Sunday bloody sunday. You know you’re young if the morning after having collapsed on your friend’s bathroom floor you feel all sparkling and cool. Well, at least I’m young. But, according to the evidence, my thirty-something years old cousin E is way younger than me. At 9.30 she  rang at the door and, as soon as C opened the door, the Tazmanian Devil entered the room, opened the windows letting:

- 100.000 volts sunrays enter our eyeballs

-  a gateau au framboise enter our throath

-1.000.000 words enter our soaring ears

 In about 10 minutes we were all dressed up and ready to go ( everyone except C, that stood home struggling with an aching teeth. It’s moving observing a  man and its relationship with his aching teeth. They have their indipendent lives, but still they influence each other, a little like Woody Allen and Mia Farrow at the old times).

…to be continued