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A Whistle Stop Visit is NOT 8 Days
My wife flew into town for 8 days … she’s calling it a “whistle-stop” visit. Then she’s leaving two days before my birthday. Go figure.
I’ll be in the usual spot, I say. I am at Bergamo Airport. Our usual spot has an unusually wide range, depending on the airport traffic.
I see her walking towards me and my heart skips a beat. Her face breaks out into a wide smile. I climb out of the car and pop the boot open for her to stash her small bag.
She already has everything she needs in Italy, but brings me things I need in that suitcase, and a few ‘delicates’ like panties and bras which apparently need to travel at all times with her. Biden has a security detail, she has bras and panties.
And obviously the hair straightener.
Once the bag is securely stashed, I relax. It holds English sausages from my favourite butchers in London and Mc Vites Hobnobs which I cannot get in Italy without taking out a mortgage on my new home.
I go to kiss her. But utter a flem-filled throaty chest cough instead.
“You can hug me, and a peck on the cheek. I do not want to leave here in 8 days with your cold,” she informs me, “Please tell me you are not going to act out…
