Postscript Italy 07

We'd walked and walked and walked all day. How proud I was of your geriatic knee.


A quiet, non-descript lane shaded from the heat of a dusty Roman afternoon. Perhaps a tad bit shabby, yet oddly dignified amidst the madness of the surrounding streets.

Cobblestones omnipresent. Of course they are.

Shaky iron table outside the neighbourhood bar. A simple plain tablecloth, the tiniest pot of ...some kind of foliage.


Is there danger of sneaky pigeon bombs?


Our dark-skinned waiter - all toothy smiles in his waistcoat, sleeves and apron.

A single bottle of peach tea. Two glasses - prego, prego! - he insists.


There's a flower shop across the street, on the corner. Pots and pots of gaily happy flowers. Even the blazing sun cannot but admire them, softening its blinding heat to a light, golden caress.

I take a picture of you - seated across from me at our little table, the flowers waving cheerily from behind you.

For just that moment, a glass of peach tea believes itself to be the finest of dessert wines.

And you smile at me.


By the time we got to Rome, the secret hope I didn't even know I had of recreating the magic of last year's trip this time round had pretty much gone into storage.

But you know what?

That single moment that afternoon, sitting out there with you, slowly sipping our pretend wine...it's gone and snuck into my heart like a kitten finding a comfortable spot on the windowsill.

With a caption underneath it that says:

"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be..."


A falling star has a way of turning up when you're not looking for it.

So maybe having a pigeon poop on you that morning was lucky after all. After all, we surely had us a magic moment that afternoon. All for Euro 2.50. Score!

A perfect first anniversary. (never mind it that it was two days later)