Lie Back And Think Of Vesuvius

Remember this?

The two-legged dogs' attempt to turn their bathroom from a sanitary relic of the Middle Ages into something which left you vaguely cleaner after you left than before you went in?

Yet again, they've outdone themselves.

Now when I pad into the bathroom for a spot of wallowing in the beauty suds and a brisk bit of bikini-line waxing, this is what confronts me:

Something out of Pompeii circa 78AD.

I'm currently hunting e-Bay for a toga fit for a boofhead.

I've circled the Ides of March on the calendar.*

The only good news is that Castigleonfia Firuntinaro - or whatever this village is called - is relatively volcano-free.

In fact, the closest thing to Vesuvius around here is any peto of mine.


* Yeah yeah, history pedants. The original Ides of March fell about 134 years before Vesuvius blew its proverbial cork. Even boofheads are allowed dramatic licence.

Home Is Where The Fart Is

Yeah yeah. Tacky. Cheap pun. But now it's out in the open. So to speak. My middle name is Windy. I've been known to break seismometers with my own version of WMDs. In fact, if I'd lived in Iraq, I'd have been reason enough to invade the dang place.

So how in the name of brisket bones is this relevant? Because I'm in the mood for reflection. Speaking of which, Barbra's always in the mood for reflection. Her own. In the nearest mirror.

How many homes have I had in my medium-sized life? One. With the two-legged dogs. First, in Sydney. Now, in Italy. Two locations, one home.

Enough reflection. My boofy head hurts.

Anyways, back to the saga. It was after midnight when Barbra and I were delivered to our two-legged dogs in the wee Tuscan town with the curious name of Castiglion Fiorentino. I still can't get my big pink tongue around the name and if I can't get my big pink tongue around something there's something rotten in the state of Danimarca:

A nice guy called Joe drove us the six hours from Milan down to the big pink tongue-twisting placed called Casteloneiefeerentennnesomething. He didn't speak Dog, we didn't speak Italian. It was a quiet six hours. But Joe was nice. He bought himself some dinner on the way and shared it with us in the back of the van. On the basis that food is the number one priority in my life - nay, the only priority - I immediately knew I was going to like this place.

Barbra, for whom food isn't a great priority, mistook it for a marriage proposal.

Next morning, we made our debuts in Castileenafarineesomething:


Jet-lagged? Believe it. Idiotic bullet-head haircut? Better believe it. The cloth-eared bint in the grooming place in Sydney where we had our pre-travel wash and polish had never groomed an Old English before. She's got a great career ahead of her in some other job.

So what's the ultimate fundamental difference between Sydney and Castilleforinteensomething?

Here, my WMDs are called peti.

Ooops. Peeeeeeeeew. Head for the hills.