be cool and hope the fact she is needle phobic will change her mind or just rant like any sensible mother ? ) and the dog flinging himself through the window at the naughty, dangerous windowcleaners.
Life's a bugger isn't it ? - but remember, it is usually better than the alternative