Farewell January

The petulant strumpet January leaves the calendar with a flouncing strop of temper. Winds whip, gales gall, and rain drenches.

Oh, by contract how February looks friendly... Six Nations Rugby, pancakes anointed with lemon juice and caster sugar, heart shaped chocolates (even if not the actual hearts) and a special extra day tagged on the end which every assertive unwed girls will secretly eye with glee!

Reminiscing about Rome

There was something about the pure white lights festooning the narrow streets and broad squares that I found infinitely moving - the atmosphere pervades the soul, conversely both uplifting and melancholy, a sadness perhaps of numbered days and the end of a holiday drawing in - either that or just too much Prosecco.







The colours of Italy cannot be recreated anywhere else in the world - a single street of anonymous buildings becomes a work of art.

































Topping the Capitoline Hill, Michelangelo's Piazza del Campidoglio spreads out magnificent and omnipotent, a masterful display of design that overcomes the irregular space with such finesse that its irregularity all but disappears. In the centre is the Equestrian monument of Marcus Aurelius - a copy of the original that has been housed in the Palazzo dei Conservatori since 1984. Both copy and original are the finest of equestrian sculpture - the horse's head here seen against a perfect blue December sky. Interestingly Michelangelo was opposed to the statue being housed in his square. The original is also one of a few ancient bronze statues to survive the Middle Ages, when they were typically melted down for the bronze, or destroyed by zealous Christians. It is thought that this statue was believed to be of the first Christian Emperor Constantine, and this is why it escaped.

The birth of the blog

For months young Fabwyck and I have been discussing the setting up of a blog, with increasing enthusiasm bordering almost on that of the evangelical. We have whipped ourselves into a frenzy of blogging lust, a positive fever of frenetic anticipation - talk of 'The Blog' has constituted the major part of many a conversation becoming more animated with every emptied glass of wine. Finally the time arrived, the birthing process, if you will, began, and trusty Fabwyck taking both horns and bulls dived in at the deep end and procreated 'The Blog'. And then like so many things, there is sat, empty, unloved, unvisited. Suddenly, once it had arrived the list of other things to do seemed endless, there just was NO time to be blogging, but by God we had one. So here we are, January has almost past and 'The Blog' remains sadly desolate, a creature born of love and tossed aside, not dissimilar to other January ideas such as frequenting the gym (along with every other person in the country), drinking and eating less and being a BETTER person. BUT all that is to change, well not all, I still have no intention of going to the gym or rationing food or booze, I might try to be a better person, but only if everyone around me is conducive to it, but I will be attempting to blog a little more.

The whole blog creation in the strange world of Fabwcyk and McKinky has led me to consider why it is that the virtual or perceived idea of something is sometimes so much more satisfying than the actuality (I am not of course dismissing 'The Blog'). Virtual dating springs to mind (bad smells, bad habits and bad personal hygiene all nicely concealed behind the LED screen) but then the twenty-first century is fast becoming a virtual world, shopping, conversing, doing business - its all virtual. Which makes me wonder are the galloping technological advancements a natural evolution of scientific enquiry, or is it more that the virtual world and life on-line allows the mind to fabricate a better alternative to reality and it is this that has driven the Internet take over?

There are some things that nearly always supersede the virtual though, sex obviously springs to mind, unless it is truly terrible then virtual would be better. Curry is another. Although the mere thought of curry is often enough to cause instant salivation (sex rarely does this), the actual magical moment of the first mouthful can rarely be beaten. And another is Rome. Rome is a repeating theme in the world of Fabwyck and Mckinky, and particularly at the moment, having spent three glorious days there over New Year. I think perhaps no one does New Year better than the Italians in Rome - breathtaking lights, magical surroundings, crystal clear skies, chilled Prosecco and belly warming pasta. What a place, what character, what beauty and what people.

Take a Stroll...

The backwards compliment

A young man once remarked that I looked maarvellooous (said with a wonderful foreign roll that in itself gave me goosebumps) from behind. At the time, whilst gripped between the fangs of cupid (the little bastard), I considered it quite a compliment. On reflection, and having purged myself of the man and the accent, I see it was quite the opposite, and that which is not said resonates so much more loudly than that which is.

Swing Low Sweet Chariot

There is a barber shop quartet practising their harmonies in my bedroom. Really.

The mystery of thumbs

My good friend told me, with great authority the other day, that men’s thumbs can be considered a valid (though minimised one hopes), reflection of a certain other aspect of the male physique. I pondered the correlation at some length, which led to a consuming, and I trust temporary, obsession with examining thumbs. The man who served me at Morrisons (otherwise known as Moribunds) had an alarmingly short thumb, the postman’s is slightly yellow, the man next to me on the train had a tapered one, and at Starbucks I saw one with a bulbous end. The neighbour’s is off kilter, the end slightly cracked and my mechanic’s greasy. However, imagine my alarm when a lovely young man asked me for dinner, and sliding my eyes slowly down to his hand, I discovered his thumb was missing.

A Roman New Year

An unusually impulsive decision was taken by F & M in September to spend New Year abroad, and despite every effort of threatening airport strikes we made it to Rome, where I had lived for 3 years until not so very long ago.

After a late lunch in Trastevere, we tracked down the artisan chocolate shop just off Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere. I remembered their delicious 'cioccolatini al diavolo', a soft fondant chocolate lightly dusted with mild chilli; not enough to blow your socks off, but just perfect for giving you a warm tingle on a cold day. Armed with our little packet of chilli, soft-filled butterflies and crunchy pistacchio chocolates all wrapped and ribboned we set off to walk the city, an old friend to me but new to Mckinky. We only got as far as Ponte Sisto, one of the prettiest bridges across the Tiber, before the chocs were out in the fading afternoon light.