Wednesday, 12 September 2007

Bury My Broken Heart at Milan Airport

Yeah yeah, so it's been a while.

Enough of the apologies.

Where was I? On my way to Milan in the belly of a Jumbo. Stuck in a crate, with only Barbra Streisand for company. In her cat travelling box. Did I mention that they stuck her in a cat travelling box? If not, they stuck her in a cat travelling box. Pointing and sniggering at her sure passed the 26-odd hours.

Ah, Milan. What plans I had, what plans. I don't know about Barbra. I never know about Barbra.

Y'see, as is plainly obvious from the photos that decorate these pages, I'm a fashion fiend. I was voted Best Dressed Boofhead At The Local Park three years in a row.

What I didn't know about fashion you could write on the pinhead that is Barbra.

What was I going to do? I was going to schmooze. With guys like ...

... him.

Whatever his name is.

It'll come to me.

I was going to hit the fashion shows. I was going to lounge in the front row with a glass of bubbly. I was going to pick out something for Barbra. Something in which she could make her Italian debut.

Something in keeping.

On the basis that she's famous for doing her best work on her back, I was thinking along the lines of "Chic Cheap Hooker":

I could see her covering my bills for brisket bones in something like that, couldn't you?

Was I set to go? Was I ever. They unloaded us from the plane. They wheeled us into customs.

Which was where we stayed! For twelve hours!

The vet at Milan airport decided that my travelling crate wasn't big enough. We had a six-hour drive from Milan down to our two-legged dogs waiting for us in Castiglion Fiorentino. And no way on earth was that Italian vet going to let me travel in my crate. The crate in which I'd already travelled for 26 hours.

So we waited. Me in my too-small crate, Barbra in her cat travelling box. While someone hand-built a new, bigger crate for me.

The fashion shows? Pffft. Schmoozing with ... whatever his name is ... pffft.

A money-spinning frock for Barbra? Pffft.

Twelve hours later, we were loaded into a van.

Six hours later, we were dumped in the laps of our two-legged dogs.

Whatever their names are.

4 comments:

Judith in Umbria said...

I am so sorry your short time at Milano was so desperate. My cats were lost at the airport from 7:30 AM until 6:30 PM, but they were so glad to leave it that they forgot to complain. And once arrived at the farm, they learned instantly to love Italy with all the interconnecting rooftops. I don't suppose that's a real option for you, eh?

From what I know of your town, I think it would take more than a tastelessly sexy outfit to make a euro off Barbara. It looks to me like there's too much competition from amateurs.

My advice is to return to Milan centro and get the carpaccio di manzo. Brisket is just too hard to find here. (It's called la tasca.)

Dermott said...

I'd've found your moggies for you. Quick smart.

Robyn said...

Yes, it has been a while! I've just tagged you so now you have to come up with seven things people don't know about you. Stop playing Civilization and get on with it!

Dermott said...

Enough with the anthropomorphising! I'm a dog!