Every morning we inspect the morning glories which vary from morning to morning. This morning they are more glorious than on most mornings.
The greenhouse is overflowing with basil, the scent is spicy. I deliver pots to neighbours and still have sprays and sprays to cut for pesto. Tonight I will grate Parmesan and pecorino with crushed pine kernels olive oil and handfuls of pounded basil leaves. The pasta? Trofie, the short, twisty worm-like pasta, designed to be coated to the maximum with the unctuous sauce.
I think to myself: Politicians, given the choice, will lose the wars that ensue from their wrong decisions, rather than risk losing face.