The World According to Lucy S.Those of you who print out the biographical snippets Lucy lets fall in the hope of fleshing out (so to speak – not a spare pound on her) a 'nuanced' portrait will no doubt remember she had a little medical scare the summer before last after a jaunt in the Alcarrìa. However, all proved well with her shapely form, and she sailed gaily on (don't read anything into the adverb, girls). Well, now a foolish blokey one-upmanship has had John-F attention-seeking with a proper little tumour in the gut, so your Lucy has been filling up post-op visiting hours pretending to admire the scar, trying to remember the rules of Canasta, gob-catching small fruits, hiding the Negronis from the nurses – all the usual hospital fun. And this, would you believe, in Basingstoke! I swear Lucy has never otherwise passed through Basingstoke willingly – does anyone?
So the gleaming headquarters of San Marco International has been two-thirds understaffed, Iron Chris gallanty juggling all tasks with three hands while simultaneously tanning upright in a rowing boat the length and breadth of the Lagoon. Something of a miracle then that we begin the autumn season with a revised reprint of our ultra-successful rowing cook's vademecum 'Forchette Veneziane' and full length book of poems from Philip Morre ('The Sadness of Animals'). More news shortly on both.
Chris (with Giorgio Crovato) keeping the door open
To the oddly named Palazzo Papafava (“scoffbean”) for Her Majesty's Jubilee, Venetian-style (i.e prosecco – and in carefree abundance – rather than Babycham). Quite why we are celebrating the glorious event at this time of year your faithful correspondent is too baffled to say: the late King George handed in his dinner-pail in Feb 1952, if memory serves – Lucy was not yet on the scene herself of course – but “the king is dead, long live the queen” being, one understands, the principle, Elizabeth Regina must have been out of the starting-stalls immediately. Be that as it may, a surging turnout: Lucy herself favoured an unusual hair-tint and wraparound smoked lenses, there being more than a few matrons regular at such junkets whom she prefers to avoid – isn't it spooky how those most prone to crying “We must all stick together” are the very same to whom we would least care to cling. Our own Chris, no less, delivered himself of a brief speech and proved quite the orator, the result no doubt of all that Cicero beaten into him (quite properly) at an early age. Would that the other aspirant Catos had been so eloquent – or as succinct. John F, needless to say, nowhere to be seen: we wouldn't put it past him to be a republican. And on the subject of republicans, Lucy was especially pleased to note the number of Americans present (Mr Joseph Parisi from Chicago for one, in a remarkable tuxedo), no doubt repenting of their unfilial behaviour with our national drink all those years ago in Boston. Apparently Neil Young has included a 'version' of the National Anthem on his latest long-playing record, and just the other day a crazed conspiracy theorist buttonholed your fairweather blonde on the Fondamenta degli Ormesini, babbling that poor President Obama is no more than a puppet jerked by the House of Windsor . . . Straws in the wind? When better than the Jubilee Year for an indulgent parent to welcome back the prodigal superpower to her capacious, forgiving imperial bosom?
Now here's a funny thing. It seems to Lucy that in all her years in this glittery city she must always have been away at this season, visiting a rackety aunt in Kirkaldy or some such excursion. Because, although she lives quite near the Ghetto (no, she's not going to give away her calle and have all you brawny Blondels tuning your ukeleles under her balcony – petite but loungeable, with little stone lions at the balustrade corners), she has never before been a witness to Purim. This, in case you don't know (she didn't), is when the hasidim get hammered. In celebration of some distant event in the Book of Esther all those skimpily bearded Chabader yooves are encouraged, even obliged, to knock the stuff back until they can't distinguish 'Down with Haman' from 'Up with Mordecai'. Now Lucy is reliably informed that these two ringing phrases, never far from her lips, are quite dissimilar in nearly all languages, so a good deal of hooch has to hit the liver before that hilarious state is achieved, which quickly elides into oblivion. Hence the eerie spectacle – as your Lucy clacked home from yet another evening of gaiety – of the Campo del Ghetto Nuovo under the moonlight looking like that Antony Gormley installation of recumbent hominoids that graced the forecourt of the Royal Academy some years back. As always, of course, it's down to the feminoids to clear up afterwards and jump to with the kosher prairie oysters first thing on the morrow, tut-tutting under their lustrous wigs, but Purim comes but once a year – and next time round Lucy's going to be looking out for it.
The prosecco corks it seems have hardly stopped popping to welcome in a New Year we are promised on all sides will be grimmer than the last, and already it's February. And arctic. The coldest end of January since the previous coldest end of January. Yesterday evening your Lucy took to bed at nine o' clock under a tumulus of blankets, a last resort to fend off terminal bone-chill. And hasn't she, I hear you asking, a brave and beefy arm to hold her tight? The wrong arm at the right time, the right arm at the wrong time, the wrong arm at the wrong time, everything but the fourth permutation, you know how it goes. And all those broken hearts weeping under her balcony, suicide notes left fluttering on canal edges . . . Right now it's actually trying to snow, that feeble minimalist snow, like midges in a summer lane – it's not so much that it doesn't settle as you wouldn't notice if it did. It used to be the case in days of yore that the lagoon would freeze over and you could skate to Murano for lunch, but not since 1929 (picture below) – there's global warming for you. Keep busy, that's the trick, ignore the ice floes jostling with the gondole, new projects galore. This year will bring 'Abandoned Monasteries of the Serenissima” (no.2 of a series? To be followed by: 'Abandoned Dogs'? 'Abandoned Women'?), an anthology of Venetian poetry, and more, much more, besides. So, can't be sitting around here wool-gathering with you-lot, turning into a stalagmite. '-tite' did I hear? 'tight'? Not a bit of it. Nothing drippy about Lucy, and only a smidgeon of rum in the morning cappuccino. Brrrrr.
So here we are again, “under Christmas”, as they sat in these parts. Now, Lucy knows that most, if not all, of you are busily stuffing those stockings with tasteful blue 'Forchette Veneziane' (still time to order, for those with the slows), and she just wants to make clear, to forestall disappointment, that Christmas Pudding is not a typical Venetian dish. The excellent 'Dolce della Sissi' on p.107 to her mind, and possibly waist, is every bit as fine a way to follow a fat turkey-and-all-the-trimmings, as the traditional British gut-buster. However, for those that must, here is Lucy's very own infallible Christmas Pud recipe you can all snip from your screens and lay into your personal treasured copies of 'Forchette'. You will need:
A nearby branch of Waitrose (posh Sainsburys, Marks & Sparks)
A capacious hold-all
Preparation time: 1 year
Method: In early January buy two or more 'reduced to clear' Christmas puddings, preferably with 'rich' or 'luxury' in the description. Take home in bag, on bicycle. At least once a month, dress with two or three tablespoonfulls of leftover brandy and/or rum (occasionally whisky of sherry can be substituted. You can also skewer a few holes in the pud to facilitate alc-access) Replace lid, or cover with silver paper. On Christmas morning, follow boiling instructions on confection. Scrummy.
Note: heat brandy in metal ladle until it begins to fizz at the edges before tilting into flame and pouring raging conflagration over your star turn.
Many of you who do not have the good fortune to live in this happy land of Justice and Probity have been pressing Lucy on her opinion of the Amanda Knox trial. Well, as behoves a frequently distressed damsel with any sort of sisterly feeling, she has been firmly in the Amanda camp throughout. True, she has not been privy to the many reams of paper and hours of courtroom confrontation that the judges have, but they too, it seems, have now come round, at their own pace, to her view. There is just one question which seems to Lucy to have gone unasked, and in a minute she's going to ask it. Apparently the unfortunate Knox was observed performing a handstand during a lull in her interrogation. 'Is that the behaviour of an innocent person?' thunders the prosecuting side. To be honest, this is a poser no immediate answer to which leaps to Lucy's lovely mind, her own days of innocence and cartwheels being distressingly far off. It seems to her that we all have our own ways of countering stress, and that the performing of a handstand may well be juridically neutral. However, and here's her counter-question: Is that the behaviour of a guilty person? Ha! Lucy would really, really like to know how many hardened criminals have betrayed themselves to Prosecutor Clouseau-Mignini's forensic skills by inadvertently giving way to a handstand? If the percentage is very high Monsieur Mignini-Clouseau should not be hiding this powerful investigative tool under a bushel. A lot of narky guff has been talked about Amanda Knox's prospects of securing a lucrative book deal with which to offset the frightening legal fees her family has ratched up over the last four years. We understand that Dr. Mignini-Clouseau has some impending difficulties of his own, and in a spirit of public service Lucy can say (and she's cleared this with the boys) that if this fine legal mind would like to expand his revolutionary theory to book length, the San Marco Press would be more than prepared to discuss a mutually beneficial contractual arrangement. 'Guilt and Gymnastics' by Giuliano Clouseau-Mignini-Clouseau – how does that sound? A bestseller or what?
Now I have to say, to Lucy a book is a book, a convenient way of carrying words around, and not a fetish. But my brother Tom ('Hamish' to the family, for reasons lost in the Highland mists) has for many moons been what he is pleased to call an 'antiquarian bookseller', though actually he's hardly more than a year or two older than one's luscious self. A few months ago, I blush to relate, he sold an 'original' 1978 edition of our very own 'Isole Abbandonate' to gullible Chris – for twice the price of a nice new one! Boys and their follies. He's currently engaged in flogging my friend Mike's Biggles collection for ludicrous sums 'on commission' whatever that means. One can guess, but one averts one's tawny eyes. Whatever else may be said about us, we are not a grasping family. None the less, perhaps he could 'place' my 'Mary Plain Goes Bob-a-Jobbing', extra coloured, with a certain smeary skill I have to say, by the young Lucy. Of course JohnF has a bookshop himself, 'Old World Books' it's called, here in Venice, in the Ghetto of all places – but he never seems to sell anything, except the smart blue publications of the San Marco Press, naturally. Shelves of mouldering tomes bound in what appears to be cream rubber: 'vellum' says he, and I'll take his word for it. He has been trying to pursuade me that what Daddy wants for his seventieth is one of these mouldy old off-white jobs: 'Ordini di Cavalcare' (1559), with 50 pictures of dressage bits at the back – a couple of them would have just done for Da's rogue hunter, it's true, but who wants six centuries of book dust all over their freshly manicured hands? And I'll bet you can get as much Biggles as you like on a nice clean Kindle.
So, Celia Wembley is with us no more. As it happens, I have some slight connection with CW, who came late to art, having been previously, well into her fifties, games mistress at my school (before my time of course). It came about in this wise. Our flamboyant art teacher, Tammy Yammamoto, had organised a happening painting: she was to be decanted from a helicopter into the school pool, previously filled with red, white and blue paint, and bordered with huge squares of paper. Alas, Tammy, in her excitement, completely missed the pool, from a great height, with fatal consequences. Bravely, Celia volunteered not to disappoint the large assembled public, and being a bigger girl and a better shot executed faultlessly the vast 'action painting' we now know as 'A Better Splash'. She never looked back. Few are the areas of contemporary art that do not bear her vigorous impress (few too the artists – her devil-may-care affaire with the much younger Damson Hearse was talk of the town some biennales back) but she will be most fondly remembered as a leading member of the Scribblistes, along with Emily Widdow and, from a later generation, May Ray Too. And here her experience of infant education proved invaluable – her celebrated collages of school exercise books, 'erased', as May Ray, the movement's current theoretician, would say (scribbled on to you and me) with many-coloured crayons, occupy one of the best-loved rooms of Francesco Pinotgrigio's Palazzo Ciccio collection. Her recent forays into Preformance Art (as she insisted on calling it) have I admit been less successful, and her insistence, at the age of 83, on running naked for three hours in a hamster wheel mounted on an upturned London bus, provoked the heart attack that took her from us last week. Still, she died as she would have wished, at exercise and on the job. Britain, her old school and the Sanmarco Press are proud of her. We hope to publish her 'Modern Art Without Tears' in the not-too-distant future. Celia Wembley 1928 – 2011.
Couldn't have come at a worse time: beach weather pouring in with the prevailing wind, and Lucy's ballooned. In the normal way of things Chris (what with all that rowing to Trieste and back to work up an appetite for lunch) is lean, John F. – shall we say – less so, while Lucy is, as you would expect, just right: curvy but . . firm. And now? Her whole wardrobe seems to have shrunk in the wash. It was Chris's bright idea to have the pot-bellied poters of his rowing club produce SMP's first cookbook – so far, so good, fair enough, who's arguing? But what does any conscientious publisher have to do in such circumstances? You guessed: test the recipes. Now you try following 'Risotto in rosso al castrà' with 'Polpettine al cumino con cavoletti di Bruxelles' and see if you can get into last year's bathing suit, see if you can get out of your chair to make the attempt. The only way Lucy's supreme sacrifice can possibly be justified is if all you gourmets and gourmands out there fork out for the forthcoming 'Forchette Veneziane' (Venetian Forks indeed, more like Venetian ladles) and this long-suffering third-in-command can indent for an office exercise bike and personal trainer. In the meantime, shapely feet under the hem of the sofa, hands tucked behind her once lovely head: up, hold, down . . up, hold, down . . up . . .
Whichever day it was designated last week for the celebration of 150 years since The Unification, I've already forgotten, so damp a squib it sputtered. A few plasticky tricolori hanging limply from the odd balcony, northern separatists going about with long wotz-to-celebrate faces, horrid cocktails. As it happens, the Veneto didn't tag along with the Brave New Kingdom for another five years anyway, so let's wait till 2016 and see wotz-to-shoutabout then, eh? Now there's a much more important anniversary dawning this very day – 25th March 421 (memorable date that, like running down the stairs): the Foundation of Venice, yes, and on a Friday, at midday bang-on, and WHAT IS MORE, 1,555 years later, at a very similar hour, the first of many marriages for our own John-F – to a Venetian! Coincidence or wot? Spooky! Of course, as you know, Lucy's not tied the knot herself . . . yet, but she has an eye out (one hears young Clooney may be free after all: no more beach photographs please, George), a cold, appraising, unanxious eye. Stand up straight, chaps – and wave those lion flags.
One of the signs of creeping age – not that senescence and Lucy's untarnished creamy skin-tints are concepts that readily share a tandem – is the way Grandpa Time fast-forwards on you. It seems but yesterday we were airborne and Ireland-bound (the excellent Hampton Books, hard by Donnybrook Fair, by the way, is now the Dublin stockist of Abandoned Islands), and already we're in the viscous grip of Carnevale, late this year what is more. Now I know the television would have you believe that all of us here have capsuled back to the 18th century for the durance and are day and night performing regrettable acts in full costume behind the pillars of the Palazzo Ducale, but the truth is a mite tackier – every second trattoria on the main drag licking boots and picking pockets simultaneously, indigent art students painting faces, fat children hilariously spraying one with pink gunk, and, just occasionally, a couple kitted out by a Nîmes couturier photographing each other by a misty canal. Not that one's bitter and cynical – just a little, just a tad.. jaded. New Orleans this is not, nor Rio, thank the Lord: Lucy's expensive education tends not to public abandonment; unbuttoning is for the boudoir, in her view. Roll on Lent!
Of course, I should have known that ending a message with 'a bientôt' was asking for trouble. Four months have passed in the blink, it seems, of an eye. The first of them was a well deserved jaunt round the Alcarria, the quid-pro-quo of holding the bastion in the summer haze. September is really when a girl wants to take to Spain, and Spain to a girl, but alas, instead of returning refreshed to the redoubt with the leaves on the turn, your Lucy was struck down... but I'm not going to rehearse all that here: in the well-loved words of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle 'It is tedious to relate how it all happened' – the mutually contradictory sawbones, the third opinions, the last minute swerve from 'invasive surgery'... Suffice it to say, 'Here I am', thinner (no bad thing), untanned (faded long since), but blonder (artifice). And what's been going on in my absence? Both the boys have been playing real estate, shuffling houses about like a deck of cards, and a new publication is imminent: Renato Murer's 'The Third Sector in Europe' – a bit of a departure for SMP, venturing into economic gurusim, with, apparently, aplomb. While Lucy... Now you see her now you don't... is taking the Gospel of Saint Mark into the wilds of Eire, plunging fearlessly into the Guinness tsunami with an Abbandoned Islands under her shapely arm.
The Alcarria - rather blustery
For all my pale and delicate skin-tones and moderate aversion to the rays of Ra, I like this time of year. The lads are away – Chris in London, John-F in Poland, one supposes (he's become a bit strange and secretive with the bus-pass years approaching) – and Lucy left to mind the fort, more a sparely furnished upper room to tell the truth. August minding is strictly a.m., and the afternoons are an ideal time to explore abandoned islands with a boating beau and a bathing suit. Alas, one is rarely alone in such a scheme, and finding a grassy arbour not already rife with abandonment can take more time and cunning than one has time and wit for. You might have thought Poveglia would be a winner, what with all that 'Island of Screams' guff on the internet. In reality of course it's a magnet for unclad Goths, and other, grosser undesirables. Buel del Lovo has a certain unkempt charm, with its mysterious cove of scuttled craft, but as often as not we end up playing safe and take advantage of Massimo and Viretta Micheluzzi's open invitation to their garden paradise on Mazzorbetto. Massimo is a fine glass artist, second only some say to the great Ohira, while Viretta, well, Viretta only needs to be Viretta. Men do, women are, as the saying goes. Imagine your Lucy then with a straw hat and a faraway look in a deck chair only half an hour from home, while you're all stuck in a torrid airport somewhere on that planned annual purgatory, your 'holiday'. A bientôt!
Thursday evening and Lucy was one of 29 at Davide and Luisa De Franceschi's excellent Trattoria 'Alle due Gondolette' on the Fondamenta delle Capuzine for the launch of Hugh Tolhurst's 'All Out of Space-Junk', no.19 in San Marco Press's ongoing whizz-bang pamphlet series. The thin gravy of literati was enriched on this occasion by the Bisto of The Beards, the Brenta-based 'spaghetti southern rock band' and another musician, Julien Poulson from Tasmania, friend of the poet. The local covers had also been beaten to flush out any resident or passing Ozzies, so we had artist David Henderson and vogatrice Jane Caporal strategically placed along the long table. Hugh's Strine lyrics had been wrenched into a semblance of Italian by Philip Morre - catch his new website, by the way: www.philipmorre.com - and these were then worked on severally by native lingoists and duly recited by same to accompany the poet's own vigorous address – a form of audience participation that proved highly successful and involving, and could well become a regular feature of future events. Hugh's salty Catullus translations went down particularly well, though I have to wonder if anyone other than your own properly educated Lucy got much out of the Latin originals Morre insisted on reading. Serve him right that the only casualty of the evening was his Polish straw hat, now dancing, Lucy suspects, over a Beard.
I know you will all have been waiting for an official San Marco pronouncement on the Oxford Poetry Chair. The thing about this piece of furniture is that it needs to be occupied by some pretty weighty buttocks, which being so, Geoffrey Hill was as things turned out the only plausible candidate. Sad to see the Sisters disgraced for the second time in a year by the ridiculous antics of Paula Claire, a soi-disant poet who could only have been elected by a field of sunflowers (see Youtube and weep). Of course the Poetry Editor is currently in South Africa sporting a hideous rugby shirt, but I think I can safely say We would have liked to see John Fuller step into his father's shoes (Roy Fuller, Ox Prof 1968-73), not least because he is, in Our view, the better poet. Professor Hill's olympian disdain for contemporary poetry is not, We think, well, OK, I think, the ideal qualification for the role. I fear we are in for fifteen erudite speeches about minor seventeenth century divines and their agonising struggles with doctrinal trivia, and not much practical help for aspirant undergraduate bards, but Lucy lives in hope.
It's a sad truth to enunciate in these liberated times, but the fact is that even, perhaps especially, educated chaps are liable to think of a blonde as a couple of protuberancies in a t-shirt, or out of one, if they are hot (I use the word advisedly) from Damiano Michieletto's new Don Giovanni at La Fenice. Now I want you-all to know that Miss S got this job on the strength of an English 2.1 in one of our better known ancient academies, and furthermore... well, never mind that, suffice it to say that Latin and Greek come as smoothly to Lucy as “Another pint, Harry, when you've a moment” to you unwashed snivelling mum's boys. OK?
Now that's off my chest (see above), we'll get to the gist, which is: LUCY BEING SERIOUS FOR ONCE. Have you noticed, comatose alcoholics out there, that The Classics Are Back? Did they ever go away? I hear you mutter. Well, yes. Can you see Larkin Pounding Propertius? Almost all dear old earnest Ted's so-called 'Translations' were really translated by someone who knew the language in question, and 'versed' by the Great Man – and what kind of translation is that? (Even Famous Seamus, I regret to say, has likewise ventured blindfold and shameless into mediaeval Polish). Ashbery? Geoff Hill, the Thinking Woman's Crumpet? Carol Ann? Don't make me larf.
It would be good to be able to claim that, once again, San Marco Leads the Way, but Fair Play was our watchword on the playing fields of Westheath, praise where praise is due and all that: your Lucy feels honour-bound to deliver the palm to Dan Chiasson, whose 'The Afterlife of Objects' (2002) and 'Natural History' (2005) are rife with, respectively, Horace and Pliny.
But SMP's not far behind. About-to-be OWB pamphleteer Hugh Tolhurst ( 'All out of Space-junk', OWB 19 – see Press News) has no less than five racy Catullus versions in his forthcoming full collection 'Rockling King', while joined-at-the-hip OWB founder member Philip Morre (OWB 2) has two epigrams from Callimachus in 'Save the Eagle' (OWB 20). Straws in the wind? Get those Loebs down from the upper shelves, if you aim to fly with the Zeitgeist: the last time this sort of thing happened, we had the Renaissance.
What's that subdued agitation in the cheap seats? Callimachus? Come on. Cory then ('They told me Heraclitus...')? Nothing? Not a glimmer? A girl despairs.
A good week since April Fool's Day, so no leg-pulling here. 2,500 polite and quietly dressed academics in town for a Renaissance Society of America jamboree, lectures and round tables in every hall and hostelry. Now a nicely-spoken tenured Renaissance Man could be just what your Lucy's been hankering after, so an extra half-hour in front of the slap-mirror after breakfast and out on the town with my rod and line. From what I've seen so far, they're not the fast-talking jet-setting conference bed-hoppers I sort-of expected from my background research with David Lodge, but so much the better say I: a girl my age is not looking to hook a flippertigibbet. It seems to me that a nice fresh Abandoned Islands of the Venetian Lagoon in startling blue against the bold pink of my hunting dress might be just the bait for a steady unhitched prof, so that's what I'll be toting. Besides, matrimony aside, a copy of the Islands for every delegate would take us into a reprint with one bold stride: if that's not enough to get a girl promotion, I don't know what is. Watch this space.
Went out Saturday with SMP paladins Chris Wayman and John Francis Phillimore to do the Centri Commerciali (shopping centres). Our motive: a bulky order for Isole Abbandonate/Abandoned Islands from Feltronelli, the retail-editorial giant founded in 1954 by Giangiacomo Feltrinelli, inspired publisher and futile revolutionary, now expanded into the retail parks, some 25 of them, under the admanspeak banner ‘Feltrinelli Village’. The Veneto part of the order was spread between four such ‘villages’ and all three of us were curious to inspect these bucolic communities.
First up, the Marcon Valecenter (to all intents and purposes the Valecenter is Marcon) – architecturally unremarkable, but light and cheerful and quite busy for the last Saturday of February. Of course the ‘Feltrinelli Village’ is no more a village than I’m a milkmaid, but I doubt that even Marie-Antoinette’s cowshed was as bright and clean and anxious-to-please. Five copies of The Great Book were briskly consigned to a helpful amazon, who exclaimed (gratifyingly) ‘How nice – Something on Venice!’ (though in Italian), which seemed a strange cry ten miles from the Serenissima, but it turned out to be a leitmotif of our brief tour, prompting the thought that central ordering, if it had turned out OK for us, might not be without it’s downside.
And so to Auchan at Zelarino, on the doorstep of the Watery City. The Shopping Centre Experience. Every race and creed. Good sandwich bar, crowded but efficient. All shapes and sizes of children being squeezed into all shapes and sizes of springwear, being pacified with buzzing electric toys... The Feltrinelli Village a mercifully (if unintentionally) child-free zone. While the boys bankrupted their charm-bank on the sparky sales girls, I wandered off to check out the poetry shelves. Surprising to find two separate editions of Nazim Hikmet, but no Riccardo Held (Venice’s Big Bard) or Seamus Heaney (‘Scemassini’), who’s much translated here and, seventy last year, has been in the news, and in Bologna to boot.
By the time we reached Padua’s Giotto Centre, your correspondent was flagging, and ditto Giotto, by the look of things, some of his escalators out for the count, and a general air of ‘that’s enough for now’. Modern retail needs to gleam. The Fell Vill was gleaming its heart out, but custom was thin, if not emaciated. To be fair, the carpark was full, so unless canny out-of-towners were improvising a free park-and-ride facility, the consumers were probably consuming their buy-one-get-one-free vegetarian lasagne somewhere out of sight, or site, if they knew what was good for them.
I prised our two Argonauts from the sirens, and we headed for Nane della Giulia, where the wise sup...