It's Tuesday, so it must be Venice

Press, 11 July 1983, Page 16

It's Tuesday, so it must be Venice

Even if you did not know them, you could tell Dorothy and Rex had just come back from overseas. The colour of her handbag, the shape of his shoes, a somewhat over-stimulated gleam in their eyes suggested they had ’recently been part of exotic scenery. “I do hate those people who go on about their trips,” Dorothy said. “But I must say your living room reminds me of that delightfully cheap hotel where we stayed in the back streets of Naples . . .” “Athens,” Rex corrected her. “No, I’m sure it was Naples. You know. The one where the mice hopped about on our suitcases all night?” “I thought that was Glasgow?” I had never had pretensions about the living room. But perhaps it had been on the homely side lately. I poured some coffee, put on a record, and tried to reduce conversation to a more domestic level. But they, poor things, glazed over.

“You know, whenever I hear Mozart, I can’t help thinking of Strasburg,” she

said, staring wistfully out the window. “Salzburg!” he snapped. “I really found my soul in Paris,” she went on. “There I was, strolling down the Left Bank, spring blossoms tumbling on my shoulders. And I said, ‘To hell with Footrot Flats and meat exports! This is where I belong!’ ” “Are you emigrating?” I 3skcd “Heavens, no! The kids are settled in school this year. Besides, Rex’s mum would never forgive us!” “She could come with us,

I suppose,” Hex said, clearing his throat. “But shes inseparable from that damn “But enough of us!” Dorothy said with a vivid smile. “Tell me all the exciting things you’ve been tip to while we were away.” My mind suddenly became a vast, empty blackboard, stretching over past months. “We painted the roof, I said, after an awkward silence. They tried to look interested. “Well, I say we, but it was mainly him. I chose the colour . . .” They nodded with fixed smiles, like those funny toys people stick on their windscreens.

“Brown, actually,” I said, pretending they had asked. “Not a browny brown. More a sort of olive . . .”

“Talking of painting,” Dorothy said. “They had a marvellous Titian exhibition at the Louvre. Or was it the Tate, dear?” “New York.” “Wasn’t that the Picasso?” “That was Milan.” “Anyway, it was fantastic. So much more detail than

you get in the books.” “Don’t be a travel bore, Dorothv,” Rex said fondly.

“Am’ I?” she said startled. “Am I truly? Oh how dreadful!” She rustled in her handbag and handed me a small something wrapped in tissue oaper. I opened it to find a rinket with a loop at the top. “A tiny church!” I said. “Cathedral, actually,” Rex said. “From Prague.” “No, it’s a mansion from Mississippi," she said. “It’s lovely,” I said. “Thanks so much.” “Sorry it wasn't something more impressive, but we’ve got no money now, of course! We’re absolute paupers!” They had to move on to a “cocktaily” dinner soon after. When they’d gone, I stood in the living room (maybe the carpet could have done with a shampoo and set) and fingered the trinket against the light. It was the sort of thing you attached to a charm bracelet so people could see all the places you had been. Only, we did not seem to go anywhere much. Maybe that is why I have not got one.