So what is it? It squats outside my little house, showing no signs of purpose other than to be a thing to put flowers on.
I speculated that it might be an early prototype for those little scooters the Italians love to kill themselves on. Or maybe a Heath-Robinson-style olive press.
My host, Dimitry, gave a Tuscan shrug and concentrated on the more important task of preparing supper. A couple of glasses of wine from the vinyard next door took my mind off the prehistoric Vesper with little difficulty.
The tan is coming on a treat. But where does the phrase "brown as a berry" come from? Are there many brown berries in the world?
Ah, there's that pesky pool again. Its so demanding.
Ciao, baby.
