Jaq of Hearts

I've no idea why but I'm clearly something of a hit with the gents at the moment. I can’t remember the last time an entire bar full of men cheered when I took my jumper off. I can only put this down to one of two reasons: my never having pursued a career as a pub stripper or (and I fear this is more likely) it’s never happened before.

I’ve just finished the mammoth road trip from Somerset to Florence, all 1400 miles of it. Sadly Donal cried off with a bad case of man-flu so I made the journey with a bag of mint imperials, half a packet of crisps, two teach yourself Italian CDs and a can of Red Bull riding shot gun with me. None of which proved to be great conversation or navigators but all of which were more than happy for me to talk about myself for eighteen and a half hours.

The bar in question is in a small French village called Auxonne, about 25k outside Dijon. After fourteen hours in the car I’d decided to call it a night and pulled up the nearest lodgings on the sat nav. I paid the very reasonable sum of 35 Euros and checked into my small but clean room. I headed downstairs to find a restaurant but my hopes of rustic French cuisine were quickly dashed as I was informed everywhere would be closed. Clearly a woman in need of several glasses of red wine, the chap behind the desk took pity on me and invited me next door to the bar where he and some friends were having a lock in. It’s at this point I should probably clarify who the jeering crowd was; Maxwell - 68, Alex 72, Jean-Christophe 84 and a very overweight Labrador - Jaq, (77 in doggie years). All of whom had definitely eaten their and probably everyone else’ fair share or fois gras.

They were a fantastic crowd who took great interest in my journey and tried their hardest to persuade me that I should remain in France and nothing good, (least of all the men) was to be found in Italy. The wine, conversation, pate and cheese flowed long into the night and Alex took great hilarity in regaling the story of how Catherine the Great met her demise whilst making love to a horse. Oh how the guys laughed.

Feeling more than a little guilty at embarrassing my namesake in front of the gang Alex asked if I had an interest in fine wine. I responded with an emphatic “Yes!” and he scurried off returning several minutes later with two fantastic looking bottles of Chablis Premier Cru from his vineyard . He placed his palms together and to the side of his face gesturing that they should be left to sleep for at least fours years before drinking.

It was shortly after this that my school French failed me, the barman, (a youngster in his sixties) pulled from under the counter a selection of fancy women’s underwear and pointed them in my direction. I’ve no idea what he was saying but fearing some sort of OAP Anne Summers was about to commence I necked the last of my wine, said good night and left.

The following morning I drove to Verese just outside Milan via the Mont Blanc tunnel. Coughing and spluttering for all 11,8 k I eventually emerged looking like a sooty-faced extra from Oliver, (N:B: anyone with a convertible car should not attempt this journey with the roof down). With France and Switzerland behind me I had arrived in Italy.

The land of fine wine, fine food and f**king insane drivers. I say this as a woman who’s more than happy tearing her way around the streets of London but even for me, when a car appears from nowhere and starts flashing you to move over at 120 and it isn’t a copper you know you‘re not in Camden any more.

I’d arranged to meet with my old colleagues from the Vivendi Italy office, we dined and lunched on fantastic Tuscan cuisine, (mountains of anti pasti and a great mozzarella like cheese called Burrata) until I thought I’d rendered myself immobile, (too much food rather than Grappa I swear). Waving them goodbye, I embarked on the last stretch of the journey to my new home in Firenze.

So here I am, writing from the terrace of the apartment I’d always hoped I’d find myself in. The kind with huge wooden doors from the street, great stone steps, wrought iron railings, shuttered windows and a brass plaque with the owners name on it. Just moments from the Duomo and I can hear the early morning choir, their singing only interrupted by Italians chit chatting over cappuccinos and the polizei speeding around the city.

This afternoon I begin my classes with the professor at the Instituto Italiano after which I’ve arranged to meet Alberto a rather hot looking personal trainer who, according to his website will enable me to eat all the pasta and panna cotta I want for the next month and still keep my bikini boot camp body.