Pizza envy

Succeed in putting several hundred thrilling miles between myself and London while in Italy for a friend’s wedding. But, annoyingly, I can still feel stress and tension creeping up my back and shoulders. It’s as if I am carrying a rucksack full of pebbles.

Italy is the first place I have visited where the drivers make Londoners look like they’re Driving Miss Daisy. A taxi driver is happy to squash four of us in the back of his Fiat and he scoffs at the idea of seatbelts as he overtakes a queue of cars waiting on a red light. Seatbelts appear to be ignored in Italy, as are indicators, road markings and mirrors. The roads have more bends than my small intestines and they are punctuated with squashed cats and scooter accidents. It is after another near-death experience that I realise I have stopped worrying about work and I am now more concerned with surviving. The rucksack is off.

This is also the first long holiday I have had since being diagnosed with coeliacs, which means I cannot eat gluten - so no pizza, pasta, bread, cake or proper ice cream. It means I can eat fresh fish, meat, salad and vegetables. It means I do eat ready-salted crisps and cheese balls.

As I am away from the desk I am able to see Southern Man for a proper chat. We hatch a plan over a tray of limoncellos. As our long-distance search for work has not been very successful, we will set a deadline. If no jobs have materialised in the North West by said deadline we will quit our jobs anyway, head up there and hope for the best (deadline to be set after not having drunk limoncellos).

Relocating to the unknown and binning important-sounding job could be seen as an act of madness. But when the place you live is driving you mad, then surely it is madness to stay? Anyhow, I work well with deadlines. At least my CV says I do.