Summer Summer, Wherefore Art Thou Summer?

Yes, I've been on holidays. Reading Shakespeare. He's some English coot fond of a bit of a scribble. English? It's not like any English language this boofhead has come across before.

Be that as it may, as I set off on my holiday, my change of undies and a clean hanky tied up inside a spotted cloth tied to a pole slung across my shoulder, two euros and my name and address in an envelope pinned to my boofy chest in case I got lost, someone gave me a Blackberry. It's the latest, coolest thing, they said.

I ate it.

On the whole, as soft fruits go, I prefer a Strawberry. You don't end up picking bits of silicon chip out of your boofy teeth.

But I digress.

I returned to this Italian village with the unpronounceable name to discover the temperature had dropped verging on 20 degrees. What happened to summer? What happened to my leisurely days and nights bludging food from the neighbours?

My cisterna was there, their summer dining table was there. But they weren't:

The sudden onset of autumn chill had sent them inside to eat. So who, now, cleans up their leftover panini, pizza, pane and other assorted boofhead delicacies?

That's something for me to contemplate over the winter as I thumb through Shakespeare's latest offering. I'm told it's due out soon, something about some Prince of Denmark or somewhere.