Low life | 18 July 2019 | The Spectator

The train standing at platform 1A had no air-conditioning and the heat was stupefying. Latecomers pressing into the carriage reacted to it as to a slap in the face. Those with nothing better to hand fanned themselves with their tickets.

The lady seated opposite me mistook my theatrical languor for conviviality. ‘I’ve been in Florence for a week and I’ve never been so hot in my life,’ she said. ‘But I’ve had such a wonderful time in school here learning Italian. Such a beautiful language. You sort of roll it around in your mouth as if you are tasting something delicious, like olive oil or something. And I made such good progress! I’m sure that if I’d done another week I would be fluent almost.’ A man attempting to insert a suitcase into the luggage rack above us interrupted her to gently ask: ‘Mi scusi. È la tua borsa?’ ‘What?’ she said, startled and affronted to be addressed without warning in a foreign language.