Hello! Anyone listening?

Oh, whoopee!  The oil producing countries (in particular, the Gulf Arab states, flush with profits from record high oil prices) are having a race to see who can build the highest skyscraper.  Apparently, Riyadh-based Kingdom Holding is inviting bids for contracts to build a one-mile high tower in the Saudi capital. Isn’t that nice?!  Useful, too!
It warms the cockles of my heart to see that someone is out there thinking up useless, pointless ways of spending all that ill-gotten money! The cost of the tower? Five billion pounds sterling. Uh, how many millions of pounds sterling is that? - more money than most (poor, starving) African states even dream of, that’s for sure, States, which, according to the newspaper report I read, we will be able to see from the top of the tower. I bet the Africans will appreciate us snooping on them! Not!
How about spending some of that easily-made money on building schools and hospitals, paying nurses and teachers (who have the future of our children in their hands) a decent wage? Yeah, right!
If the oil producing countries have that much money to spend (just to remind you where it came from, continues to come from: 'profits from record high oil prices'), why are we being charged obscene prices for every barrel of oil which then reflects on the economy, on the price of just about everything we buy? I thought the price hikes were due perhaps to the rising cost of living, of labour, overheads, whatever... No! It’s greed, pure and simple. An insult.
I protest!

We should all protest.
Imagine that if man really thought about others and not just himself, it would be so easy to say: “Okay, everyone, I find paying so much for everything (putting huge, sickening profits into the wrong pockets) detrimental to my security, my family’s security, to future generations’ security. What are we going to do about it? One simple, simple little move would be to forego the car, motorbike, scooter, or whatever else we drive, and travel by public transport… FOR ONE MONTH!”
One month of not buying petrol (gasoline) equates to billions in lost revenues for the (voracious, insatiable, insensitive) oil producing countries and their puppet oil companies. It might actually compel them to lower their prices; or we keep boycotting oil until they do.
Not only that, imagine how the environment would benefit. Clean air (okay, I’m exaggerating here, though it would help, be a start anyway) would be another plus.
I am one very fed up citizen of the world.
Let’s declare a “No Oil Month!” and actually respect it.
We walk everywhere, use public transport, take the train…
No more talk. Action.

☁ ☢ ☁ ☢ ☁

Ben, the Marquis & Anna Maria (Part 6)

Ben has just driven into Naples when his van is hit by a ten ton American army truck, and he wakes up two days later in hospital with a broken jaw, a dislocated hip, myriad cuts and bruises, and minus a few teeth, the only survivor of the crash, his life saved perhaps by the fact that he was fast asleep at the moment of impact.
As coincidence will have it, he shares a ward with six other officers, each with the same injury, their teeth wired together so they can’t move their jaw. At meal times, there is an awful slurping sound as they suck their mostly liquid food through their teeth. Ben is lucky because, ‘thanks’ to losing a few teeth in the accident, he is able to get slightly larger pieces into his mouth.
On hearing the news, Anna Maria feels instant guilt for treating Ben so badly. She must go to him.
Despite all Mario’s threats and futile attempts to stop her, Anna Maria has the time of her life winding more than one gullible British Army truck driver around her little finger. They can't resist her charms.
If Allied transport hadn't been so tied up chauffeuring her and her chaperoning sisters back and forth between Naples and Arienzo, the war might have ended a lot sooner.
As soon as he recovers, Ben calls to arrange a meeting with Mario, which, to Tecla, Anna Maria and her sisters, can only mean one thing: Ben intends to ask the Marquis for Anna Maria’s hand in marriage.
Excitement sweeps through the house. And the entire village.
How will Mario react? He keeps his thoughts to himself, and will make no decision until he has heard what Ben has to say.
But he isn’t thrilled.
He locks himself in his study for two days, refusing to see any member of the family, his meals left on a tray outside his door. In truth, he is searching his conscience for any excuse that will stop Ben taking his little girl away.
The day of the meeting.
Ben shows up, and is led to Mario’s study by an apprehensive Anna Maria, whose earlier confidence has taken a serious plunge, despite Tecla’s reassurances.
Mario opens the door for Ben, then closes it behind him.
A sense of gloom settles over the house.
And the village.
Tecla, Anna Maria, the sisters, friends and the domestic staff sit in silence awaiting the outcome of the meeting. One can hear a pin drop.
During the meeting Mario does his utmost to regain macho control of his life, taking his role as head of the family with great seriousness. However, in spite of all the obstacles he thrusts Ben’s way, the young Englishman’s every response is right on the button. He is such a gentleman, his intentions so sincere, that Mario finally admits defeat.
Aware of the proverb ‘If you can’t beat them, join them’, Mario gives Ben permission to marry Anna Maria. But, because of British military law, they will not be able to do so until after the war. Mario’s only condition is that they not get married until the return of his son, Pippotto.
On hearing of this condition Tecla tells Mario to stop being an old bore and to let Anna Maria and Ben get married whenever they wish. There’s been no news of Pipotto since the day he was taken away, and Tecla has resigned herself to his death, has mourned him in private. Delaying Anna Maria and Ben’s happiness will not make things any better.
Again, Mario is forced to capitulate.

MORE TO COME

Ben, the Marquis & Anna Maria (Part 5)

Relations between the villagers and the British and Commonwealth troops become strained when, one night, a handful of the Ceylonese troops get mightily drunk, which is against their religion, and bother a couple of village girls. Italians do not like their women being mistreated; it reflects on their families, and quickly becomes a question of honour.
The girls’ fathers and brothers retaliate and a fight breaks out in the village square. It quickly turns nasty, and one of the Ceylonese troops is stabbed to death by an irate father, who is whisked away immediately by his friends moments before Ben and the Military Police show up.
Looking for the culprit, Ben comes up against a wall of silence. The villagers have no intention of ratting on the father, especially as they feel the dead soldier got what he deserved.
Days later, after some intense police work (and an anonymous phone call, possibly from someone who wanted to prevent the British military police getting too close to local black market operations), Ben and a handful of MPs raid a house on the village outskirts, where they find and arrest the father, a fact that jeopardizes all the goodwill Ben has created to date.
He has no real proof. When confronted by the defence lawyer, the two Ceylonese soldiers, who had originally identified the father as the killer, admit to it having been too dark that night to be one hundred percent sure. Add that to the alcohol consumed and their testimony is tossed out of court.
No villager steps forward to testify against the father - the general consensus of opinion being that he was simply defending his daughter's honour, something any decent father would have done.

Throughout the investigation and ensuing trial, Anna Maria refuses to talk to Ben, which drives him positively crazy. Mario couldn’t be happier, and never misses an opportunity to badmouth Ben, believing that his every word will drive a wedge deeper and deeper between his daughter and the loathed ‘enemy’.

The rift between the two fiancés is on everyone's tongue, the majority of the villagers very much on Anna Maria's side.
Poor Ben drowns his sorrows in copious amounts of gin at the officers’ mess.

In the café, I notice that the pro-Ben and pro-Anna Maria factions are evenly divided, with both factions unwilling to give in to the other. A couple of old timers even threaten each other, but are quickly shouted down and told to grow up. Naturally, I am caught smack in the middle, unable to take sides.

It is astonishing that this story still evokes so much passion.
The neutrals contend that Anna Maria never had any intention of leaving Ben, that she was only putting him to the test, playing a typically female game of cat and mouse.
The discussion heats up and might have continued unabated were it not for the look on the café proprietor’s face.

Not long after the investigation, which sees no one sent to prison for the killing of the Ceylonese soldier - officially just another war casualty - Ben is transferred to Naples, and Mario heaves a sigh of relief, convinced that absence will not, in this case, make the heart grow fonder, and that Anna Maria will soon forget Ben.
Providence decides to lend a helping hand in proving the Marquis wrong.

MORE TO COME

Flying Without Mechanical Aids (Part Two)

When 'Flying Without Mechanical Aids' only one of the two wing men may give the order to take off, otherwise there would be total confusion and risk of flight collapse.
“All systems ready!” Mayo shouted from his end of the line, there because he was an experienced aviator.
“All systems ready!” I responded from mine.
Mayo and I had practically emptied Giorgio’s Vineria and the ‘Nolano’ - Mario Tozzi’s pleasant little wine bar two doors down from Giorgio’s, a quieter, more relaxed place, better suited to the intellectual drinker - and formed up a group, possibly a world record, of seventy-four aviators, plus Mayo and I; a mixture of Romans, Campo residents and tourists. It was an amazing sight. A party atmosphere that involved the entire Campo de’ Fiori.
Excitement rippled through the aviators and across the piazza.
“Ready?” I shouted.
“Ready!” seventy-four laughing voices responded in unison, a medley of languages.
“Now!”
With Mayo and I flapping our hands - it is vital the arms remain rigid during this - seventy-six aviators simultaneously bent their knees, hopped off the curb into the air, and hovered for the briefest of moments (as in Martin Allard’s photo, top right) before making a gentle and perfect touchdown on the cobblestones a second later, again bending their knees to cushion the landing.
This was greeted with thunderous applause and unbridled cheering from our audience, which matched the aviators in numbers.
I wouldn’t put any money on it, but I might have heard a jeer or two.
(Losers)
However, they were easily drowned out.
(It was a no contest)
The aviators - remember that most had never even seen each other before - laughed, shook hands, chatted about the experience and wandered off to buy each other drinks.
A mixed group of Argentines and Swedes - again, total strangers before flying - came over and thanked us for inviting them to join in, then went off to do some sightseeing together.
An elderly gentleman from Ireland got quite emotional about it.  "You two are right; it takes so little..."  In fact, he was so overcome, he couldn't say another word.  He smiled, shook our hands vigorously and nodded at the wonder of it all.  We watched him wander off, and laughed when he did a fast soft-shoe shuffle on his way around the corner.

“Feeling better, Mayo?”
“Much better, thank you, dude. Feel like I could now go out and save the world!”
“Yes. Flying will do that to you.”
We were silent for a moment, basking as we always did in post-flight bliss, before strolling back to Giorgio's for a cold beer.

✈ ✈ ✈ ✈ ✈

Flying Without Mechanical Aids (Part One)

'Flying without mechanical aids' is simple and loads of fun. You can fly solo or in a group of as many aviators as you wish. The sky’s the limit! I prefer to call us aviators because it’s a far more romantic title. Yes, this sort of flying does have its detractors, but they are a minority, people incapable of enjoying simple pleasures.
(Party poopers)
Whether or not you get anything out of it depends on you, on your frame of mind.
Now, if you prefer group flight, it helps to fly with people who have a positive outlook on life. And it is vital…
(Not really, but it sounds more important)
… that the wing commanders, the aviators at the two extremes, be pros.
I have taken 'flying without mechanical aids' all over the world: Rome, Paris, London, Bled (Slovenia), Budva (Montenegro), Melbourne, Montreal, New York, Malton (Yorkshire, England), Los Angeles, Curry Mallets (Somerset, England), Sharon (Connecticut), Blue Hill (Maine), Punta del Este (Uruguay), Buenos Aires… and many other places.

(He knows a lot of wacky people)
And I have flown with friends and total strangers alike, most of whom have sent me postcards and even photographs of their flight experiences from the four corners of the world, some having taken flight to places I had to look for on the map.
I have even flown with Lola!
(It’s a lot scarier than he makes it out to be, believe me)
I even know two men who met their future wives during group flight. One of them, who said he’d never laughed so much in his entire life, later asked me to be the godfather of his first son. I was seriously chuffed.
I have emptied restaurants and bars of diners and drinkers who didn’t know each other, taken them outside to fly together, and then watched them stroll back inside laughing and talking to each other like old friends, the atmosphere in the restaurant or bar no longer so hushed nor quite so individualistic.
People are only too eager to fraternise and communicate with others - they want to - no matter who they are or where they are from. It just takes someone to break the ice. It’s like belonging to a club. It really is. The simplicity of 'flying without mechanical aids' is what makes it so appealing. It’s an excuse to socialise, to make new friends, a chance to kick loneliness in the teeth. A lot of us need a push, that small charge of courage to start up a conversation with a total stranger. We all know the desire is there.
Start by standing on something that will permit easy take-off. It doesn’t have to be very high; a chair, a low wall, or even the edge of the curb will do very nicely.
For take-off, you must stand erect, feet together, with your arms straight out to the side at ninety degrees to the body (see photo top right, of the lovely Martine Allard flying off the steps of Montreal Cathedral).
If you are trying group flight, with multiple aviators, all of you must stand erect in a straight line, arms around each other’s shoulders or waist, with the wing commanders holding their free arm up and out, like a wing, prepared to ‘flap’.
You are now ready to fly.
(Sounds silly, but take my word; it isn’t. I once came very close to convincing a cute little cocker spaniel bitch to fly with me. Her name was Cleo, and she was very hot to fly. We were ready to take off when her fat mistress showed up and pulled her away. It was THAT close. I wonder where she is now)

TO BE CONTINUED

Designer Coo

I went to have a drink at Giorgio's Vineria in Campo de’ Fiori with my friend Mayo, who always has his nose deep in a newspaper. And this time was no different. He likes to keep abreast of what is happening in the world, and makes sure I am just as informed. “Hey, d’you hear this? A leading fertility expert said that couples should be entitled to use genetic screening to choose the sex of their babies.’ You see; we’re on the way out. I’m telling you, the penis will soon be little more than a pickled museum exhibit, something future generations of women will look at and wonder what possible use it might have had, or who or what wore it! Ouch! If someone tries to explain, they’ll probably think ‘how tacky’.” He was scandalised.
I laughed.
“‘This ground-breaking proposal will increase pressure on the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority to allow gender selection.’ Can you believe that?”
“It’s progress, Mayo.”
“Hey, dude, I don’t want to see my dick in a specimen jar!”
“Won’t happen.”
“‘To help couples with fertility problems, the use of genetic screening to create ‘designer babies’ is already a fact. The donation of sperm, eggs and embryos from donors with a choice of hair, eyes and hair colour is an everyday reality in fertility clinics.’ Right, I can see it now, designer babies with the doctor’s name tattooed on their ass! You can see what’s happening, right? Put this designer baby business together with cloning and artificial sperm, and that good old fashioned institution called ‘family’ will become history. Oh, and let’s not forget surrogate mothers. Imagine trying to figure out someone’s family tree; it’s gonna drive people insane. I mean, where do you start? A kid spends his life with Mom and Dad, and one day finds out they aren’t Mom and Dad after all. Not his biological Mom and Dad anyway. People are telling him he’s the product of donated sperm, possibly artificial, and a donated egg that evolved in some other woman’s womb for nine months. Kid could end up with some serious head problems.”
“Why don’t you write them a letter?” I quipped.
“Very funny! This is serious shit, dude. You hear about the deaf lesbian couple in Washington?”
It sounded like the classic opening to a joke. “No, I haven't heard about the deaf lesbian couple in Washington,” I replied.
“They chose a deaf sperm donor!”
It wasn’t a great punch line, but I laughed anyway.
“I’m serious.”
“Come on, no one can be that selfish!”
“These girls win the cake. They did it; had a boy. He is as deaf as a post.”
I stopped laughing.
“And they have no intention of giving him a hearing aid. They said they’ll let him decide when he’s grown up.”
“Ah. Now isn’t that sweet of them. They do have a heart after all!”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Did you hear that sex-change marriages have been given the green light?  So you and I can...”
“Mayo," I interrupted, "that’s going to cost you the next round.”
“No, seriously, dude; history’s being made, really. People who change sex will have the right to alter their birth certificates to show their new sex and not their birth sex…”
“So someone of the same sex could end up marrying a transsexual without knowing it!”
“The world’s going mad, dude. The world’s going mad!” A pause. “Look, dude, we’ve been friends a long time, and I've always felt I can talk to you about anything. It's time I told you the truth about me…”
“Mayo!” I warned.
“My name isn’t Mayo!” he continued unperturbed, his voice now several octaves higher, very girly. “It’s…”

"Order the beers, Mayo!"

☃ ☃ ☃ ☃ ☃

Goodbye, Love

Like the song says: ‘breaking up is hard to do’, but when it happens it can be agony. The woman you honestly believed was going be the love of your life, with whom you were going to raise a family - till death us do part, and all that – suddenly says she’s leaving you. What? You wonder what you might have done wrong. Naturally, your ego boasts you've done nothing wrong.  There must be another man.  Has to be!  No, there's no other man.  Which is worse: leaving you for another man, or simply leaving you?
You’re inconsolable. You stop going out, watch too much meaningless, mind-rotting television, drown yourself in alcohol, wallow in self pity, jump at shadows… Despite not telling anyone, your friends know why you won’t go out, why you turn down their invitations; you’re terrified your girlfriend…
(Your EX-girlfriend!!!)
… might call or even come round to see you. She won’t of course, but you would die if she did and you were out. You’re still praying she’ll call and explain that she needed a little time to think, has finished thinking and is now ready to give you another chance.
(And you’d fall for it)
But no matter how long you stare at the phone begging it to ring, even talking to it, she doesn’t call. And when it does ring, you leap on it, your heart in your mouth.
(Boy, am I glad we dogs don’t have these problems)
"Darling!" you cry out.
“Don’t you ‘darling’ me, mate!” yells an incensed male voice.
“Uh…”
“This the gas board? I have a complaint to make,” the incensed voice continues, following up with a lengthy, colourful diatribe against the majority of government institutions.
“I’m sorry…” you start, your heart breaking a little more.  You really need this!
“No point bein’ bloody sorry, mate!” the voice points out. “Get someone down ‘ere to fix the soddin’ problem. I pay me bills on time…”
You finally succeed in convincing him that you are not the Gas Board, and he signs off with a curse for wasting his time. “What’s this friggin’ country comin’ to?!”
(Hey, watch your language!)
Then there are those moments when the phone rings and you are busy doing something else, like being on the loo. You jump to your feet and burst out of the bathroom, your trousers around your ankles, and, in spite of the handicap, you break records as you kangaroo across the living room to the phone, screaming “I’m coming, I’m coming,” while falling several times and causing yourself grievous bodily harm. You dive for the phone and scream ‘Hello!’ while rubbing a sore shin or bruised toe. Too late; whoever it was has hung up. Furious, frustrated, forgetting the receiver is attached to its base by a coiled elastic wire, you throw it across the room and it springs right back and smacks you on the nose.
(For crying out bloody loud)
Ouch!
Of course, the advent of cordless and mobile phones has made life a lot easier. You can go to the loo and take your time, even relax and enjoy it, perhaps read the newspaper, or that book you’ve been promising to look at for weeks, happy in the knowledge that you don’t have to get up; the phone is right there within reach.
(Ha!)
Yes, you can even throw the thing across the room, confident it won’t bounce back and…
Ringing!
You grab the phone. God bless the cordless. “Hello, my love!” But all you hear is the dialling tone! What the…?
(Try the doorbell)
Then you realize it’s the bloody doorbell!
(!?!)
Who on earth…? Her! Yes! Please! Again, you leap off the loo without pulling up your trousers, shoot through the bathroom door and, cannoning off the sofa on the way, kangaroo to the front door already imagining her words: “Oh, darling, my love, my sweet, my adonis!”

(My what?!)

You picture her throwing herself at you and wrapping her arms around your neck, her bags at her feet, then stepping back to have a good look at you. “My God! You look great. You’ve lost weight. I must have been mad to leave you! How can you ever forgive me? Let’s go to bed and shag the rest of the day away!”
(♫Dreeeeeaaammm…♬)
Reslishing the ‘shag the rest of the day away’ bit, you grab the house-phone. “Darling!”
“Oh, no, I am terribly sorry; I am not 'darling',” a very Asian voice responds. “I was wondering if you would please be so kind as to direct me to the flat of Mrs Musharraf. I am to start today as her new housekeeper.”
“Uh, you must have the wrong building,” you respond, thinking what a cruel world it is we live in. What’s wrong with everyone? Don’t they know that you are suffering from a broken heart? “There’s no Mrs Musharraf here.”
“Then I must apologise. Have a nice day.”
(Have a nice day?!)
You sit there wondering what she might be doing - no, not Mrs Musharraf! - and you imagine the worst possible scenarios, like another man’s hands roaming all over her body, up those beautiful long legs…
(Why don’t you just simply cut your wrists, get it over with)
Time drags. You start seeing things you were far too happy to notice before, like dust, cracks in the walls, cobwebs in the corners. You suffer from insomnia, you stop eating, you look awful. Finally, desperately in need of affection, you start calling the girls you used to go out with. You go down the list, calling girl after girl. But women aren't stupid; they can smell your need, your misery, see it in your eyes, that hangdog look.
(I never liked that expression)
They know you want to jump into bed with them and think about the girl you love while you're doing it. The girl you can't have. And it hurts, breaks your heart. But you loved her, still love her.

And what about the poor friend who is afraid you might do something stupid? You wouldn’t be the first jilted lover to feast on sleeping pills, or dive in front of a bus and leave behind a heartrending note. He comes over to visit, to drink a few beers with you, perfectly willing to suffer the after-effects of a night’s boozing if it will cheer you up. Seeing you look like death is shattering him. After the opening classic “There are plenty of other fish in the sea,” he makes the mistake of criticising her, thinking it is what you want to hear. He is just being supportive, loyal. A friend. But you…
(You ungrateful bollocks)
… lose your temper, tell him to sod off. Who does he think he is? You may criticize your ex-girlfriend as much as you want, but no one else can.
Percy Sledge was right: “When a man loves a woman, she can do no wrong.”
(Who needs it?)

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

Cold Justice

Probably thinking he’s the cat’s whiskers, and imagining his next Oscar performance on MySpace, a drunken idiot, the level of alcohol in his blood four and a half times over the legal limit, speeds along the Lungotevere, the street that coasts the River Tiber, and in the blink of an eye snuffs out two innocent young lives – two Irish tourists on holiday in Rome - the impact so violent their bodies are tossed through the air like limp rag dolls to land fifty yards away!
Eyewitnesses watch the driver get out, stare in horror at what he has done, then jump back into his Mercedes and speed away from the scene of the crime.  A kilometre later, after hitting a garbage bin and a traffic light, he is picked up by the police and, refusing a drug test, sent home.  No arrest?  The father tells the newspapers his poor son is devastated.  He even has the gall to suggest that the lives of three families – not TWO families, THREE families - have been destroyed.  How can he compare his feelings with the suffering of two families who have each lost a daughter, neither one of whom had a choice, unlike his son, who (still very much alive) could have chosen not to drive, could have chosen to go home by taxi, could have chosen to have ‘Daddy’ come pick him up, could have chosen to do anything but get behind the wheel of a car?  Those two girls will not be going home.  He is already home.   If his banal contribution to MySpace is anything to go by, where one can watch footage of the laughing idiot driving his car with ‘Look! No hands’, he was already a walking advertisement for death.
Why was he sent home?  He had just killed those two girls!  Why wasn’t he arrested and jailed?
... Unlike the woman who lived in Latina, an hour’s drive south of Rome, with her four dogs.  The police searched her house after receiving a tip off (from her jealous ex-lover) that she was laundering money and running a counterfeit ring – false passports, ID cards and the like.  True or false, one didn’t know.  Having found nothing even remotely incriminating, the police apologized for causing the woman any inconvenience and were about to leave when she, remembering her good manners, asked the officer in charge if he would like a cup of coffee.  Yes, indeed, he would.  Thank you very much.
So off to the kitchen they went, the atmosphere now decidedly more relaxed.   When they entered, the coffee pot was standing on a huge freezer in a corner of the spacious room.   While the signora made the coffee, the officer’s eyes kept drifting back to the freezer.  Maybe, just maybe… No!  Yes!  Unable to resist any longer, he finally ordered one of his men to check its contents.
Horror of horrors; the naked body of an elderly man lay in the bottom of the freezer with a couple of frozen chickens, a lamb chop or two, a joint of beef and packets of frozen vegetables.
The woman gasped.   “What is this body doing in my freezer?” she cried.
Despite insisting she was innocent, that she had never seen the dead man before, that she wouldn't have invited the police in for coffee had she known of the body in her freezer, she was immediately arrested for murder and concealment of a corpse, and dragged off to prison, where she remained, despite the fact that - yes, the body was found on her property, which is pretty damning in itself, 'almost conclusive', one could say, but not absolute proof of guilt – the ensuing autopsy failed to find any signs of violence, or even the cause of death.

And what about the ex-boyfriend?  Did he have anything to do with the body?

In prison, the woman's chief concern is her four dogs who, she hopes, are being taken care of by friendly neighbours.

One thing's for sure; next time, if there is a next time, she will want the police out of her house as quickly as possible, and to hell with the cup of coffee!
Two culprits, each one treated differently by the law.  One is seen killing and is sent home, the other isn’t and is sent to prison.  I don’t get it.   Do you?

☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠

Ben, the Marquis & Anna Maria (Part 4)

Anna Maria couldn't care less about the ‘enemy’.   After three years of German occupation, curfews and rationing, she and her sisters just want to enjoy themselves.
But Mario is adamant. His daughter can scream and threaten suicide until she is blue in the face, he will not change his mind.  But he hasn't allowed for Tecla’s intervention – YET AGAIN!  Despite being in mourning, convinced that she will never see Pipotto again, Tecla still has enough fight in her to make short work of her husband’s objections.  And not having a high opinion of the Neapolitan nobility, she feels her daughter could do worse than go out with an Englishman, one who happens to be an officer and a gentleman.

Mario admits defeat.  And Anna Maria goes to the dance, chaperoned by her mother and her three sisters, to whom the party owes its success.  The girls dance the officers and men off their feet.  Ben dances with Tecla.  His first words, as he waltzes her around the improvised dance floor, almost take her breath away, causing her to stagger and very nearly fall.

"I wish to marry your daughter." Just like that, no beating about the bush.
"Marry my daughter?!" Mario screams at Tecla and his daughters after being informed of Ben's proposal. "Did I miss something?  Has Anna Maria been gallivanting around behind my back?"
"Mario!" Tecla cries, scandalised.
"Beh, per l’amor di Dio! They can't have said more than a dozen words to each other.  Don't the English converse with their women? I know they're supposed to be reserved, but this is ridiculous.  Is he insane?   Did his mother drop him on his head at birth?  Has he drunk his brain (a literal translation from the Italian)?  What does he take my daughter for?   The spoils of victory?  Does he think he can just march in here at the head of an army and requisition my little girl?  An Englishman marry my daughter?!   Over my dead body!   No, no and no!"
Italians can get absurdly excited.
He locks Anna Maria in her room, and rants and raves through the night and most of the following day.  In vain.  He loses.  Again.  He is no match for Tecla.
Ben is given permission to court Anna Maria.
The entire village is soon talking about Ben and Anna Maria, the young couple's every chaperoned move food for lengthy discussion and some heated debate – again depending on one’s political point of view.
The fact that neither one speaks more than a few words of the other’s language does nothing to stop them being exquisitely happy together.
Mario thinks they are insane.
Their courtship consists of looks and hand signals, a typically Italian trait that Ben soon learns to master.  He is a gentleman, a sweet-natured man who wouldn't hurt a fly… until Anna Maria, a hot-blooded, Mediterranean beauty, turns his head completely around.
One day, on being informed by Tecla that Anna Maria has gone to the pharmacy with a girlfriend, Ben astonishes everyone by hitting the roof and storming out.
Tecla frowns, and exchanges a look of astonishment with Mario and the three sisters.
"What do you expect?" Mario intones with a shrug. "He's English. They are all mad."
Ben's Italian being what it is, he misunderstood, and thinks that Anna Maria has gone to the cinema… with another man.  He goes to the Officers Mess to drown his sorrows in red wine.  Nicely smashed, he then searches the village - a fact that disrupts various black market activities, as people rush to hide their illegal wares, etc… - until he finds Anna Maria walking along the main street with the girlfriend.
With the entire village following him or hanging out of their windows to watch - the word has spread - Ben strides up to Anna Maria and, without the slightest hesitation, slaps her.
This very (Latin) masculine conduct is greeted with cheers and thunderous applause from the onlookers - men and women alike.  Ben scores a lot of points that day.   Italians, especially in the South, love people to express their emotions openly.
Anna Maria bursts out laughing - she loves it too.
When Mario hears of Ben’s slap, he applauds. "Bravo! There's hope for this Englishman yet! Never let a woman have the upper hand. Not even a daughter of mine."

Everyone in the café laughs, and mimes moments of the courtship, the memory of ‘Maggiore Ben’ searching for Anna Maria, finding her and then slapping her still so vivid.
Women’s Lib is still way in the future, and even when it does finally come to Italy it will bypass Arienzo altogether.
A good time is being had by one and all, and I love every minute of it.  To hear stories of my grandfather is the reason I drove all this way from England.

MORE TO COME

Ben, the Marquis & Anna Maria (Part 3)

There follows another interruption, while the now overflowing café debates on the merits of cricket and croquet, and the fact that Italy has never beaten England at either one or the other. However, there are some present who are only too ready to dispute this statistic – the argument fired more by political differences than anything else (an elderly monarchist and his communist peer get so angry they almost come to blows) and the proprietor’s generosity (in my honour) with the Grappa and the Limoncello, a lemon flavoured liqueur.
I want to hear more about my grandfather.

Needing a suitable building in which to set up headquarters, Major Ben Booth requisitions the biggest and most impressive villa, which turns out to be the summer residence of a Neapolitan aristocrat, Mario, the Marquis of Castelvetere, who boasts a bloodline all the way back to Julius Caesar. He is serious aristocracy.  He is also the father of Giuseppe ‘Pipotto’ Carfora, the boy taken away by the Germans.  The Marquis has never done a day's work in his life.  Due to severe gambling debts and his inexhaustible pursuit of women, he has squandered most of the family's once sizeable fortune, which might be what prompts his Milanese wife's epic remark to Ben: "It is better to marry a Milanese road-sweep than a Neapolitan prince!" However, in spite of his august ancestry and some spirited resistance, he is finally compelled to accept the invasion of his home and privacy.
It soon becomes apparent why Ben encounters so much resistance from the Marquis: his four very beautiful daughters. Mario is very jealous of whoever goes anywhere near his girls, and has extremely ambitious marriage plans for each of them. Nothing less than a Duke will do.
Poor Mario.
Ben hasn't been in the house forty minutes when he falls madly in love with beautiful, highly vivacious, nineteen year old Anna Maria, one of the Marquis' daughters, the girl Ben heralds as the 'most beautiful woman to have ever walked the face of this planet!’
The Marquis doesn't want his daughter to have anything to do with Ben. Though an intelligent and sophisticated man, he succumbed to all the anti-English propaganda put out by Mussolini and the fascist party before and during the war.
“Where were Mussolini and your beloved fascists when your son was beaten to within an inch of his life and carried off to a German concentration camp?” asks his wife, Tecla.
Mario waffles something unintelligible, and, wanting to restore what he believes to be the status quo, turns to his daughter and says: “Tell him he is not welcome here!”
“My father wants you to know that you are most welcome here,” Anna Maria tells Ben in her horribly broken English, “and that his humble house is your home.”
“Thank you,” my father says to the Marquis with a warm smile and a slight bow of his head.
Ignorant of his daughter’s ‘translation’, and totally flummoxed by Ben’s warm smile, the Marquis shrugs and says: “Boh! L’Inglesi! Pazzi! They are all mad!”
Considered neither romantic nor passionate by his men, just a warm and wonderful English gentleman, Ben’s courting of Anna Maria comes as a huge surprise to them.

He organizes a dance, complete with military band, to be held at the officers' mess which, before the arrival of the British, was the village café - the very same one Robert is sitting in today - with the much younger café proprietor wearing immaculate mess kit and serving behind the counter.  Anna Maria will be the guest of honour.

The café proprietor is interrupted again as some of the old timers and their wives re-enact the events of that evening, most of them vying for the roles of Ben and Anna Maria, and the exact spot where the two danced…
The café proprietor manages to regain control, and continue the story.

Naturally, the Marquis refuses point-blank. “I would rather die - or worse: vote communist - than see my daughter fraternise with the perfidious English, the enemy.

MORE TO COME

Ben, the Marquis & Anna Maria (Part 2)

People from neighbouring villages pour into Arienzo to attend the football match between Arienzo FC and the British Army, expanding the village’s population seven or eight times over.
And what a hard fought match! Both teams play their hearts out, the vociferous support heard miles away, the fans - both local and foreign - mingling and having a high old time together.

The score tied at 3-3, the final outcome is decided just as the referee (the local butcher) is about to blow the final whistle…
Pasquale Guido – blessed by the gods that day – picks up the ball just inside his own half, his body language telling the crowd they are about to witness something special.  No one moves, no one breathes, not a word, not a cough…

Elderly Pasquale Guida, his eyes brimming with tears, stares out the window at the main piazza, his thoughts taking him back to that glorious moment in October, 1943. “Si, mi ricordo. C’erano quattro Inglesi tra me e la porta…” he says, his voice barely a whisper, breaking with emotion. ‘Yes, I remember. There were four Englishmen between me and the goal…’
For once, no one tells him to be quiet, the café proprietor letting him have the floor.

The silence is total, all eyes on young Pasquale Guida.
The ball glued to his feet, Arienzo’s future Mayor feints one way and then the other, leaving an English player sitting on his bottom as he sprints past and on down the right wing.
Unmarked on the edge of the penalty area, Salvatore Di Napoli, the big centre forward who has already scored a goal, is screaming for the ball.  But Pasquale doesn’t hear him, or pretends not to, his mind on his destiny, his crowning moment. He sends another English player the wrong way and cuts in towards goal, the nervous keeper bouncing from foot to foot and yelling at his teammates to "Knock the Eyetie over if you ‘ave to!"
But the ‘Eyetie’ has other plans, the goal his target. He suddenly stops dead in his tracks to avoid another defender’s sliding tackle, and the man skids on past to end up in a tangle of legs and feet at the edge of the crowd.
Pasquale now has just one defender between him and the goal. And what a defender – my grandfather’s legendary Sergeant Major Jock Winterbottom, who won the Military Cross in Greece for fighting a running battle against several Germans who were masquerading as English Military police. They had been playing havoc with the Allies’ retreat by stopping traffic and generally clogging up the roads, leaving the vehicles prey to the Junkers Ju 87s, the dreaded dive-bombing Stukas.
But Pasquale, oblivious to big Jock’s heroic deeds, bears down on him, flicks the ball through his legs and tears past. Caught flat-footed, Winterbottom tries to recover, but loses his balance and crashes to the ground to the delight of the Italian supporters.
The goalkeeper races out to narrow the angle, but Pasquale tricks him into going one way while he goes the other and walks the ball into the goal just fractions of a second before the referee blows the final whistle.
Arienzo San Felice 4 – British Army 3.

The crowd goes berserk, the ensuing roar so thunderous the retreating Germans up north fear the Allies have started another major push toward the Gothic Line.
A grinning Pasquale is mobbed by his teammates, carried shoulder high, while the Italian fans cheer their heads off and the English fans applaud a great goal.
The final score of 4-3 will remain a source of pride for generations to come.

Years later, in recognition of his role in the historic 'sconfitta degli Inglesi' (defeat of the English), Mayor Pasquale Guida will be voted into office by an overwhelming and grateful majority.
As time passes, the importance of the game is blown out of all proportion, and eventually given full international status, the liberating troops being forced to endure some not so subtle taunting. No longer deemed a simple game of football between Arienzo San Felice and remnants of the British army, it is raised to far loftier heights, the stuff of legends: Italy v England no less!

The café proprietor stops to inform me that still to this day, in Arienzo’s bars and trattorias, and much of Southern Italy, the 4-3 win on October 11th, 1943 (with goals scored by Di Napoli, Hutchins, Smith, D’Alessio, Tuffarelli, McConachie and Guida), is still considered Italy’s first ever football victory over England, and not, as asserted by the rest of Italy, England, Europe, FIFA and the majority of football statisticians, Italy’s famous 2-0 win in Turin on June 14th, 1973, the goals scored by Pietro Anastasi and Fabio Capello.
Yes, all right, but I want to get back to the story, and most of the old timers are talking at once, no one even remotely aware that old Pasquale Guida looks as though he might have kicked the bucket, the emotions of reliving his fifteen minutes of glory too much for his old heart to bear, the smile stamped on his deeply lined face telling me that at least he died happy and is now entering the Pearly Gates, hopefully with that same football glued to his feet…

Wishing to restore his troops’ supremacy over a liberated people and believing football to be the sport of plebs, Ben challenges the locals to a cricket match. The challenge is accepted immediately.
Unfortunately, the Italians think he means ‘croquet’, which they pronounce as crocket (cricket, crocket; close enough, right?).
What follows is a match of equally historic importance, but one of total chaos.

MORE TO COME

Ben, the Marquis & Anna Maria (Part 1)

Today.
I drive into the sleepy village of Arienzo San Felice, a small Italian village just North of Naples, my car’s English licence plates cause for interest to the handful of people on the street. They wave as I pass.
Finally, I stop at a café in the main piazza and get out of the car. I look around, and take it all in, then smile as if well acquainted with my surroundings. It’s like bumping into an old friend I haven’t seen for years.
I enter the café, my attention immediately going to an old yellowed black and white photograph of two football teams on the wall behind the counter.
“La partita di calcio più famosa d’Italia!” says the elderly café proprietor with a whimsical sigh. “E la più importante,” he stresses. ‘Italy’s most famous game of football and the most important.’
I nod; I know.
The café proprietor discovers that I am English, on a sort of pilgrimage to Arienzo, and (‘Per l’amor di Dio!’ ‘For the love of God!’) related to one of the Englishmen who liberated the village from the Germans over sixty years ago, the event that sparked off that epic ‘most famous game of football’.
“Come si chiama?” the proprietor asks. ‘What’s your name?’
“Robert Booth.”
The café proprietor gasps, and drops the coffee cup he is holding. It hits the floor with a loud crash, pieces flying in all directions.
Booth? Booth!
“Major Ben Booth è suo…?” The proprietor lets the rest of his question hang in the air. ‘Major Ben Booth is your…?’
“Mio nonno,” I finish. ‘My grandfather.’
“Non è possible!  Come stà il Maggiore?  E la Nonna?  Come stà la Nonna?"  'It's not possible!  How is the Major?  And your Granny?  How is your Granny?'

I shake my head.  "Sono morti tutti e due in un incidente di macchina, con mamma e papa, quando io ero piccolo. Per questo sono qui; per sapere di più di loro, della loro storia di amore, della famiglia." 'They both died in a car accident, with Mum and Dad, when I was little.  It is why I am here, to find out more about them, about their love story, about the family.'

I am astonished to see he is deeply moved.  He turns away to blow his nose and wipe his eyes.  Recovered, he turns back to get a better look at me, his rheumy old eyes struggling to focus. Finally, he nods.  "Si.  Gli assomigli molto al Maggiore!"  'Yes.  You look a lot like the Major!'

The news flashes around the village like wildfire and, in no time at all, a crowd gathers at the café, most of them elderly, including survivors of ‘La partita di calcio più famosa d’Italia!’
“Booth!”
The name is repeated with reverence, and a certain degree of wonder, some of the older men and women touching me as if I were a holy relic. Everyone talks at once, the memories flooding back. And the stories. I hang on to their every word; this is why I have come.
The proprietor starts the story: “Il Maggior Ben Booth…”

October 3rd, 1943.
Now the enemy, since Italy surrendered to the Allies at the beginning of September, German troops are rounding up Arienzo’s able-bodied young men and forcing them into the back of lorries. And they aren’t nice about it.
Some manage to escape the dragnet. The lucky ones. But not Giuseppe ‘Pipotto’ Carfora, who is just seventeen years old. He is caught, beaten unconscious and tossed unceremoniously into the back of a truck.
Tecla, Pipotto’s despairing mother, witnesses his beating with her husband and four older daughters, and runs forward to pull him unconscious from the lorry, but a soldier knocks her to the ground.
Her appalled husband and daughters run to help her.
The convoy of tanks and lorries rolls out of Arienzo, taking with it the able-bodied young men the German troops managed to catch, all of whom will end up in German concentration camps.

The villagers line the streets, hang out of windows, the relatives of the young deportees shouting and crying their anguish as they watch the Germans move out.
As the convoy heads across the village square, a man starts to curse the troops. In no time at all, the curses are taken up by others, quickly becoming a unified condemnation of Germans’ tactics that echoes throughout the village.
A youth, a severe limp having saved him from deportation, hurls a stone at one of the tank commanders, who immediately orders his machine gunner to open fire on the hostile crowd, the end result being two dead – the crippled stone thrower and a nine year old girl – and several wounded.
Next day, after four years of war, including daring escapes from France, Greece and Crete, and fighting Rommel’s Africka Korps in the desert of North Africa, and doing his utmost not to get killed, Major Ben Booth drives into Arienzo San Felice at the head of a motley crew of British and Commonwealth troops, and liberates it… Well, all right, so the Germans had driven away the day before, but who cares? - ‘liberates it’ still sounds good.
The villagers pour into the streets to give Major Ben Booth and his troops a hero’s welcome, British and Italian flags everywhere. Where all the British flags (not all perfect, but who cares) have come from is a mystery. Someone must have stayed up all night sewing like crazy.
The Mayor of Arienzo San Felice, with the Italian flag wrapped around his waist, and the rest of the village hierarchy make numerous speeches, not a word of which is understood by Ben and his troops.
The festivities last the rest of the day and well into the night, long after the ‘liberating army’ has gone to bed, exhausted and merry on the wine that the villagers (and the very generous nuns at the local monastery) had stashed away for such an occasion, and that no number of German raids had managed to unearth. Unfortunately, some of the Commonwealth troops, not used to alcohol, behave rather badly, but are quickly forgiven, their exuberance put down to the release of tension from fighting every day. They’re just letting off steam.
A motion is put forward to make the day of liberation an annual holiday. This is greeted with boisterous, enthusiastic cheers from all present, but such a heated discussion ensues (between Republicans, Monarchists and Communists, all of whom are already preparing for the post-war political battle that will follow the Allied victory roughly nineteen months hence) over what to call the holiday, the favourites being ‘Giorno di Liberazione’ (Liberation Day), ‘Giornata Inglese’ (English Day), or ‘Giornata Italia ed Inghilterra Uniti Per Sempre’ (Italy and England United Forever Day), that the idea is quickly scrapped and soon forgotten.
However, following yet another animated debate over the choice of venue between the same Republicans, Monarchists and Communists (anyone’s suggestion cause for immediate suspicion from the others), the Mayor finally succeeds in organizing a game of football, to be played in the village’s main piazza between Arienzo and a mixed team of overly confident British and Commonwealth troops…

The story is interrupted by an old man named Pasquale Guida, Arienzo's ex-mayor, who beams with pride as he speaks: "Si, non dimentichero mai quel giorno..." 'Yes, I will never forget that day...'
But that's as far as he gets.  He is shouted down by everyone else in the café, the old timers then urging the proprietor to continue telling the story so they can relive the rollercoaster emotions of that extraordinary match played while the rest of the world was at war.
The proprietor resumes the story while glaring at a chagrined Pasquale, as if daring him to interrupt again.

Everyone turns out to watch the football match, the piazza packed with villagers and British troops alike…

MORE TO COME

Driving In Rome

Finding somewhere to park in Rome is not easy. People have been known to hang onto a parking space for weeks, their cars idle, rather than risk never finding another one.  Yes, it’s insane, I know - just like everything else to do with driving a car in this city.
You need to have nerves of steel and be totally oblivious to your fellow drivers. Only the strongest and most bloody-minded survive. Slowing down to let a pedestrian cross the street, giving way to another car, stopping at a red traffic light, driving within the speed limit, simply being courteous to others…

(You must be joking!)

Italian women are less likely to give way than men, which is hardly surprising if you look back at what they have had to put up with in order to get anywhere in this very masculine society.

(They are at war)

A female traffic warden - they feel they have something to prove - will be far tougher than her male counterpart who, more often than not, will sympathise with an offender if his excuse for running several traffic lights, destroying a vast number of vehicles and private property and maiming and slaughtering myriad pedestrians is good enough. Throw in a school, an orphanage or an old folks’ home and you’re home scot-free. The more outlandish the performance the better. An excuse involving children and grandmothers never fails. But not with the female traffic warden, whose expression as she writes out the ticket will remain rigidly indifferent to even the most heartbreaking of stories, true or false.
Yet in spite of women’s hard fought progress and success, it is the Italian ‘mamma’ who put the Italian male on a pedestal. Mothers frequently gloat and cluck over the size of their baby boys’ genitals.

(Yes, they really do)

So it is hardly surprising that the Italian male grows up with a thing about his private parts. No matter how ugly he might be, he honestly expects every woman to fall at his feet, and thinks there must be something wrong with the woman who doesn’t. Mamma pumped him full of confidence, made him believe he is God’s gift to the opposite sex, a conviction that no number of rejections will undermine.
However, should you see an Italian man giving his testicles a hearty scratch, he isn’t trying to impress a woman…

(He isn’t?!)

… he has just seen or heard something that he means to avoid at any price. He’s warding off the evil eye. It is not unusual to see a group of men on a street corner suddenly interrupt their conversation to give themselves a vigorous precautionary scratch.
Italians are actually quite superstitious. Many carry a ‘corno’ (a fake animal’s horn) in their pockets, usually attached to a key ring, which they rub at times of trouble, again to ward off the evil eye. You can also see them hanging from a car’s rear-view mirror, alongside those little deodorant trees or baby shoes.
A black cat crossing the street will bring traffic to a complete and chaotic halt, as drivers, eager to avoid who knows what misfortune, slam brake pedals through the floor, the sudden stop causing a long line of rear-end collisions. No one cares. No one moves. Everyone waits for another car to drive by, at which point there is a collective sigh of relief and traffic may circulate once again. Problems arise of course if it is a quiet street, and traffic non-existent. Drivers have been known to spend the better part of a day waiting for another car to come along or, tired of waiting, eventually reverse back up the street and take an alternative route.
I heard a story of a man and his wife, who sat in their car for days on end, waiting and waiting… waiting and waiting. It wasn't long before hunger and thirst reared their ugly heads. Okay, you might ask, why didn’t one of them get out of the car and go buy food and drink? Their relationship was on the rocks, that’s why, and neither one was going to give in to the other. Pride, stupid pride! The truth is they hated each other. Finally, starving and unable to resist any longer, the man attacked his wife… and ate her.

(Oh, please!)

In court, the man pleaded not guilty. The judge, who had himself experienced more than one ‘black cat’ situation, understood and let him off.

(And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything)

Though driving in Rome is chaotic and infuriating, and at times totally incomprehensible, road rage is not part of the Italian driver’s psyche, never has been and, with luck, never will be. Italians are not a bellicose people, which is reflected in their every day life, putting them way ahead of the rest of us. God bless ‘em.
Yes, Italian men…

(And women)

… will curse and wave their fists out the window. It is par for the course, but quite innocuous. And, yes, men will sometimes get out of their cars, but only to stand nose to nose and scream abuse at each other, using their fists the last thing on their minds. Finally, as their anger ebbs and the curses lose their intensity, they start to back away from each other and inch towards their cars, the fight that elsewhere in the world would have erupted into urban warfare defusing rapidly. But unfortunately, before getting back into his car, one or the other…

(His pride not allowing him to just walk away from it - can’t be left with egg on one’s face, not good for the male ego, something called ‘bella figura’, meaning ‘face’, ‘prestige’ or words to that effect)

… will fire off a parting remark, something derogatory aimed at the other’s grandmother, mother, wife or girlfriend who, unbeknownst to him, just happens to be in the car. Oh, no! Out she comes, spitting nails, to force her man to step once again into the fray, both he and the other man wishing she'd been left at home. Reluctantly, they return to their battle positions, nose to nose, and repeat the curses, though with perhaps less conviction…
At this point, the audience of pedestrians and motorists watching the performance, possibly disappointed with developments and now eager to get on with their lives…

(Who knows what saga the next traffic light might bring?)

… will intervene by shouting scornful remarks, thus putting a fast end to the fight and sending the humbled and greatly relieved ‘combatants’ on their way.
Now crossing the street, and surviving that particular adventure, is another story. But it can be done. Never confuse the oncoming drivers by changing speed. It is vital that…

(Despite the conviction you are going to die)

… you maintain an external calm as you face this nightmare-inspiring vehicular assault. Keep your eyes on the approaching drivers, anticipate their every move. They will not decelerate, but will gauge your speed to theirs and drive around you. It is a simple question...

(Of knowing your enemy)

... of timing.  Don’t let them see your fear; it will only serve to egg them on. If they see someone hesitating on the edge of the curb, too afraid to take that first step across the street, they gloat, triumphant.

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪

Roman Bureaucracy

In Italy, one needs an official document for just about everything.
A few years ago, before the computer really took hold, I needed a copy of my residence papers – to open a bank account, if my memory serves me correctly - which meant a trip to the Anagrafe, the equivalent of a registry office or Town Hall.
I took Lola with me. She needed the exercise.

(Oh, for a piece of red meat. I needed the protein. Robert was going through his vegetarian phase at the time, which, you can understand, was not my idea of fun)

I walked to the Anagrafe, which is near the Fatebenefratelli Hospital, one of the oldest in Europe, on the Isle of Tiberina in the middle of the River Tiber, a five minute walk from the Campo de’ Fiori. It is a truly beautiful location.
I entered the building wondering what comical relief I would experience today. Italian bureaucracy is chaotic at the best of times and, if it doesn't drive you certifiably insane, can be very amusing now and then.
I joined the necessary line to find that there were only three people ahead of me. My lucky day.

(Oh dear! He had to go and say it, didn't he?)

Me and my big mouth!
The first person in the line was a Roman Catholic priest, who had come to inform the Anagrafe of his change of address. The civil servant pulled out the man’s file (part of a huge volume, weighed a ton), and asked him if he also wanted the names of his wife and three children on the document.

(A catholic priest – wife and children?!)

"But that's impossible," the poor priest muttered, while blushing a deep purple. "I don't have a wife and children!  My faith won't allow it."
"That's what I've always thought.  It's what I was brought up to think, anyway" said the civil servant while looking down his nose at the poor priest.  "But your file thinks otherwise. Did you get some sort of papal dispensation?"
"Of course not!  There must be some mistake."
Behind him, we struggled to keep a collective straight face. It was not easy.
"We don't make mistakes," the civil servant insisted.
It was finally sorted out, and the priest left, a haggard man, his shoulders so curved they were almost touching.

(The system had claimed another victim)

Next in line was a woman, who must have been at least eighty years of age. She wanted a copy of her husband's residence papers.
"He's dead!" said the civil servant staring down at another file.
The woman gasped as her old legs buckled and she started a slow collapse to the floor. Fortunately, we caught her in time. A chair and a glass of water appeared out of nowhere. She finally recovered enough to return to the civil servant, who gave her a look that implied she was wasting his time, that he had more important things to do.
"But my husband was fine when I left home this morning," the old woman moaned.
Immune to her feelings, the civil servant droned on. "Keep his corpse at home, do you? That's illegal, unless I'm very much mistaken. Perhaps I should report you!"

(Aren't these people vetted in any way?!)

"My husband is alive!"
"Not according to his file, he isn't. Look. Read for yourself." He held up the file for the old woman to see. "Deceased. Says so right here."
"But this is the file of…” the old woman leaned forward, not trusting her old eyes, a hint of hope in her voice, “... Giacomo Coppi!" Thus came out as a shriek.
"I can read," said the snotty-sounding civil servant.
"My husband's name is Giovanni Coppi."
"Not according to his file it isn't."

(For crying out loud. Where do they find these people?)

"Then this obviously isn't his file."
"Are you telling me I pulled out the wrong file? Is that what you're telling me?" the idiot asked, his expression telling her that there was no way he could make a mistake like that.
"Yes!" we all shouted in chorus. He was getting on our nerves in a big way.
The old woman sorted out, the next person in line moved forward.
A girl in her mid-twenties, who needed a copy of her marriage certificate. Judging by the look on her face, she wasn't going to put up with any nonsense.
We held our breaths as Mister Diplomacy pulled out the girl's file. He flipped it open, and we leaned forward in anticipation.
Was her husband dead or alive? Was she a bigamist? Was she divorced? Did she have children her husband knew nothing about?

(Tune in next week, folks, for the thrilling conclusion of 'A Day At City Hall')

We held our breaths.
"Maria Galliano?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Ah!" we all cried in unison. So far, so good.
"Your husband's name is Piero Galliano..."
"No!"
I knew it couldn't last.
"His name is Davide Galliano. Davide!" the young woman emphasized.
"Not according to his..."

(She didn't let him say it)

"I don't give a damn what THAT file says," she shouted. "You go find the right file before I call your supervisor in here. Now! I don't have all day to waste."
It's amazing how shouting and throwing your weight around in Italy will get things done.
The civil servant moved like greased lightning, and the correct file appeared in seconds flat. The girl left with the right certificate.
It was now my turn.
"Yes?" the civil servant asked, still wincing from the girl's verbal blasting. "What can I do for you?"
"I'd like a copy of my residence certificate, please."
"Name?"
I gave him my name, and he went off in search of the corresponding file.
"You are German?" he said as he came back to the counter.
"No, I'm English."
"Not according to your file."

(If he says that again...)

I sighed. "I assure you, I am English."
"Your file says you were born in Germany."
"That's right, I..."
"Then you are German."
Sitting at my feet, Jump surprised me by growling.

(I wanted to leap over the counter and bite the idiot)

"Don't you think I would know what I am?" I asked the civil servant.
"That is not always the case with the people who come in here."
"I'm English."
"It says you were born in Is... Ise... Ise.."
"Iserlohn."
"What sort of name is that?"
"It's a small town near Dortmund."
"Never heard of it."
He isn't alone - not many Germans have heard of Iserlohn.
"Iserlohn or Dortmund?"
"Both."

(Oh, boy)

"They're both in Germany?"
"Ah-ha!" he cried out, triumphantly. "You see? You are German."

(Robert, do you really need that certificate?)

"I have a British passport." That should shut him up. I pulled it out of my pocket, and held it up for him to see.
"How did you get that?"

(This is going to be a long day)

"Look," I started, mustering all the patience I could.

(Wrong! Want me to bite him?)

"My younger brother was born in Singapore. Does that make him a Singaporean?"
"Does that make him a what?"
"A Singaporean, a native of Singapore.
"Is that something like Chinese?"

(Say yes, and we can get out of here)

"Yes."
"Of course he's not Chinese," the civil servant scoffed.  "He doesn't have slanted eyes!"  He leaned forward, suddenly suspicious.  "Or does he?"

"No.  But according...

(Careful with that word)

... to your logic, he is Chinese."
"However, according to this file, you are German."
I shut up...

(Very wise)

... and just looked at him. I wanted to get out of there.
He grinned at me, smug, triumphant. "Now what was it you wanted?"
"A copy of my residence certificate. Please."

(That's it; kowtow so we can go home. To what? I then thought! Another bowl of cold pasta with soya? Yuk!)

Looking like the cat that just stole the cream, he stood and went off to get what I wanted.
"Here you are," he said, coming back with the certificate. "We'll have to correct your file about you being German." With a look, he dared me to say something contradictory.

(Don't)

"You're right." I had achieved what I had come for. "Do what you like."
He slammed my file shut. "Next," he shouted. He wasn't going to take shit from anyone.

♪♪♪♪♪