I'll tell you one thing about this benighted, come-back-next-month-with-your-greatgrandmother's-last-five-tax-returns-a-DNA-sample-and-your-second-cousin's-inside-leg-measurement, bureaucratic nightmare of a country. It's a good place to be an old lady.
We had to be at the police station at 8.30 this morning, to edge a little closer to my mother becoming a legal resident of Italy. You think being a citizen of the European Community puts an end to all that red tape? Think again, my friends.
Knowing what a sad and desperate throng gathers outside the gates of the Questura at 8.29, I made sure we were there at 8am and my mother did her bit by looking particularly frail. Italian policeman are passionate about three things in life: what kind of figure they cut in their uniform; lunch; their elderly female relatives or anyone who reminds them thereof.
We were spotted huddled against the railings. Out came an agent and ushered us inside to a place of warmth and safety. They cleared away the prisoners' blankets that had just been dropped off from the laundry so they could offer us seats. I began to think we might be offered the Full Italian Breakfast. Those suckers outside who hadn't thought to accessorise with a granny were furious.
Anyway, I would like cyber-publicly to thank Agents Beppe, Luciano and Ruggiero for their kindness. It made all the difference.
Of course we still have to report back in June.
I didn't sleep well last night. This morning's appointment with the law hung over me. Also I needed to get up and pee but I was afraid of waking my mother. She sleeps with her door open. She's slept with her door open for fifty nine and a half years, in case her baby cries. So now her 59 and a half year old baby can't take a leak in the middle of the night. Something not right with this picture.
I'd like an early night tonight but we have people coming. But the good news is Mr F is cooking his mighty fine rabbit in honey mustard. Yum squared.