3. Festeggiare

2. Essere

I got shouted at this week. In the street, by a drunk guy in his forties. And it didn't feel great. To cheer myself up I went to Turin with two people from work to see the sights and taste the chocolate. I'd never been there, but then nobody had told me that it was the home of Nutella before. Further encouragement was not needed, so I packed my tablespoon and off I went.

I could spend a lot of time in Turin. It's a city that feels like it's expecting something, and though you're not sure exactly what, why not stop for a cheeky caffè while you wait? There's a penetrating Frenchness to everything (apparently Napoleon put it on a grid system), and glimpses of the Alps down every side street give it an austerity that you don't find in the traditional storehouses of the Italian way in Florence, Rome, Bologna, Naples. But whatever love they hold back in their architecture, the Torinesi pour it into their chocolate.

At the huge chocolate festival on in the main square, I tasted a piece of what angels must eat - Cremino di Nutella. Imagine please a block the size of a box of cook's matches, made of something hard but crumbly that melts the instant it slides onto your tongue. And it tastes of Nutella.

Needless to say, I'm never eating anything else again.

It gave me such a warm, gooey feeling that I forgot all about the man shouting "Do you think I'm a fascist? Do you think I'm a piece of shit?" at me in the street in Novi.

There are some more photos of Turin here - http://500px.com/seanaajones

1. Andare

I don't pay much attention to signs. That is, signs about the future (my driving is excellent. Only two missed stop signs since I passed my test). I've always envied people who go through life picking out mundane little events in their day that take on massive mystical-astrological significance. The inside-out jumper that prefigures a particularly bad day or the twinkle in a mother's eye that means its going to be a girl. It must be fun.

Perhaps a whole year of medical statistics lectures ruined it for me. I don't know. All I know is that if ever there was a dispiriting sign of things to come, I got it on the plane out here. I couldn't have been happier with the rammed planeful of Italians who immediately went to sleep after 5 minutes of gentle ribbing when we boarded the Airbus. And I take care here to mention the makers of the plane, because never has a mode of transport been more like a bus. Even the Megabus that I'd been taking to London for weeks before was hardly a bus by comparison, with its ample legroom and delicious half-time scones. No, this Airbus was all bus, every inch.

So I was happy with the Italians, and the gentle backing track from the engines letting us know we were bang on time. Travelling to Italy - great. Italians - fab. Then she arrived. 5 feet of fur and Italian bile, bursting onto the plane waggling a sheet of paper and a piece of oversized cabin luggage. FFS. 20 minutes later she stopped talking. But by god was she watchable. Every eye on the plane was fixed on the platinum blonde whirlwind wreaking havoc on our flight time. It's a minor miracle that anybody could muster the energy at 6am. The cabin crew certainly couldn't, poor bastards.

For the world capital of religion [citation forthcoming], Italy sure is a blasphemous place, so thankfully there were plenty of phrases to fill the time with on board. O Cristo! O Dio! All faces filled with disgust and secret delight in equal measure. O Madonna! It's what saved them really. I was on the verge of thinking that I'd made a huge mistake and all I was going to get when I landed was meeting after meeting with people like this faux-Fendi nightmare (ouch). But all the others thought she was just as bad as I did, the difference being that they didn't have a chip installed by the Queen that creates that awful, cringing face we all pull when anybody makes a show of themselves.

She had her audience, and they didn't cringe. They loved it, without the shame. Isn't that fantastic?