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thing worse than Cold Collation and that was the ‘Warsaw Concerto’. When the meal was over, several of the cast came and congratulated me on eating it. On, then, to Padua and away from the reek of Cold Collations!!!!
Ohhh never go to Ferrara
The curse of the nation
It’s known to weary travellers
For serving Cold Collation
Do not then you wonder
At travellers’ faces stricken
A lettuce leaf, tomato half
A lump of long-dead chicken.
    Toni is telling me about how she always wanted to be a ballerina. She had started at eleven when she must have been two inches high. She was trained by Madame Cold Collation. No, no, no, I’m sorry, dear reader. It’s that terrible meal twisting my mind. No, not Madame Collation but Madame Esteve. Under her strict supervision, it was considered impolite to smile without placing a kerchief over your mouth; laughing out loud was forbidden. It was all the discipline of the ballet with Victorianism. And this training showed – Toni never raucous, always polite and, wonders for an Italian, never angry. Her gestures were always controlled. At first, she had difficulty in understanding me. I talked lunatic things all day so much that even people who spoke English didn’t understand.
    MILLIGAN:
    Bornheim, it’s the spludles again.
    BORNHEIM:
    The what?
    MILLIGAN:
    The spludles, they’re activating again.
    BORNHEIM: ( warming to it )
    Ah, yes, and where are they this day?
    MILLIGAN:
    They are aggropilating just below the swonnicles.
    BORNHEIM:
    The usual place.
    MILLIGAN:
    The danger is they might swarm.
    BORNHEIM:
    Yes.
    MILLIGAN:
    Read all about it – man found dead in matchbox.
∗
    It’s very hot inside the coach.
    “Ask the driver if he knows a cooler route,” says Hall.
    “Like Iceland,” I call out. “Anyone for iced swonnicles?”
    We are crossing numerous Bailey bridges built on those destroyed in the fighting. The odd sign still says ‘You are crossing this river by courtesy of 202 Royal Engineers’. I reflect on how much blood was spilt in building them. Toni is fanning herself with a piece of card.
    “ Che stufa ,” she says.
    Indeed, it is very stufa . Through the village of Polecella, the towns of Rovigo and Stranghella – the names roll by on city limits signs – past old Mussolini slogans fading on the walls, murals of the deceased dictator with his jutting jaw, now vandalized, flashes of red which are tomatoes ripening on walls.
    “Not long now,” says Lieutenant Priest in a cheery voice.
    Lots of things aren’t long. Mulgrew wasn’t very long, Maxie at five feet five was even less long. There was indeed a great shortage of longs.
PADUA
    L et’s see, what do I know about Padua? There was St Anthony’s, and ‘Fred’ Giotto had some murals in the Palazzo della Regione. So I didn’t know much about Padua. If only the coach stopped in Catford. I knew a lot about Catford. There was the Fifty Shilling Tailors, where I had ordered a dreadful suit that made me look deformed. It was like something you get on prescription from a doctor.
    It’s evening when the dusty Charabong with its passengers singing ‘Hey, Girra, Girra, Girrica’ shudders to a steaming halt outside the Leone Bianco Hotel.
    “Ah, Leone Bianco,” says Bornheim, “The Blancoed Lion.”
    “ Che stufa ,” says Toni.
    It’s her twentieth che stufa of the journey. We sort out our luggage. Mulgrew says, “Oh fuck,” the handle of his suitcase has come off.
    “Ah, now you can join the knotted string brigade,” I say.
    We lollop into the hotel which is soon echoing to the sound of lollops. Blast! I am sharing a room with Mulgrew and his second-hand clothes store. Toni’s bedroom is the next floor up, blast again.
    “It’ll never stretch that far,” says Mulgrew.
    “Will you stop making suggestive remarks about me and Toni,” I said. “Our love is pure,” I said with hand over heart and the other raised heavenwards.
    A tap on the door and enter a pretty girl with tea trolley.
    “