Linda and I are sitting in limbo outside the Beehive Hotel, Via Marghera. The sun's trying to come out. The traffic is grumbling round the Termini station and we are thinking all seats are taken on all trains and coaches to Bari tomorrow and we'll probably have to sit on our luggage for 8 hours, or could we play 'silly old foreigners' and hope someone will take pity on us like they do in England where everyone is so civil. Yeah, well. The cat is called Ingmar. The other one is called Lin's handbag
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