Certainly, it's easier said than sung.
Having spent a wonderful night in Pisa, I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Laugh? Why not? Everyone else was.
Cry? Why not? I didn't realise they were all laughing at me.
Italy is full of beautiful people among whom I would never presume to number myself.
Not unless that number is a big deluded one.
Something went awry with my genes between my grandparents arriving in Scotland and me arriving on this planet.
And on the subject of jeans, how can an Italian seniorina, or even a seniora, wear them with such pizzazz?
Maybe it's the difference between numbers and figures....?
Although, to be fair, I don't give a number two.
Now where's that red wine gone?
To my head, I think.
Buona notte.
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