It was nearly a month ago since Claire and I set off on holiday and over two weeks since we returned, so, true to the laggardly nature of the Italian postal system, this is my brief postcard.

As evidenced by a slightly odd entry in the guestbook we initially stayed in Siena for a few days, despite the fact that on the way to Florence airport the plane was diverted and a fairly protracted journey ensued in order to get to Siena before sundown, and thus avoid the slightly disturbing prospect of being stranded somewhere in the Tuscan country-side all night (would have been quite fun, come to think of it).

Siena is beautiful and welcoming. It is compact, almost entirely squeezed into its medieval city walls, but infinitely explorable, full of lanes and small roads stacked on different levels and winding in a way which tortures the hapless wanderer's sense of direction. Our hotel was just outside one of the city gates. It was (almost) perfect and the view from our room was stunning - my meagre descriptive powers wouldn't really do it justice, so I give up, only saying we could see for miles across the gentle hills of Tuscany. As this is just a postcard I shall only list art, a contrade procession, ice creams, towers, food (pasta, cheese, scallops, lard...), a liqorice allsort cathedral and a saint's decapitated head. Siena, I hope to return soon.

A cheap bus ride later we were in Florence, crowded and dirty - a strange contrast to Siena: the heart of the Renaissance but somewhere, that on first aquaintance, after Siena, seems to be less artful and less civilised. But the treasures are mainly inside - although the Duomo is impressive and huge, it is caked with dirt and jostling tourists make wandering outside it slightly uncomfortable. The Dome however is huge, and a climb to the top was worth it for the views and an appreciation of the engineering and scale of the building...but as I said, inside was the place to be: The Pitti Palace, the Uffizi (for which we didn't queue at all), various other Cathedrals - bringing with them the tombs or memorials of Dante, Michaelangelo, Galileo, bewildering frescoes - and an inexhaustible supply of Byzantine, Renaissance and Mannerist religious art. The quality and quantity of art is overwhelming and other distractions included the Boboli Gardens, Leonardo's graffiti, Fiesole (a nearby hill town, which offered views of Florence akin to those you would get landing in a plane (assuming it hadn't been redirected to Bologna)), much more food including some very discerning pasta and meat purchases at the indoor food market, and a few bug bites.

A few things conspired through the week to make the holiday appear, if I detailed them here, less than perfect. But it was the most fun and happy holiday I've had because, as if it needs saying, for every plane re-direction there's an evening by the Arno that cancels it out many times over.

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It's Left Handers day, but annoyingly I don't think I'll have time to dwell on one of my favourite topics for ranting/rambling/musing, so for the moment I'll leave it to the Guardian to mark the occasion with this and this.

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Number 2 in my very occasional and egotistical series.



This gentleman benefited from the help of a Michigan based Christian mission back in early years of the 20th Century and I assume, as his part of the bargain, found God. He testified that whiskey had taken his self-respect and he was unable to support his home.

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A while back I whinged about the unexpected and unexplained removal of Seinfeld from the Paramount channel's schedule, a removal that left UK viewers completely bereft of the sitcom, as it still resists the lure of DVD/Video. Not long after the Paramount authorities indulged in this televisual cruelty, I was caught in a fit of resentment and confusion as I attempted to go cold turkey from my daily fix of New York Jewish comedy. The odd bagel on the way into work wasn't enough, so I wrote to Paramount demanding an explanation. All I got in return was a fobvert (the combination of a fobbing off with an advertisment) along the lines of, 'thanks for enquiring about Seinfeld which will be back some time soon, meanwhile did you know that Becker is on instead, in which a C-list actor past his prime pretends to be a cranky doctor, with hilarious consequences'. I accepted my lot and turned to Curb Your Enthusiasm instead.

Then someone called Zoe from Paramount sent me the following e-mail, which arrived yesterday:

"Have You Seen This Man? You Soon Will.
Since leaving our screens earlier this year, the absence of one Jerome Seinfeld from the Paramount Comedy schedule has brought a veritable outcry from our loyal viewers. Having been deluged with e-mails, phone calls and letters, our schedulers have decided to bring Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer back from September 1st. Yes, in just a few short weeks make sure your alarms are set for a daily wake-up call with the wise cracking New Yorker. Don't forget. Write it on a post-it note and stick it on your forehead. Better still, have it tattooed on your arm. I have - just under my tattoo of Frasier and Niles Crane.

SEINFELD
9.30am
EVERYDAY FROM SEPT 1st"

Initially I skim read this e-mail with something approaching delight. But the phrase 'make sure your alarms are set' ignited my suspicious nature and on closer examination I realised that 'Zoe', clearly a Ted Danson fan, was celebrating the fact that Seinfeld was now on at half nine, in the morning. Perhaps it's the fact that I don't own a video recorder that made me angry, or the completely fatuous advice to set my alarm for 9:30am, when I'm already out of bed and staring blankly at a PC in the office by that time. Or perhaps it was simply that this nonsense was being imparted to me by some freakish obsessive, a walking Radio Times/TV Quick (depending on her upbringing), tattooed head to foot with TV schedules - the main channels displayed on her forehead and chest, the satellite channels on her limbs, the regional variations on the back of her knees or ears with Men&Motors, UK Style and five imprinted somewhere dark and nether-like.

So, easy to spot if I ever bump into her on the street. I'll quickly check what time the Hollyoaks omnibus is on, then give her a piece of my mind.

So much for that.

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"You have arrived at a propitious moment, coincident with your country's one indisputable contribution to Western civilisation - afternoon tea. May I press you to a cucumber sandwich?"

Thus speaks Hugo Drax to James Bond. And despite Goscinny and Uderzo's claims to the contary (which state the convention was introduced by an indomitable Gaul) this most eloquent of Bond villains has a point. Coffee is an indispensible beverage, but, to further strengthen the sterotype, I will always be in the mood for a cup of tea - not solely in the afternoon. A mug acted as a handy replacement for a cigarette when I first gave up a couple of years ago, and still functions to fill that void, that slightly disconcerting feeling which is often difficult to pin down - I'm on the sofa, in front of the telly, comfortable, the remote control nearby, tranquility almost graspable...but something is missing, something is barring the way to utter contentment - tea completes the picture and settles the mind.

I've often endured ridicule for my choice of tea - I like the smokiness of Lapsang Souchong or the strong distinctive flavour of Assam (made from leaves carefully selected "from the best tea estates situated around the humid banks of the Brahmaputra River in Assam, north east India" according to the box of tea bags sitting on my desk) both which appeared to offend the more delicate tea sensibilities of Earl Grey drinking ex-housemates. But I'm equally happy when the local Chinese tosses a couple of complimentary Green tea bags into the delivery. Which brings me to the point of these tedious ramblings - to pass on the story of a recent criminal trial in the States, which suggests that not only does tea have, even when undoctored, stronger effects than Drax's slightly patronising aside assumes, but also provides a watertight legal defence to certain illicit activites.

Various newspapers have reported the story of a Florida man who landed up in court after chasing his neighbour with a dagger. And quite right too. However, he escaped prosecution on the grounds that the "chasing with a dagger" activities (I'm not sure of the legal term for this act) and other instances of criminal behaviour were caused by the halucinogenic properties of Jasmine tea. Gilbert Walker was on ten cups of the stuff per day, and as a result had been having apocalyptic nightmares based on the Biblical struggles between good and evil.

Other, less theological, delusions included ceramic dogs shouting at him (although I think this might happen somewhere in Ezekiel) and the compulsion to throw a brass duck through his neighbour's window - which he did. If it wasn't enough for his neighbour to have metal water fowl interrupting her daily fix of Jenny Jones, she then had to endure the terror of Mr Walker bursting into her house, doped up to the eye balls on jasmine. He subsequently chased her into the street at knifepoint. The Roll on Friday website reports that "the police arrived to find him bug-eyed and shouting 'I'm crazy' - an accurate, if unneccessary, summary of the situation".

This story made me worry a bit - I'm sure my mum drinks more than 10 cups of tea a day - in fact, despite some strong competition over the years, I have still yet to meet anyone who drinks as much tea as she does. Her tea of choice is regular Yorkshire Tea, which is, I hope, only a Class B or C tea, unlike the positively skaggy Jasmine. But there is hope if I catch my mother busy on a crime spree suggested to her in a conversation with a particularly chatty ornament. I can rely on the precedent set in the Walker case, which could be pursuasive in an English court. A band of psychologists and forensic toxicologists assembled by the defence attorney helped the judge to come to the conclusion that Walker "had been suffering from a psychotic episode induced by drinking the ostensibly innocuous beverage". The charge was dropped and Walker is free to put the kettle on another day.

Would be misfits might like to note that this defence has variants, as mentioned by The Houston Chronicle when reporting this story:


"Prosecutors likened the tea theory to the "twinkie defense" used by former San Francisco Supervisor Dan White, who was charged with killing the city's mayor and another supervisor in 1978. He avoided a first-degree murder charge and was convicted of involuntary manslaughter after his lawyers convinced jurors that eating junk food had diminished White's mental capacity."

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