Thursday, September 17


My Italian colleague slowly approached me at the coffee machine. Last week he had been talking about slow food, a conversation which nearly inspired me to sign up for a cooking class. When he talks to me I suffer from my own likes and dislikes, which is why I’m sort of glad I will be leaving soon. ‘Margot,’ he says. He pronounces my name like it’s his favourite dessert.
I resist the urge to touch his skin, his face, his mouth. I take a coffee cup, look into those big brown eyes and whisper: ‘Yes?’
‘Did you know that Berlusconi and Barroso recently had a clash?’ I make a movement with my head which could mean anything, hope, despair, or something in between.
Berlusconi seems to be our favourite enemy, the scandal which surrounds him never stops. I listen to his talk about Veronica Lario, about the journalists of La Repubblica who will be brought to court, about the injustice covered with a sauce of sex. Only in Italy could a true drama like this exist. And even though I don’t know anything about the hidden plans of Berlusconi it all sounds very dark and interesting. I fill my coffee cup and think about the things which make life bearable: slow food, slow talk, slow sex.