due

Saturday night. IC, bro-in-law and I carried on boozing, though we went to bed early as Sunday was the day of The Christening, the purpose of the trip in many respects and we didn’t want to be too fucked up.

Sunday began with a lunchtime aperitif, actually, that’s not strictly true, it began with a behemoth shit. The toilet wasn’t working well, it flushed fine but there was some sort of airlock and the subsequent noise is like a special needs orgy. This meant we had to pour buckets of water into the pan to drown the chod. Usually one bucket would suffice, this one required FOUR full buckets, it was that fucking pizza dough, it was more glutinous than a car tyre, which is strangely un-Italian for a pizza base. Anyway, after the drink we gathered some Prosecco and snacks for the after-Christening party before taking leave of the Lake and driving West to Brescia to unload the haul. And attend church.

Italy, as it will probably come as no surprise what with the Pope and all, is a very Catholic country. It upholds archaic traditions based around faith. It’s not uncommon to see statues of the Madonna in streets, by roads and roundabouts garlanded by fresh flowers. This faith bleeds into every day life and sustains strong family values, the vast majority of children live at home until married for example, for IC and her sister to leave Italy for the UK/USA respectively isn’t at all common.

Fortunately P’s mum didn’t mind that bro-in-law and I weren’t too keen on going to Mass that morning but the Christening was going to be an inevitable church attendance. The family gathered outside the venue with the baby, there were loads of them, unties, uncles, cousins, I learnt that this was only a small portion of them; IC’s family is massive.

Inside the priest started his business; I’d not a clue what he was harping on about but he kept staring at me with black eyes, put the fear of, well, god into me if I’m honest. I checked around the church, it was pretty but featured the most dreadful contemporary frescos of Christ’s crucifixion, screaming pain and all blood pissing about the place. Why on earth anyone would want to perpetually recall such an act of barbarism is beyond me. It was starkly contrasted by P’s niece all cuddled up in the arms of her mum. Mercifully the service didn’t go on for too long and afterwise we nipped by the house in Brescia for a few snacks and spot of drinking.

They’re a bloody nice bunch of folks by anyone’s standards. I played host in lieu of conversation (though some of he family spoke English) and we passed a happy few hours consuming the goods. We drove back to the Lake for a final supper (I’ve not mentioned the food much, it was simple and delicious incidentally, lots of cured meats, cheese, bread, olives… a ‘go figure’ situation) and saw off the weekend with Sambuca and cards.

Right pisser to have to leave the following morning, we had a short amount of time to have coffee in a pretty little village a few miles down the road with the immediate family and then we were off to the fucking airport. The flight back was remarkably okay, I think I was so down about leaving I couldn’t really be arsed to worry. Besides, I was completely engrossed in my book which I finished a minute before we landed.

We took the train home and went directly out to the pub we’d attended the evening before we set off. By now it was 8-ish, IC and I had a lazy dinner in the dining area and called it a day at home with a little shot of liqueur. Yesterday I had to get up very early and leave Hackney to unpack and wash some clothes before work. The day in the office was infused with the fading holiday and aggravated by the reality of having to attend the BBC Proms for a work related shindig.

The good thing about the company trip to the Proms is having a box. It seats 12 and is filled to the edges with food and booze. The music, however, is the pisser. In places it’s okay but it doesn’t half go on, and on, and on. Drinking helps ease it in and if you’re able to absorb yourself it’s bearable, but largely it’s stultifying dull.

Despite the booze collection the BBC had stiffed us on the red wine. My boss gave me 60 quid and suggested I nipped to the bar to get some more bottles during the interval. I got served fast and as I was gathering my haul some lanky boffin passed right behind me and I accidentally elbowed him in the stomach spilling his tiny cup of wine all over his shirt. He wasn’t best pleased and glared at me, sensibly choosing not to say anything as my eyes were sticking out my face like tentacles. Instead, I informed him that it was unwise to go creeping about a persons back when they were involved in buying drinks with such enthusiasm. He opened his mouth to speak/object when I wordlessly cracked open one of my four bottles and topped him up. He stood there witless as if I’d exposed myself.

The second half went on for fucking weeks, quite annoying to have such a good view (we were virtually hanging over the stage) when its for such a dirge. When it was finally over a few of us popped out to a hotel bar round the corner to recover. I had a fairly pissed trip back on the tube and blasted out my brains with Cephalic Carnage. By the time I finally got home I was arseholed, deaf and in excellent cheer.

No Piqued tomorrow, I’m getting inked in the morning and am having the day off to deal with it all, tune in on Friday to read all about it…

Cephalic who?