Took the dogs out extra early this morning. Staggering past Riccardo's vineyard and vegetable plot, I saw a rather, er, well-built man rhythmically digging and lifting potatoes. Flossie immediately flew into said plot and I followed to retrieve. The digger paused. He was wearing mid-calf leather boots and unnervingly short shorts. And that was it. And his head was shaven to the quick. The exercise meant his body was rimed with sweat, despite the early hour. "Morning", I said, "have you seen a dog?" "No" he replied, running his hand down his torso. "You don't recognise me do you?" I stared at him. "Can't say I do. Your face is..." "I'm the
carabiniere, from the village" he said proudly, flexing his arms against the fork, "people never recognise me when I'm like this. Riccardo asked me to help him this morning." Now I saw him, sitting behind the wheel of a dark blue Land Rover, in a freshly-ironed crisp shirt and tie, with that over-the-top peaked cap they wear and the dark blue trousers with a smart red stripe. And mirror shades of course. Always mirror shades. "Ah, of course!" I replied. "There, you see, now you recognise me too! It's always the same story. I love this work, here, in the middle of nature, when it's hot. Really hot." "Well, that's a good job then isn't it, because today's going to be a scorcher, ah, here's Flossie" I replied as brightly as I could, before legging it. "Don't work too hard, ha ha." "You can never work too hard," he replied darkly, before turning back to his labour of love.
