Italian Politics.

Last night I was almost literally dragged, kicking and screaming, to a political dinner by my other half. I wasn't so much kicking and screaming but I was moaning and throwing really mean looks at him - I have no interest in English politics, so why on earth should I take an interest in Italian politics? Apart from the obvious theatre of the whole thing, of course - every week gives up a new reason to throw your hands in the air and say, 'SHEESH', but rarely for reasons of politics. Berlusconi is like a one-man vaudeville show. I saw his latest regional candidate in the papers this week who was actually his recent dental nurse following the miniature-Cathedral throwing shenanigans. She was also aged 32 and dressed in a mini-skirt short enough to ensure that the electorate was left in no doubt as to her credentials.

So last nights' do was a fund/ awareness raiser for the centre-right candidate for regional presidency following the, er, stepping down of the last president. This was occasioned by the fact that he was caught in a private apartment taking cocaine with transvestite prostitutes. I mean, SERIOUSLY?!! Fiddling the bird-feeder on the old expenses is just so uninspired compared to this stuff. These boys really know what they are doing. And of course it generally appears to be the boys getting up to this kind of nonsense. With the exception of Mrs Robinson in Northern Ireland apparently feeling it was her destiny to take a much younger lover, there is a real gender inequality in the ability to create sexual scandals. As far as I am aware, there were no whispers of Margaret Thatcher in a gimp mask with rent boys, or Mo Mowlam partying with teenagers, and yet there seems to be an epidemic of men with an inability to keep it in their pants. That's another story for another day however.

So we are on our way to the dinner at a local restaurant and there is some discussion as to why the venue has changed. Apparently, either because the strength of interest in the candidate is so strong or because the dinner is free, there has a been such demand that there are actually two dinners in two different restaurants. We arrive at the restaurant to find it is already two thirds full and to find that E and myself are the youngest there by about twenty years. It appears the younger political activists are actually able to pay for their own dinner. Not to worry, we seat ourselves with E's father and step-mother and a friend of theirs and wait and wait for the candidate to arrive and launch into his spiel. I actually am waiting for the wine which finally arrives and doodling on a picture of the candidate. He really does look quite cute with bunches and no doubt at some point in the future, if he gets elected, there will be photos to prove it.

Meanwhile, the Olds are chatting. It is really something to finally be able to understand the conversations that are going on around me, albeit sketchily at times, but I generally get the gist of most that is said. And I still find it surprising how the men compete in terms of how fit they are well past the age that most English men have given up. I was party to a conversation between two male retirees that sounded more like a pair of schoolgirls - A: 'Well of course, usually in the evening, I eat very little, very little indeed.' B: 'Oh, me too, I only ever have a light dinner'. A: 'Maybe a salad'. B: 'I had just raw fennel for dinner last night!' Hilarious. An English male conversation would probably have been more focused on how many pints were managed and as for that pie...

So the main conversations usually, as always, centred around food, preparation and eating of and the other favourite of old people the world over, who is still alive and who is dead and who is somewhere in between. Spiced up with the occasional gossip as to who is doing what with whom - although the latter conversations now tended towards who's daughter is doing what with who's son.

Finally our candidate arrives and in he bounces surrounded by his team - chaps who fashionably need a shave carrying multimedia equipment. Whatever scale it is on, politics is a funny thing to be involved in. It is basically a constant needy cry of, 'vote for ME! I'm great, I can make you happy, vote for MEEEEE!'. I am assured that this chap is already rich and therefore cannot be in it for the money (has anyone heard of the Billionaire Berlusconi?) so maybe he really is in it because he can see how behind we are here and someone finally needs to solve the transport problem (Public: Woefully inadequate. Private: It doesn't move but when it does get where it wants to go, it parks wherever it damn well pleases) and the infrastructure etc. I just found it odd and interesting to watch him go about his spiel as an outsider with no stake in what he has to say. He was an actor on a stage looking for approbation and I sincerely hope that there is more than his ego involved here as we do seriously need a serious politician who can pull off the modernisation of the region that it desperately needs instead of getting in and handing out jobs for the boys while looking to Caligula for tips on Politician Deportment. We can live in hope but the candidate leaping about calling a roomful of old people 'youngsters' and shoving fistfuls of cards with his face on them, begging us to vote for him? I won't be holding my breath.

What's Wrong with the Big Shop?

First moving to Italy and living for a while in Italy are two very different things and I am sure I am not the only one who keeps saying to friends who have holidayed here that they really should take their house off the market, stop looking at the Italian property pages (which have been translated into very bad English by Google Translate) and have a six month sabbatical here before they take the big leap.

The Italy of holidays is a by definition not the Italy which features in our daily lives. For example, given half a chance and a large supermarket, I will not be going out every day for fresh produce with which to cook lunch and dinner. This seems to be the way it is mostly done here. I am fully able to appreciate the fact that it is great to have Massimo and his lovely fruit and veg just outside my front door, the great norcineria (pig-bits only shop) just round the corner, or the macellaio for other bits of other animals or the the Conad market for all the necessaries in between, all within a couple of kilometres radius. We have thriving local produce shops in Italy which are fabulous sources of seasonal fare, often produced locally if at all possible. People here are fiercely proud of their local specialities, and rightly so.

However. If I am spending all morning sourcing my wonderful local ingredients, who is cleaning my house? Who is ironing the shirts? When am I actually going to get the time to cook the ingredients I have spent all morning running around buying?? I have to get the children at 2pm, so unless I either tie mops to their feet or begin the wildly optimistic task of teaching them to iron at the age of four, I just can't do 'Italian housewife' properly.

So. I maintain my frowned-upon custom of The Big Shop. I go once a week and that is plenty. Massimo is always to hand should I need the odd bit of fresh veg or run out of apples during the week, but my English roots run too deep and life really is too short to spend it stood in queues with retirees complaining about the length of the queue.

Of course, this is a favourite pastime here - I saw a skit a couple of weeks ago on Zelig, a kind of 'Live at the Apollo' programme which is well worth a watch with even moderate Italian comprehension and an understanding partner to provide explanations - where someone was in a post-office, impersonating a funcionary. Another character walks into the post-office, looks around him, and realises that - INCREDIBLY - there is no queue. He strolls up to the functionary and in a disbelieving tone, asks, 'what, no queue????!'. 'No,' comes the answer. The visitor abruptly turns on his heels and heads out of the office, saying 'right, I'll be back later then', which they both acknowledge to be the only possible action.

When you are here on holiday, it's a lovely pastime to go out and look at all the wonderful local produce on sale and bemoan the dominance of Tesco, but in real life, it's a custom for those either whose children are grown up, they themselves are retired or have a Woman Wot Does to Do all the stuff you haven't got time to do because you're too busy working your way around the village picking up that day's menu ingredients. Be prepared for funny looks from the locals when you explain that you do one 'shop' a week. And go anyway. They already have an unspoken list of your strange foreign customs. Just be satisfied you can add another one to the list and leave it at that.