I shall die of cold out on the big terrace but the drums are not to be denied. In tights and doublet and hose, velvet snoods and beribboned, they swagger past - the drummers from ages past throbbing out the rhythms heard in every Tuscan city and town as they lead the alfieri. What is less obvious but just as scary is the whoomf, Whoomf, WHOOMF of the flags as they are furled and unwound, hurled into the air, thrown from on flag-bearer to another as if they are as light as the air they fly through. Getting womped by a flying flag could be a mortal blow.
I've never seen a modern military parade passing quite so close, but this lot exude testosterone and battle, up close and personal, like the paintings show death by head-cleft-in-two or lance-right-through-your-armour, or even trodden-on-by-passing-charger.
The carneval figures they lead, twice the height of humans, wholly masked and very beautiful, are not reassuring either. Representing the world turned upside down, time reversed, all categories disturbed, they bow silently to applauding spectators. I'm glad I'm up here. I wouldn't like them to turn their gaze on me.
Lent will restore order to the world - won't it?
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