Un altro giorno nell'atrio di Dante

Another day in Dante's Vestibule

I find myself becoming increasingly Mediterranean. I’m like some widowed, unshaven Capo de Capo shuffling around the kitchen first thing in the morning in an old pair of shorts and a tee shirt, noting in no especial order the crust of a baguette, a half bottle of Rose not in a fridge, a pile of soaking pans, a barking dog adding to the cacophony of the 200 wood pigeon that seem to have taken all the roosting space from more interesting birds, and the sounds of a neighbour who can only get workmen with noisy machinery on a Saturday because that’s when they do the cash-in-hand jobs.