Coming Clean

I can't carry on this pretence any more. The last blog was made up. There are no lorries queueing up outside Casa Combo before scattering off to vegetable markets all over northern Italy. Battered Iveco minibuses, each with a pederastic gangmaster and crew of underage illegals don't pitch up to pick the vegetables at four in the morning. Armani's PA doesn't scream down the 'phone to the Maitre d' at La Conca d'Oro in Milan "If you don 'ave ze zucchini flowers of Meester Combo zen Signor Giorgio say you go fuck youself!!!"*
I made it all up. I'm sorry, but I've been trying to give myself some self-worth after some hideous weekends of alcoholic excess, capped off by a virtuoso performance at The Pig Party in a local village on Saturday evening/night/Sunday morning.
There I've come out. From now on, no more fabricated stories, no more wild flings of fantasy.


This is the real truth. A plastic crate of assorted veggies for a local restaurant. Total income: €11.40. I feel better already. Maybe a snifter would be in order? I mean, it's nearly time for luncheon.

* Exactly what I thought. Why on earth would she speak in English with a stereotypical cod Italian accent? Beats me.