coming back

It's been three weeks since the last post,because I've been in Italy, where many of the impressions I'd received over the last few years were confirmed and a few were removed or modified. Some things were as expected: the food and wine, the beauty of the language, the general friendliness of the people, and the high design quality of many everyday objects. But we were in Puglia, the heel of Italy's foot, which is a far cry in many ways from the affluent areas of the north. The blocks of flats were as depressing as many I've seen in eastern Europe, and although the beaches were clean and beautiful, the interior was unprepossessing, with light industry punctuating the olive trees. I could see many parallels with Cornwall, but their decision to name their equivalent to the Lizard Point 'Land's End' confused me.

All the same, there was a definite air of 'this isn't your standard Italy' which I found rather refreshing. But it was a book by an Italian journalist, Beppe Severghini, that did most to change my perception, not just of Puglia but of the country as a whole. In La Bella Figura he convinced me that he really did offer 'an insider's guide to the Italian mind', and what I'd picked up at Waterstone's as a light, perhaps frothy take on my hosts before I got to grips with Karen Armstrong's A History of God proved to be a witty, informative study of the national psyche. Clive James is the nearest equivalent I can think of.

I'd hoped to speak as much Italian as possible. Well, I suppose I did, but it wasn't very much, beyond the usual basic transactions, because I was with English friends as part of a larger group. My passive understanding had improved, and I sometimes made sense of the World Cup commentaries, but I still found the irregular verbs difficult, especially the past participles. On the credit side, I found new words easy to remember, so in the unlikely event of my meeting someone who wants to high-five me or discuss vacuum-packed olives I shall be ready. My best linguistic experience was on the plane home. A party of nineteen 9-to-13-year-olds en route to Edinburgh via Gatwick was accompanied by a teacher who sat beside me. We talked for the whole flight, more in Italian than in English, but still, while Sue read in peace. I was impressed by the children's readiness and ability to converse with other passengers, but when we landed and heard that Italy had been eliminated I was interested to hear Anita, who admittedly was not a fan, say that she thought it was just as well, because instead of 'bread and circuses' Italy would have to confront its serious political and economic problems.

And now we await England v Germany, not that I shall be able to watch it live, as I shall be watching my three grandsons perform in an outdoor theatrical production. Despite the 'Hard Times' the BBC World Service keeps on mentioning, I still hope we stuff them.

world cup

As I may have said before, the World Cup (so sure of itself that it doesn't, unlike other sports, need to specify which) knocks spots off the Olympic Games, for me, in terms of enjoyment. A month of almost daily footy easily eclipses a month of most of the sports I have heard of, some I haven't and a few events I'm really interested in. The white van men and plenty of private motorists and householders have done their quadrennial patriotic thing, we are being told how many pints of beer, pizzas and packets of crisps are likely to be consumed in the next few weeks, and my newspaper's World Cup booklet arrived this morning, with the promise of a chart in tomorrow's sister paper. I haven't bought a sticker booklet, hoping in vain that one of my grandsons might do so and save me the teasing, but on the whole I think I've displayed my little-boy-who-never-grew-up side quite successfully. 'Saddo,' comments my wife, but she smiles approvingly and adds, 'Actually I think it's quite fun.' Since she will watch at least as much as I shall, and is sufficiently devoted to football to scan websites far more often than I do, there will be no rows over the use of the remote, except possibly when Switzerland v Honduras has to fight for attention against Wimbledon, so we shall be a football couple, as we are throughout the domestic season.

Neither of us is particularly sanguine about the possibility of forty-four 'years of hurt' being ended by Stevie G, or whoever is captain that day, lifting the non-cup, but that doesn't matter. The pleasure of watching two good footballing nations such as Portugal and Brazil vying for supremacy must not be underestimated. The fact that Theo Walcott wasn't chosen for the final squad of twenty-three doesn't bother me, as I don't feel that he justified selection. Besides, now he and Arshavin can take a rest and be fresh for next season. I think Capello is a good manager, but just how good remains to be seen as England's already less than frightening squad is affected by injuries, doubts over fitness and inexperience in key positions. There are the usual fears and concerns: security, fans' behaviour, unsold or exorbitantly priced tickets, and the rumoured sanitizing of the routes to the stadiums/stadia by the removal of all that might present the wrong image, but despite these reservations I'm looking forward to enjoying myself, especially as South Africa is in a very favourable time zone for British viewers to see at least the evening matches. I wouldn't be surprised to see Spain or Brazil win, but just hope we don't go out on a missed penalty.