I have some cards to send. In the post office I take number P287 and acquire a seat.
Surely there's time?!
I return home. The Etruscan plumbing is borked again so I unblock the fu-fu, re-ignite the gas and clean the last week's grime from the skylight.
I go out, buy some vegetables, visit Citta' di Castello and return with jaunty air and a jar of olives.
I make love to the landlady, after admiring her photos of recent holiday in Barthelona and Bennetton underwear purchased for same. We drink coffee, grow artichokes, become old and talk about heritage bean varieties while sitting under grape vines knitted over a trellis over a garage over an Etruscan tomb of nobles with short stature and mighty horses.
I answer all my emails, in depth, including the ominous request for More Information from the Australian Taxation Office in 2006. And 2007. And 2008. And 2009.
Despite requiring 137 permits, each stamped and sworn and spat-on by blackbirds, I build a villa. I concoct a ridiculous electric vehicle made from old Fiat batteries and attend the market every Saturday selling poems marinated in olive oil and peperoncino.
I walk up Corso Garribaldi to drink coffee infused with rosewater made by a clumsy Arab without my hatred for fluoro lighting, but at least he's trying.
I go back up to the city, spraying the buskers with coinage, spitting back at the afterwinter spray of the fountain and avoiding the giornalai posters screaming that the regional elections were rigged, RIGGED!