Today I am spoilt for choice. After longing for lovely things to write about like a discontented hen scratching in the dust, I am suddenly overwhelmed, delighted by moment after moment like a row of fat peaches on a market stall.
I chose just two.
At lunchtime, on the pink-flowered terrace, I break the cherry curse and manage to eat one after the other after the other without once counting the stones.
And then as if to prove that superstitions are no more we stay out late with our wonderful funny friend, all the way past midnight, and we don’t turn into yawning yellow pumpkins, or even a droopy bunch of fiori di zucca, like the ones waiting in the fridge.
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