The idea was that I should finally replace that old object that had taken too many punches and was full of cracks and patched up with duct tape. You could even say there was something undignified about it.

After the surprise party organized by Annapaola (I was inclined to think there was nothing to celebrate, but I realize that’s rather an obvious position) we’d been left alone, he and I. Or rather, we weren’t alone. There, hanging on a wall, calm and self-assured, almost mocking, was the new one.

I sat down on the sofa facing Mr Punchbag. One of the cracks on his surface, a result of the thousands of punches so politely taken, gave him a very melancholy expression. Like that of a dog that’s about to be abandoned at the side of the road by a thoughtless master. Or better still: by a total arsehole.

“Are you sad, friend?” I’d asked in embarrassment. He, in his dignified way, had not replied, conscious that the life of things, like that of people, has a childhood, an adulthood and an ending.

Like an idiot, I felt moved. What was I doing with that beautiful new shiny brown leather bag with its gold lettering? How did I know if it was able to listen – and therefore 32to talk – like Mr Punchbag? I spent about ten psychiatrically significant minutes sitting on the sofa, balanced precariously between two somewhat incompatible lines of thought.

The first said: It’s fine to play, it’s fine to indulge in the notion of talking to this old inanimate object, but every whim must have a limit. Things are things, we can project our needs and fantasies onto them, and up to a point that’s fine. Confusing them with living beings, however, is deranged, a sign of immaturity, something like believing you can read fortunes in coffee dregs. Don’t be a child, hang this beautiful new leather punchbag and get rid of the other one. Take it down to the street, put it in a dustbin, and have done with it.

The second said: Are you that kind of person? What about all the evenings you’ve spent together, all the things you’ve confided in him, all the times he’s listened to you, all the advice he’s given you – don’t they mean anything to you?

I can’t guarantee those were the exact words, but I swear this was the tone of the inner dialogue (to tell the truth, I’m not even sure that it was only inner and that I hadn’t got carried away and actually started speaking out loud).

It lasted half an hour.