The diary of an English pizza chef in Naples

At 5 a.m. one morning in December, I found myself cycling as fast as I could to the bakery I worked at in Clapham, trying to get keep the blood pumping. My fingers felt like frozen gherkins, which made using the brakes difficult. Shivering and exhausted, I asked myself: what am I doing?

At work, my hands thawed over a cup of tea, and I set about mixing dough, laminating croissants, and doing all the other things bakers do. After a year in the bakery, my mornings passed on autopilot. But that day, I couldn’t stop thinking about Naples. My girlfriend is from the city and we’ve been back to visit her family. That chilly English morning, all I could think about was the sweet tomatoes, coffee granita, and having a tan.

I met Serena two years ago. Though she was studying in London, she grew up on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius in a suburb, a bit like what Edgware is to London.