On my mind

IT is breakfast in a Siena hotel under an iconic portrait of famous Sienese artist TagliateIle. I don’t normally like people until about 10am and the croissants were filled with something gooey.

When the drummer of the Giraffe contrada (a kind of local community group) started his morning practice nearby I knew it was going to be a challenging day.

The members of the multinational group around the breakfast table found it quite amusing when the Angela Merkel impersonator introduced me as Herr Brexit and suggested that I do a deal or no deal with the hotel ASAP, preferably in euros, before I checked out and the UK crashed out of the world. I did praise die Deutschen, however, for their generous acceptance of so many refugees.

The Italian guests were disappointed that, post Brexit, Boris Fibbissimo, as they strangely referred to him, could not team up with local philanthropist Matteo Salvini who also enjoys making models, mainly of little boats.

The French guests, who also complained about the croissants, mentioned their Minister for European Affairs who was reported in Le Monde as having named her cat Brexit since he “wakes me up every morning miaowing to death because he wants to go out, and then when I open the door he stays in the middle, undecided, and then gives me evil looks when I put him out.”

The Americans were quite happy with the croissants and their ability to appoint the next British PM and the British Ambassador and take over the NHS, the world and the universe. You have a great day now.

There is only one good thing that can come out of all this – they can’t stuff a Welsh cake with anything gooey, erm... can they?