Berlusconi Wins Again

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” my little girl shouted at the top of her voice.
I tried to ignore her, to shut her out by wrapping the pillow around my head. To no avail.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”
It’s Saturday morning, for God’s sake; why won’t they let me sleep? There’s no school today.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”
“Ask Mamma,” I groaned from beneath the pillow.
“Mamma’s working with the pretty models.”
Ah, right. My wife wasn’t coming home this weekend; she was preparing the groundwork for the new show in Milan. Since the fashion house she worked for had closed its Rome operations and moved north, she spent more and more time away from home, and my life had changed radically, my role in life trading back and forth between screenwriter-English teacher-tour guide and struggling father-cum-mother-cook-housekeeper…
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”
“What?!” I didn’t mean to shout, but...
“Can Harry switch on the TV?” she asked, oblivious to the tone of my voice.
“No.”
“Please, please, please!”
“No!”
“Please, please, please!”
I groaned, poked my head out from under the pillow and looked at my beautiful four year old daughter standing beside my bed.
“Did your big brother send you?” I asked.
“Yes, Daddy,” she replied, smiling sweetly at me. Of course he did; he always sends his little sister when he wants something he strongly suspects I will say no to. He knows she can wind me around her little finger. “But he told me not to tell you.”

"What does he want to watch?"

"Oh, uh... A pitolic... potic... poli-ti-cal de... bate," she succeeded in saying, delighted with herself, probably quoting her brother.  "Mister Berlusconi fighting Mister Prodi..."  Again, she sounded very proud of herself.

Political debate?  I was impressed.  “Oh, all right.”
“Is that ‘Oh, all right, my big brother can switch on the TV’ or what?”
“It’s ‘oh, all right, your big brother can switch on the TV’.”
She jumped on top of me and planted a kiss on the top of my head. “I love you, Daddy.” She then raced out of my room, shouting: “Daddy said yes, Daddy said yes, Daddy said yes!”
Moments later, the TV boomed from the living room. Too loud. Too bloody loud.  And it didn't sound like Berlusconi and Prodi either, more like Triple H taking on the Undertaker...

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