Anti pasta

Leigh invited me to eat Italian with some teacher friends, and as the newcomer I tried to slip into the group seamlessly by a) making intelligent-sounding comments about current affairs, b) highlighting my credentials around my day and volunteering jobs, and c) refraining from strong political statements (which I managed until towards the end). On balance I think my performance was adequate, although because I couldn't blow my nose loudly in front of genteel company that was eating pizza, my head was rather full of snot by the end.

‘Sweepings off the floor of a ship’, is how Leigh's Northern Irish mother describes pasta. She wouldn't be seen dead boiling a pan of conchiglie.

This nice array of authentic Italian items is designed to make the mouth water. If you drop enough hints about liking pear juice, the waiter will appear with a complimentary bottle, as Leigh discovered.

At lunchtime a few of us sat on the terrace on top of the building, pretending it was warm enough to be there. My salad did not heat my internal organs sufficiently. I will trust my gut and not eat outside again until at least April.