Leon-Battista Alberti.

One of the Italians has found a boyfriend. The other one is sadly missing hers. So they both have boyfriends now. Which is handy because it means that Pete and I are safe from the perceived agents of disaster.

Ah the long distance relationship. An exciting prospect at the outset, but after a couple of days the novelty probably wears off. The lad in question is a young man from Scotland, he’s half Irish too just to add to his mysterious Celtic genetics. Throw a few extra Cornish genes and he’d have the set (if you ignore the Welsh – which you do at your peril if you’re Anne Robinson).

But he lives in London now, and studies with my brother. He came back to the flat with the Italians and Pete and decided (as people will often do when they’re drunk) to buy some property. Man, it has often been said, is nothing without a bit of land to call his own. It’s just a shame that the particular piece of land he wants to buy is that which is just above my roof – the upstairs flat. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the lad, in fact he seemed thoroughly pleasant. But the reason I was upset about him moving upstairs was that in my mind I had already married him off to the Italian he was cuddling. I had them living in a small farm somewhere outside Rome, cooking spaghetti every day and watching movies.

And who knows it may still happen. In a few weeks he’s on the return exchange, he may get to drinking a few beers, and he may get to thinking about land again, and this time the land might be in the country that invented perspective* and who knows he might even gain some.

* Leon-Battista Alberti

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