Both my beloved wife and I had had a terrible day, for very different reasons. We were both mentally and physically exhausted, and as I collapsed into bed, I saw her eyes were open.
“Why aren’t you asleep? It’s past midnight.”
“Portofino. I’ve had enough.”
“You’re awake because of an Italian fishing village where the super-rich moor their yachts and fuck on deck?”
“I was just thinking how nice it would be to just sell everything and go there.”
“You’re a fucking genius,” I said after a moment’s reflection.
“Just think about it.”
“I have. It’s the New Plan. I will have the vet murder the dog first thing. We can’t take him with us. We then sell everything we own. And I mean everything. We take nothing but what we can carry onto the plane. Direct flight to Rome. I steal a scooter outside the airport and we ride to Portofino. I find us a shack to live in, or I start piling up driftwood to make a lean-to on some cliff near a wine shop, until we find something better. Then I buy gallons of that watery wine the Italians have. It’s great. You don’t even get utterly legless on it. You’re just happily tipsy and giggle all the time.”
“I like where this is going.”
“We have a deal of money. Not endless supplies, but enough to live frugally for a long time. We watch the sunsets and listen to the Mediterranean lap at the shore. We drink lots of wine. We learn Italian. We throw our phones in the ocean and no-one can ever contact us again. When anyone asks our son where we are, he will say: ‘They went to the airport, after that, no-one knows.’ I know people who can get us Bulgarian passports. No fucker will ever find us.”
“I married the right man.”
“I’m not done. We live on seafood, wine, and prosciutto. It’s cheap there. If they try and rip us off in Portofino, we shall move closer to Pedale or San Fruttoso. These cheaper villages are not far from Portofino. We could walk there barefoot after I throw the stolen scooter into the sea. It will be fabulous. We shall dangle our feet in the water each day. The beaches are all rocks, but I will buy you them spic beach-shoes. I already have a pair.”
“I rode the BMW into a canyon. I thought I had broken it in half. My spine stopped sending signals to my brain for the next three kilometres. Then things got progressively worse. I do not wish to talk about it.”
“Was it the bike?”
“No. The bike was great. Other things happened. An assortment of crimes against my essential humanity occurred which had nothing to do with the bike, and everything to do with me ruining my life with tolerance and kindness, instead of practicing savagery and ruthlessness like I once used to do. Fuckers mistake my forbearance for weakness. I’m done. And it is best we leave this all behind us, since I would suck at being in gaol, and you suck at Google Maps so you could never visit me. I would have to get a gaol-wife.”
“What would we do to fill our days?”
“Acquire and consume watery wine. Smell the night air. Watch the swallows flitter. Argue with Catholic nuns about Jesus. Make friends with the local prosciutto baron.”
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Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.