I don’t miss Italy. The dolce vita is a myth

Mention to most people that you have recently quit Italy for London and you become an instant object of sympathy. ‘Oh, poor you,’ they coo, ‘don’t you mind?’ Cue effusions about that darling trattoria in Lucca, those hidden della Francescas in Arezzo and enthusiastic reiterations of the word ‘bella’ as last seen in Gregory’s Girl. Anyone I speak to is anxious to impress with the authenticity of their Italy, their cognoscento’s rejection of Chiantishire for that enchanting, mythical country where the logge are eternally dappled in sunshine and dusky peasant girls roll out exquisite ravioli on mediaeval doorsteps. I can hardly bear to disabuse them, but after three years in Milan I feel obliged to inform that the dolce vita is looking about as convincing these days as Signor Berlusconi’s comb-over. Whenever I see another droolingly aspirational magazine spread about the latest perfect little corner of the bel paese I have an overpowering urge to shove it where the Tuscan sun doesn’t shine.