Guglielmo

Dusk is the time to look at the magnolia stellata. And in the light just before dawn. Those were his favourite times in the garden; when all the prey was at its most vulnerable a glowing cream shape would materialise from the gloaming and rake a deadly claw through dinner or breakfast.

I look down from my window at dawn and at dusk at his present manifestation, a lesser form of being on the wheel of existence than he enjoyed, to pay no doubt for all those little birds and voles consumed.

And yet, still he is the Angel of the Burning Bush, who came with me out of the land of taxation and oppression, and into the land of CAP subsidies and grants for solar panels.

Keeping Face

Living frugally is competitive in Monculi. Paradoxically cutting a fine figure (la bella presenza) is just as important.

At the butchers it is as possible to be caught behind a woman buying the shop for a family lunch - family is upwards of twenty people from nought to ninety - and making sure the queue knows what they will all be missing on Sunday after eleven o'clock mass, as it is to be consulted on the possibility that a boned, trimmed and flattened chicken thigh (just the one) will be too much for three people.

'You see, Signora, there's tagliatelle with hare sauce (my family are hunters, as you know, and my mother-in-law made the pasta sfoglia this morning), stuffed artichokes - if yours are finished I can let you have some - and then crema with savoiardi (this last is home made custard, bright yellow from the free range eggs, with sugary biscuits). But the Doctor told us all we need to keep our triglycerides down - how are Mr HG's blood counts? Now my husband has...... Anyway, I thought a little chicken thigh couldn't raise anyone's blood pressure.'

I contemplate the little chicken thigh, imagine it sliced paper thin, rolled into saltimbocca with prosciutto, giant sage leaves, dripping in melted parmesan and garlicked olive oil.

Two fillet steaks? I ask the butcher. Heads toss, eyes flicker with contempt - it's only Thursday, after all. Show off spendthrift.

Lifestyle Choices for Girls

' They're laying waste to the olive groves!'

'Merely pruning.'

"PRUNING? Sticks are all that's left. Lines of lovely leaves and branches lying there that the trees have spent all winter growing.'

'Cruel to be kind.', (tucks pruning shears into trousers' pocket (specially sewn) and exits to cold, windy hillsides.

Is this a metaphor for the global financial crisis I wonder, settling back with my Kaldor's Kollected, in front of the fire, dinner already simmering and teatime's late afternoon bliss to enjoy.

Fences not Hedges

Fence posts must be cut when the moon is waning; cut under a waxing moon, they will rot as soon as they are sunk into the ground. I know this because a number of posts on new fencing, and some supporting the new olive plantings, have had to be replaced after rotting at the base within the year.

'Which shows, Signora, that they were cut under the wrong moon'.

'But how do you know the state of the moon when they were cut?'

'Because they are rotting.'

Right. So it's not just bottling wine that is excited by the pale moon.

Another earthquake

The grocer has announced he's going to vote for the Democratic Party. He 'isn't happy' with a government coalition 'led by Mr Berlusconi'.

That'll be a 7 on the Richter scale.

In the Teeth of History

The suggestion by a United Kingdom Home Office Minister that identity cards in the UK should be regarded as internal passports has the same chilling effect as the dentist's remark to Mr HG, whose teeth were undergoing their annual inspection:

"Ah", said Dr Deutschbein, "Not yet time for the final solution."

Earthquakes

London unable to pall (or I should be tired of life) it is Spring that brings me back. And I am greeted by another earthquake. Florence shook more than Bloomsbury but that was not really the reason why the civil protection forces and drills operated here - there aren't any civil protection forces and drills in Bloomsbury.

Geologists have defined the area bounded by Santa Maria Novella, via della Scala, the river, and the Cascine as most at risk in the city. Moral - always live in the eastern parts of the loveliest parts of a city; it tends to be cheaper and avoids the worst depredations of the state and of nature.

Still, bits of the painted ceilings floated down; it feels dreadful sweeping them up.

Monculi di Sopra suffered no damage, the denizens would be claiming for everything if it had.

The news that Labour members of parliament from Westminster are moving into Sinalunga was met with a stoical response from Mr HG.

What is there at Sinalunga?

Long Pause.

There's a railway station where you can change for Siena, otherwise it's as ugly as sin.