Sure enough, we were: a moment later we rounded a bend and the road began to flatten out until it was horizontal again. Somehow we had managed to arrive at the bottom of the mountain, because somehow time had ceased to exist.

‘What we needed was that mighty atom Hannibal,’ Jessie said, once we’d turned right on to a main road.

Hannibal? What did she know about him?

‘Crossed the Alps with an army and elephants. Lost upwards of thirty thousand men in these mountains, he was that hell bent on getting to Rome. Didn’t make it, but he gave them a run for their money for fifteen years. In the end, the Romans attacked Carthage, which Hannibal had to go to protect. Killed himself, rather than be captured.

‘He’s my one and only true hero, Stanley. Why? Because he kept his crew together in the face of adversity. Because he was a wily little git with big brains. Because he had courage and determination to reach his goals, even though these mountains threw every obstacle they could in his path.’

‘How on earth do you know about Hannibal?’ I asked, shaking my head.

‘Everyone knows about Hannibal.’

We were driving carefully through two mountains that rose as dark walls on each side of us.

Ahead in the distance were the muted lights of a town.

‘Now another pugnacious little midget, that Napoleon, crossed the Alps nearly two thousand years later by an easier route and much better pathways. He said Hannibal was the most audacious military genius of all time, who at twenty-six years of age achieved the impossible. That’s Hannibal, who drove on, regardless.’

‘Hannibal, who drove on regardless.’

‘Now, Australia.’

‘Australia?’ I echoed weakly, a croak in my voice.

‘Yes, Australia, Stanley, Australia.’

The Fêted House of Medici, Florence

Saliva dribbled down his chin in globules, where it hung wobbling precariously from the tiny, dread-locked balls of his beard. He swayed around the streets of Florence in greasy, blackened rags, hair matted into two clumps that stuck up like obscene horns, into which twigs were embedded. He was separated from the other pedestrians by a force field of the foulest stench of human decay and waste, emissions that had first seeped from his openings and pores a long time ago, the addition of fresher secretions helping to maintain a layer of artificial skin.

Alessandro, the infamous tramp of Florence, was a familiar sight to the local populace, who paid him little attention. It was only when he raved at customers sitting outside restaurants, spittle landing like squirming tadpoles in a bowl of seafood soup or on top of a char-grilled steak, that he was chased by irate waiters cursing, Levati dai coglioni!

J Breakfast-time at Trattoria Augusto and the lukewarm sun sinks its nutritious rays into me after that horrendous journey via the Alps

S The sun enhances the honey-dew texture of her skin. Jessie is simply glowing