J Sometimes when I’m eating, he looks so irritated, like I shouldn’t be enjoying myself. Not my fault he’s not a foodie

S I look at the sky; so does she. I rub my nose; she does too. We’ve reached the stage in our relationship where we subconsciously mirror each other. I thought I’d broken it, but (I cough, a moment later, she coughs) we’re still … merging

J When you’re done with seeing how the dead are venerated, whether they were picturegenic or not, when you’re done with glorification of the Catholic Church, come back to Mama for some lunch

S And now, my beloved, I’m off to be a tourist, a soul tourist

J Sloping off with that lean, loping gait of his in those jeans. Looks like a schoolboy whose legs have grown too quickly. Bit too jaunty for my liking. Got to let him go, though, haven’t I (should’ve offered to look after his passport)

S I turn around to wave. She seems a bit distraught, then switches on a fluorescent beam. Zzzing! I smile back, to reassure

Knapsack over his shoulder, arms swinging side by side, Stanley walked down pavements so narrow he almost fell off into the path of a speeding Vespa rider. As he made his way up Borgo degli Albizi, he quietly whistled to himself, looking forward to seeing the dome of the Duomo in all its tressellated glory.

Alessandro was lurking on a street corner. He picked out Stanley, thinking, I’ll wipe that smile off his backside, happy bastardo.

As Stanley turned right into Via de’ Castellani, an obnoxious smell hit him. A flooded sewer? Garbage? When he felt a tap on his shoulder, he realized it was human. Turning around, he was faced with the execrable Alessandro, so he began to run, with Alessandro in flapping pursuit. ‘Per favore. You must help me!’ Embarrassed by the stares he was receiving, Stanley bounded up a pedestrian side street lined with the imposing studded doors and grilled windows of large houses, and darted into a dark alley flanked by high walls on each side – and at the end.

Cornered, he shouted, ready to defend himself: ‘What do you want?’ Alessandro was about to lunge at his prey but clearly had second thoughts and sunk to the ground, blocking the entranceway.

Stanley groaned and sank too. A moment ago he had a morning of historical sites in front of him; now he was imprisoned in a dead-end by a bundle of rags. At his feet were empty cigarette packets, wine bottles, a syringe and an apple so crawling with maggots it looked like a tiny brain. He kicked it away.

‘It’s not fair,’ Alessandro moaned.

‘What’s not bloody fair?’ Stanley shot back.