Blogs 'n jobs eh.

So, back in Blighty from living the Italian 'dream' to do what sensible people do.  Move back to the city and get a job.  Should be be relatively simple, n'est pas?  I am relatively bright, articulate, capable and skilled at something though it's not immediately apparent what, yet where are the jobs, even the easy ones?

My brilliant plan was to temp and fall into something that way.  So I signed up with a few agencies and thought great - I'll be rolling in the temp in no time, fall into a job et voila.  WRONG.  The phone calls were not exactly forthcoming, slow start to the year they say.  Total drag considering there are in fact a whole load of jobs out there.

In the meantime I am shooting off applications here there and everywhere.  My drama degree has not been of much use (no use in fact) so there we go.  This total lack of seemingly being unable to get a bloody job is pushing me towards the entrepreneurial dream therefore potentially working in my favour.  I'm not really a fan of reporting to anyone and like to set my own schedule.  I loathe any kind of corporate environment, it's dull, boring, so idiotic; who even came up with that ridiculous idea?  Yes - self employment is the way forward.  Any ideas, peoples?

Another thing - my interview skills are terrible.  Partly because I find the questions uninspiring and can I use cliched?  And because I think a load of people in current positions are rubbish at doing their jobs (yes, several managers I have come across who are terrible at dealing with customers even though it's their job to do so!)

Blah blah blah.  Whatever.  Rant/moan/whinge/scrooge moment over.

The dress that got me into a tizz

I ordered myself a beautiful Vivien of Holloway circle dress the other day. That, I told myself, was my boyfriend’s late birthday present to me. He doesn’t know about it yet but I am sure I vaguely mentioned something the other night.

My eye was drawn to this particular china rose blue dress immediately and I hit the ‘put in basket’ button without time to lose. A few hours went by, I was distracted by some other bits and pieces, mainly rubbish tv. Suddenly my neurosis started creeping in – it crops up every day – it’s just one of my things. So I had a peek at the size charts and realised I may have ordered too small – but hang on – a 28 inch waist is what I should be, surely? Well, At a squeeze I was a 29 – with these dresses you do have to measure tight... In my neurotic little panic that ensued, I phoned the store ten times uhming and ahing over the size, and changed it to the 30 inch waist. A few hours later I started worrying about that – long story short and after measu=ring my waist very tightly about 20 times– I changed it back to my original order with the intention of losing the gross flab rolls that have taken over my body.

I saw a photo of myself on facebook and my arm looks the size of an elephant’s leg. So the diet starts – again. It starts every day by the way. At my slimmest I looked good - even my mother told me it was my perfect weight...so why am I not at the weight now? Well, I know very well why. I intend to do all those things I should do - regular exercise, healthy eating, yes all that. But I have a marginally large weak spot for cream slices, chocolate, cookies, and the list goes on. I go through waves of doing well and not doing so well where I just think 'WHATEVER' and eat to my hearts content. Which in turn makes me feel depressed with a young body shrouded by flab.

Right now, I am half a stone off my perfect weight...maybe that dress will fit after all, so lets see if I can squeeze into this dress when I get hold of it next week…..

Cape Town - the dark side.

Ndumie is late picking me up from my hostel in Cape Town, so I lounge around in reception, flanked by the local resident, a furry feline of sorts. I am about to be whisked off to the suburbs - commonly known as the Townships - where black people are living in poverty and segregation. The remnants of apartheid are still very obvious in modern South Africa. When she arrives she apologises, one of the corrective rape victims she supports needed help. She looks a bit tense, and firstly I wonder whether she might be a bit apprehensive about taking me to see her cabin where she lives and the victims sleep, up to six at a time. I deduce that it’s the stress of the last eviction, the need to find another place to live by the end of the month, court cases, police appointments, all coupled with the fact that she spends all of her personal life working with the victims. A life dedicated to the foundation that goes by the name of Luleki Sizwe that she set up in honour of her fiancé, who fell victim to a corrective rape and later died; it all adds up on the stress level front. She is strong, she is a mother, a sister, a mentor, but the relentless intensity gets to her and it is putting a strain on her current relationship.

We head off to the East of Cape Town, snaking up the hill overlooking the Waterfront and Robben Island, with Table Mountain nestled safely in the midst of this bustling and dynamic city. Cape Town is famed for its beauty and its European vibe, perhaps on a par with San Francisco. I realise now that this vision does not include or apply to the Townships – they are hidden behind the mountain and, though part of Cape Town, seem miles away from the hustle and bustle of the city. As we head out onto the freeway the townships start appearing. Small brick houses, shacks and dust roads spring into view. On the grassy patches separating the freeway lanes, boys have set up makeshift soccer pitches; it actually looks very professional and organised from my point of view bar the location. We exit for Langa where Ndumie’s mum lives where we stop to say hello, because I wanted to meet her. She seems very lovely and when I ask Ndumie about her mother’s feelings towards her sexuality she gives me one of those wide eyed smiles that obviously says it all; it has been accepted ...but barely, and it took a long way to get to that point. Current rape figures in the townships highlight the general negative perception towards gay people.

We are now en route to her cabin in Nyanga, the township murder capital. Before we get to the cabin, she turns off onto a side road and stops at a sunny little enclosure, overgrown with grass where litter is dumped and scrawled on a wall it read ‘Bad Boyz’. This, she informs me, is where one of her girls was raped. This sun drenched spot marks a dark moment in Ndumie’s ongoing quest to change social attitude amongst these Township communities and the rest of South Africa. Acceptance of non heterosexual orientation is low, and the regular practice of so-called corrective rape of lesbians in South Africa is a stark reflection of such negative attitudes towards gay people. Meanwhile, certain women remain vulnerable to the threats emanating from an insular section of society. More than 10 lesbians a week are raped or gang raped in Cape Town alone and most of these crimes are not reported due to fear of reprisals and lack of support by the relevant authorities. Many more remain silent because of the shame and embarrassment associated with their sexual orientation and the indignity of the actual rape. Another huge issue is HIV – HIV positive people are often ostracised, meaning rape victims refuse to see a doctor and will not report the crime. I ask Ndumie what the general reaction is when a rape is reported. She tells me that the police often laugh.

Ndumie’s cabin, which measures 4 metres by 2 metres, comprises a tin roof and wooden walls. Newspaper has been propped into the gaps where the wall and roof meet to stop drafts. In England this would just about make it as a shed; in fact, I think that sheds have better insulation than this cabin. At night time, she tells me, howling winds pass through the cabin, and rats scuttle around the place. There is an outdoor toilet and a tap for water. Rape victims gather here at night to eat and sleep. Some sleep on the sofa bed, and some share Ndumie’s bed. It is clear that she does not have her own personal space. The cabin is strangely cosy with the South African flag proudly hanging above the bed, a small microwave stove next to the fridge, and Ndumie’s girlfriend is busily tapping away on an old computer that has been kindly donated by a supporter of the foundation. I am shown pictures of the soccer team she coaches and they recently won a tournament. They look happy and relaxed on the photo’s; they belong to a group of like minded people, they are creating an identity for themselves, they are a group united, fitting into society together. Ideally though, Ndumie needs a shelter for the girls with bedrooms and a room for the computer literacy lessons that take place. A house in the townships costs approximately £5000. I am invited to stay the night next time I am in town, so that I can experience a night in the cabin.

During the day victims have to leave the cabin to get on with their daily lives. Some roam around all day, some are at school. She really needs a house, she says, so that the girls have personal space, and she has personal space. She can set up classes in a house, provide a decent level of care, and with funds, she can afford medicines and basic items such as tampons and toiletries that at the moment she struggles to get hold of because there is only about 50p in the kitty. On top of the cramped and unfit living conditions, Ndumie needs to find another place to put her cabin as she can only stay here until the end of the month. She has no idea where she can relocate and the clock is ticking. She was only recently evicted from a plot a few doors up and she ended up sleeping in her car for two days. She had no money for pads and her trousers were covered in blood. The landlord didn’t want all these victims coming and going.

We move on from the cabin to continue my tour of the Townships. Next up is Khayelitsha, an impoverished shanty town full of shacks and bustling with life. A large percentage of the rapes take place in this area. We drive to the magistrates’ court which is where preliminary cases are heard, including rape cases. One corrective rape case has been adjourned 26 times. Ndumie is understandably losing hope. It really seems that they do not care about humans who have had their rights severely violated. To keep the victims and their supporters quiet, they don’t dismiss the case, they just seem to permanently adjourn cases. If they delay this case enough, perhaps people will give up and forget.

Within an open but at the same time closed society, it is not easy to draw attention to specific issues due to the shame, embarrassment and lack of acceptance of an alternative way of life. The stigma attached to being gay, being HIV positive, and to rape is still huge. It has not yet reached a point where it is an accepted way of life to be gay, and that social attitude needs to be changed.

Sitting at Mzoli’s, an atmospheric little restaurant in Gugulethu, we chat about what needs to be done. Without resources or funding, little can be done to promote Luleki Sizwe and the victims of corrective rape are still looking over their shoulders. One girl has gone into hiding because her violator was bailed for 500 rand which is approximately £45. She was dragged into a house, beaten, repeatedly raped and tortured with a cable around her neck – the pictures I have seen of this girl are harrowing. Another victim has accepted payment as a bribe from the family of another violator – to keep her quiet. The amount was hardly worth it. A man does come up to Ndumie and offers her his support – this is good news. Change is on the horizon, and it is all possible with the help of kind hearted people. www.lulekisizwe.org www.stopcorrectiverape.org

Lonely days & nights

Sometimes you can be lonely even if you are surrounded by loads of people. We only need to look at cities and the amount of lonely people who occupy a sprawling urban mass, all chocker block on top of each other, unaware of life taking place around them. Some of these lonely people find solace in writing, some in getting take outs every night, washed down with a bottle of wine. Some spend all their time online, talking to their cyber friends. Some just stare at the wall and wonder what the hell went wrong. Sometimes even a neighbour you've had for twenty years is a stranger. If you think about it, have you ever gotten as far as saying 'hi'? In fact, have you ever had eye contact? That is far too intimate for anyone quite happy festering in their own comfort zone. I am happy this way. Eye contact is overrated.

So many people, so many characters, singletons, playboys, playgirls, office workers, artists, hustlers, and street vendors criss crossing the streets of every city in every country. So lets think of ways we could potentially (and we'll leave it there) bring people together in a city. There are all sorts of community groups that have been created by the good, happy, and annoying. These groups involve people i.e. Pre-natal groups (is that a community thing?), book clubs, Alcoholics Anonymous, knitting clubs which are for people who thin they look cool, knitting. Knitting club is about being seen, not so much about knitting. Knitters often wear vintage, arrive on a bicycle, and are probably enrolled on the Textiles & fashion course at the local uni. If you don't knit, you are certainly not cool. Yoga - you can take up a yoga class, and go for a spirolina smoothie (or whatever is the new super food or lets say trend) with your new found health freak yoga obsessed friend afterwards. Or how about a mega workout at the gym. A spinning class perhaps. Spinning consists of cycling on the spot with pumping music and a highly energetic trainer pushing you beyond what is humanly acceptable regarding exertion. After a spinning class, you, or another newbie may fall over when you get off the bike, so watch out. The problem with spinning is that you are cycling in a hot sweaty box of a room (the one I am in) As soon as I get on that bike I know I have made one of the biggest mistakes of my life, I look around me, the instructor is there, I could do a runner, but I'm too damn polite, and not quick thinking enough to come up with a feasible excuse. I lose my opportunity to flee, and am now stuck in a box room, no beautiful trees to look at, or ponds to avoid. Just sweat noise and shouting. One of my ideas of hell. I am in hell.

When you are stuck out in the countryside, and a foreign one at that, things aren't much better. Foreign land, foreign language, foreign culture. At first it's lovely and wonderful and the sun shines a lot. Then that creeping feeling edges in 'Why am I here, what the hell am I doing?!' Frustration at the lack of city style things available sets in proceeded by a bout of severe grumpiness. Then the frantic online hunt starts for any other same language speaker. Where do I start? Ex pat forums I suppose. I am not an ex pat myself per se, I flit between countries, I am nomadic, cool, out there. Or so I delude myself.

I trail a few forums looking out for anyone in Le Marche. They seem few and far between, and any foreigners living the good life here are hours away from where I am. Trail trail trail. Click click click. Nothing nothing nothing. Oh, something. Finally. I spot an interview with an American couple running an agriturismo in Piobbico - that's not horrendously far! Excitement replaces melancholy and I browse the article. The agriturismo is aptly named 'La Tavola Marche' (www.latavolamarche.com) and it looks rustic and fab, just what you'd expect from an agriturismo. Welcoming and cosy, and the people who run it sound lovely too, I think that they are almost Italian, plus the guy is a chef. They have been in Italy for two and a half years and moved from New York where they had been living for the past eight years. Great, city folk, I am definitely getting in touch with them. So I write an email detailing pretty much how sorry for myself I am feeling, and that surely there must be some more English speakers around? And that I would love to swing by their agriturismo to meet them. Signed, Best wishes, Becky.

'Send'.

Now that I am feeling a bit more alive I can get on with things other than vegetating. A few days later I open my mailbox to a ping and find amongst all the junk I receive an enthusiastic response from Ashley at La Tavola Marche. Before having a read I check out my spam box. The usual emails are languishing in limbo, emails from Reverends in Nigeria informing me of an enormous inheritance, and the 'FBI', also in Nigeria funnily enough. In fact, the 'FBI' uses gmail (very smart), and if I do not report my details to them, I 'will surely be in trouble'. Very interesting how the 'FBI' uses ticking off style language to trap their suspects, it must be a highly effective method. I must also be on their top wanted list, I have had about ten emails from the 'FBI' this week already.

After a few seconds worth of entertainment and a childish urge to respond to the spam emails using Bart Simpson style humour, I get back to the email from Ashley. She sounds really friendly and tells me to swing by any time, as they are usually in. Great, my pathetic and self pitying email is the best thing I have achieved all week in terms of being vaguely productive. I say that I'll come round on Monday afternoon, boyfriend in tow.

On Monday afternoon we merrily set off towards Piobbico. I don't know much about Piobbico apart from that fact that it has a Hollywood style sign saying 'Piobbico' in the hills above the town. The sign adds a touch of glamour to this small and charming town and conjures up memories of me hanging out in Franklin Village, Hollywood. Good times. After taking a wrong turn, we arrive at La Tavola Marche. A beautiful rustic farmhouse sits away from the dirt track road set amongst the trees and hills. A tall and friendly looking person pops out of the doorway with bundles of energy and a smiling face. Ashley! She greets us warmly and accepts my bedraggled looking bunch of Salva and goes off to find a vase. Jason is upstairs somewhere finishing off some of the cleaning while the guests are out. The wine is appears on the table within minutes of being there, so we feel right at home. Some aged pecorino cheese and some prosciutto make for a great aperativo and we chat merrily about the local area, the warmth and friendliness of the place and the two chefs have a gander round the garden exchanging cooking tips. We meet the chickens, the cat. After a few hours we hit the road to head back for dinner. We leave Jason cooking up a scrumptious meal for their guests, say our goodbyes to Ashley and off we go. We are definitely meeting up again

In the car we both agree we had a lovely time, and you know what, getting the wine out immediately is very Italian and a sign of hospitality. They got it right on. Success.

Www.latavolamarche.com

Food, sex, and restaurants.

I love a nice drive in the countryside, which is why on this occasion I am feeling pretty perky. The wind is blowing through my hair, the convertible MG is roaring along the dusty country roads snaking its way up taking us higher and higher into the hills....Ok, I am fantasising now. Only about the wind in the hair and the convertible bit. The rest is absolutely true. If you must know, we are driving a Fiat Qubo, a strange looking vehicle that is shaped like a cube, which you may have already guessed, and runs on Metano (methane) which at 10 euros to fill up the tank allows for some long distance fun. And excursions up modestly sized mountains. On this occasion we are making our way to Sant' Angelo in Vado, somewhere I have only ever driven through on our way back from Tuscany. We have an excellent reason to grace this quaint little town with our presence; Il Piatto del Duca is in full swing and we want a taste of the action. Or lets just say that having a meal for 20 euros including wine at a top Michelin starred restaurant is a major factor in our decision process as to where we are going to eat tonight.

Il Piatto del Duca is a foodies dream. Ten restaurants in the Montefeltro area of Marche are in furious competition with each other to create a dish based on the renaissance kitchen. The dishes must contain lamb and spices such as cinnamon and ginger. Most of the restaurants are located in Urbino, Rafaello's birthplace, the hub of the renaissance movement. Punters eat like renaissance dukes for a mere 20 Euros, savouring aromatic lamb and whatever else the chef in question has conjured up for the professional jury who are ready to taste, and the popular jury, us mere mortals eagerly anticipating this gastronomic feast of the senses. The winner gets to host a huge Renaissance style banquet in the Palazzo Ducale – I wonder exactly what that involves apart from food, and a lot of it.

We pitch up in Sant' Angelo. It is a beautiful town, in keeping with the renaissance theme that is apparently going on at the moment. It is surrounded by a moat; something that never ceases to fascinate me. Moats are so romantic. It is obvious from the outset that this place is made of of one way streets and little alley ways. Cute, but now we have to find this restaurant. We stop outside a bar, and my boyfriend gets out to ask some guys who are having a drink and a chat about whatever it is they are talking about, how we might get to Taddeo e Federico.

Excuse me could you tell me where Taddeo e Federico is please?

'Eh?' they look bemused. Are you organising a rock night there? (Apparently my boyfriend looks too grungy and could not possibly be going to a better restaurant). All four of them chime in at the same time, telling him that this street is a one way street, and you can't turn into this one, and when you get to this point you must bla bla bla.' Wow, this place is miles away, and it sounds damn complicated. Needless to say, confusions reigns. It slowly dawns on us that things are much more complicated than they need to be, so the bf decides to take charge of the situation.

'Is it possible to walk to the restaurant from here?' (ha, gotcha! Try complicating this one!)

'Yes yes, go straight on, take a left past the statue of the pope, second right. It's just behind those buildings.' Is there a carpark near the restaurant, yes there is. Suddenly complex becomes ease.

'And how long is the walk? About 1 minute.'

Right. Well that's that sorted then – some people really do not appreciate the concept of a nice walk. It is not always necessary to be dropped on the doorstep. I like a nice walk, and this town is perfect for it. I love the old fashioned lamps that hang merrily from the buildings, think Paris, and London a long time ago.

Ten minutes later and we are warmly welcomed by the owner of Taddeo e Federico. And I don't notice any funny looks related to our current fashion faux pas. The grunge and tourist look is apparently accepted. Good. We are led into the dining area, which is done out very nicely, with attention to detail and a traditional twist. The jury are fully immersed in a lively conversation and greet us cordially as we enter the adjoining dining area. My attempt to sneak past unnoticed doesn't work and I am forced to gingerly acknowledge the smiling faces. Realising then that we have not interrupted them, the mild sensation of seclusion which consumes me on a regular basis dissolves.

We are led to our table and I take a seat. A wobble table, of all the tables in the restaurant, we had to get the wobbly table. Every time one of us places a limb on the table, it violently shakes. I start to get annoyed and get up to use the bathroom, in which I may find a piece of cardboard, or something. No such luck. I only spot cotton towels displayed very neatly for us bathroom users to dry our hands with. Can we also take them with us? This bathroom baffles me. I turn on the tap and it runs for ages, I am actually not sure if it will stop, and my frantic fiddling with the handle does nothing. I can't figure out where to put this damn towel. Perhaps I can just stuff it into my bag? I decide not to as I am overcome with a temperate feeling of paranoia – they might have cctv (the UK really has given me a complex about cctv). At this point the tap finally stops running, and I make my escape, leaving the towel on the side.

Back at the wobbly table which is no longer wobbly – I look down to inspect the offending table leg and identify a piece of cardboard. Excellent. Now I can relax, and the evening gets off to a start.

We are given a talk on the history and typical qualities of Renaissance food at which point I realise I don't have anything to scribble down notes. Typical. I am dressed like something out of the Timmy Mallett show (or even Timmy Mallett himself). What I do manage to pick up information wise is that dishes were based on four conditions concerning the human body – hot, cold, dry and humid. All these qualities needed to be conveyed in the competitors dishes.

We are given a bottle of wine with our meal, which we enthusiastically recognise as one of the Terra Cruda wines that we tasted at the Terra Cruda cantina, a Vettina which is one of the basic wines, which makes us feel extra knowledgeable, and me extra smug. Redemption feels so good. We are served up the following two dishes:

Soft juicy pear baked in the oven infused with red wine and cinnamon. Beautifully layered on top is cheese which has been drizzled in Sapa, a viscous sauce made by slow cooking the must of red and white grapes. It is slightly sour tasting with a caramel after taste and is a speciality in Marche. The pear melts on my tongue and I take small bites to make it last as long as possible. I am already in heaven, this dish is simply divine.

Next up is the Pappardelle and lamb. This dish takes me to the next level of nirvana. The pappardelle is home made using a mix of whole wheat and white flours, roughly ground. The cinnamon lamb and sauce sauce compliment each other perfectly. This dish is aromatic, perfectly balanced, and is simply delicious. I am already thinking about the next restaurant I can gatecrash. I'll make a real effort to look stylish this time. Because it won't be last minute.

The desert – oh yes – this was not listed on the menu arrives and my eyes are wide open (so is my mouth). I greedily follow the waiter with my eyes, or lets be more specific, the desert around the room until it finally reaches our table. We are all on the edge of temptation, we are refraining from eagerly tucking in while one of the judges gives us another talk about the desert. I don't even hear what she has to say as my main concern is watching the desert, and making sure it does not go missing. The desert is made with rice, grapes and walnuts and is some kind of tart. Fantastic with the passito that is poured into our glasses. Passito is a sweet wine wine, and this one is a Ben Rye from Pantelleria, Sicily.

Throughout the course of the evening a poet, who looks very retro cool, gets up, and reads passages from books that to me sound rather sexual. I happened to give my boyfriend a book for Valentines day called Sex and cooking, or Cooking and sex by AnnaMaria Tedesco – these Latinos may be dramatic, but they have an eye for the important things in life. Well, the poet didn't read any passages from the AnnaMaria Tedesco book, but certainly from other writes with sex & cooking on the brain. I suspect that the renaissance was all about food and sex. Salute.

Flights & volcanos

Getting up at 5am to trek from South West London to 'London Stansted' – very deceptive for unsuspecting tourists – is never a doddle, but in this particular instance I wake up pretty much worse for wear. Previous days activities included:

Picnicking in Richmond park, with a bottle of Peroni and a good friend, then on to a champagne infused leavers do, which is followed by more champagne at the work leavers flat and a healthy helping of home made Rhubarb schnapps. The schnapps, I might add, are absolutely divine and trickle down my throat with delightful ease – hence my being worse for wear. A cave madam style farewell to my lovely friend who (stupidly) offered to drive me to the station at ridiculous o'clock in the morning (she offered after a few of those rhubarb schnapps), and off I am on the commuter train trundling along enroute to sun, shine,and good food. My friend trundles straight back into bed.

The upside of this early journey is the bus ride on the 26 from Waterloo to Liverpool Street. Gliding over the bridge gives you the most spectacular views of London just as the sun is peaking. Houses of parliament to one side, St Paul's, the gherkin, and the rest of the city to your other side. Faced with these incredible views, I feel on top of the world: yes folks, London is simply fabulous! I glance round at the other passengers smiling from ear to ear who do not seem to notice the ancient Babylon style views that are getting me so excited. They are either asleep or looking straight ahead. Uncultured unappreciative beings I think to myself for a second before spotting Somerset house, immediately forgetting about the uncultured ones. This sigh inducing journey gives me a glimpse of the bustling early morning city life, I am lucky to spot the wobbly Millennium bridge with the Tate Modern building rising on the South bank of the river...which reminded me...damn, how on earth did I forget my obligatory visit to the Tate this time?

It's the weekend following the Eyjafjallajokull volcano eruption, and during the course of the week I rebook my flight twice. I'm not complaining. I'm not stranded abroad with maxed out credit cards. For me it works out quite well actually. I managed to get myself a dentist and opticians appointment at short notice in the same week, that is almost a miracle. Now I can face the summer with contact lenses, sunglasses and a minimum of squinting to avoid those crows feet lines, which I already have, and do not under any circumstances want to make any worse. What can I say, I have a very expressive face.

Stansted airport is pretty much empty at 8 in the morning, so I whizz through security and hit the shops. Having an overflowing carry on bag, hitting the shops means window shopping. So I make a note of those Ralph Lauren sunglasses – I'll get them in July.

I sleep all the way from Stansted to Ancona, where somewhere over the Adriatic sea just off Ancona I am rudely awakened by turbulence. I hate turbulence. For a fleeting second I think we'll crash, and no I will not scream, because there's nothing that anyone can do about it if we do crash. Anyway, we seem to be descending alarmingly fast through a stubborn patch of fog, which is never reassuring, plane swinging from side to side when suddenly the runway comes into view. Which is all fine, but in this case the distance between the runway and the plane is just a few metres – surely that's wrong. Everyone holds their breath as we feel a massive thud...we 'crash' land (it feels that way), we are still moving at an immense speed and I suspect any faster and we would quite possibly tip sideways, and then crash, again. These reckless Spanish pilots (I think he is from Spain, or something). Everyone is silent until that horrible Ryanair victory tune starts up. The plane is full of Italians, and not one of them claps. This abscence of Italians clapping is direct evidence of a bad landing.

I get off as quick as possible, swim through security, and fall into the arms of my beautiful Italian boy, safe at last.