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Mi scusi. I haven’t posted in a very long time, but Mr. Slattern and I are in the throes of our yearly pilgrimage to the land of Beppe Grillo, sidewalk opera and five dollar bottles of quality wine, which almost invariably lead to intimate encounters of one sort or another with the carbinieri, most of whom are the soul of understanding and patience, or so I have found. In any case, I stumbled upon this little missive to the masses in a pissoir somewhere in the hills of Tuscany and was hoping one of you might be able to decipher it.

In case you are wondering, I have found that the purchase of a bottle or three of Barolo tends to make even the most recalcitrant barman or shopkeeper entirely willing to cough up the keys to the squatter at almost any time of the day or night. And isn’t it lucky that I can make a drink with nearly any ingredients and in virtually any state of inebriation? A real lifesaver of a skill, let me tell you.

More as events unravel. Ciao ciao, belle!