Diet of despair

Ihave been singing for my supper here in Italy in a big way. For the first course, the pasta, the entrée and the gelati. The manageress of the hotel, Il Pellicano, heard from a well-wisher (one can only hope it was a well-wisher) that I can just about croak out a few Cole Porter standards, once some alcoholic refreshment has been poured down my gullet.

As a result the guests appear to be getting thinner – an exodus from the bar and dining area being the minority reaction. Otherwise the hospiti are evidently listening so intently that stupefied admiration has played havoc with their digestive systems. This is not surprising on a non-terpsichorean level. Everyone appears to have lost weight – except me – due to the Sahara-like conditions still prevailing here. Honestly, taking a constitutional from the pool to the lobby makes one feel like Gary Cooper in one of those French Foreign Legion films.